If innocence thrive, many more have to grieve for,
Success, slow but sure, I'll contentedly live for:
Yes, Sylvia, we'll meet, and your sigh cease to heave for
The swain your fine image haunts, far, far at sea!

JAMES ORR.

JOHN O'DWYER OF THE GLEN.*

BLITHE the bright dawn found me,

Rest with strength had crown'd me,
Sweet the birds sang round me,
Sport was all their toil.
The horn its clang was keeping,
Forth the fox was creeping,

Round each dame stood weeping

O'er that prowler's spoil.

Hark! the foe is calling,
Fast the woods are falling,
Scenes and sights appalling
Mark the wasted soil.

War and confiscation

Curse the fallen nation;

Gloom and desolation

Shade the lost land o'er.

Chill the winds are blowing,

Death aloft is going;

Peace or hope seems growing

For our race no more.

*This is supposed to be a very ancient poem, from the allusion to the falling of the woods which destroyed the hiding-places of the flying Irish. Spenser, in his 'View of the State of Ireland,' says: 'I wish that orders were taken for cutting and opening all places through the woods; so that a wide way, of the space of one hundred yards, might be laid open in every of them.'

JOHN O'DWYER OF THE GLEN.

Hark! the foe is calling,

Fast the woods are falling,
Scenes and sights appalling

Throng our blood-stained shore.

Where's my goat to cheer me?
Now it plays not near me;
Friends no more can hear me ;
Strangers round me stand.
Nobles once high-hearted,
From their homes have parted,
Scatter'd, scared, and started,
By a base-born band.
Hark! the foe is calling,
Fast the woods are falling,
Scenes and sights appalling

Thicken round the land.

Oh that death had found me,
And in darkness bound me,
Ere each object round me

Grew so sweet, so dear!
Spots that once were cheering,
Girls beloved, endearing,

Friends from whom I'm steering,

Take this parting tear.

Hark! the foe is calling,
Fast the woods are falling,
Scenes and sights appalling

Plague and haunt me here.

167

Translated by THOMAS FURLONG.

ON CLEADA'S HILL THE MOON IS BRIGHT.

ON Cleada's* hill the moon is bright,
Dark Avondut still rolls in light,
All changeless in that mountain's head,
That river still seeks ocean's bed:
The calm blue waters of Loch Lene
Still kiss their own sweet isles of green,
But where's the heart as firm and true
As hill, or lake, or Avondu?

It may not be, the firmest heart
From all it loves must often part,
A look, a word, will quench the flame
That time or fate could never tame;
And there are feelings proud and high
That through all changes cannot die,
That strive with love, and conquer too ;
I knew them all by Avondu.

How cross and wayward still is fate
I've learned at last, but learned too late.
I never spoke of love, 'twere vain ;

I knew it, still I dragg'd my chain.

* Cleada and Cahir-bearna (The Hill of the Four Gaps) form part of the chain of mountains which stretches westward from Millstreet to Killarney.

+ Avondu means the Blackwater ('Avunduff' of Spenser). There are several rivers of this name in the counties of Cork and Kerry, but the one here mentioned is by far the most considerable. It rises in a boggy mountain called Meenganine, in the latter county, and discharges itself into the sea at Youghal. For the length of its course, and the beauty and variety of scenery through which it flows, it is superior, I believe, to any river in Munster.-CALLANAN.

ON CLEADA'S HILL THE MOON IS BRIGHT.

I had not, never had a hope-
But who 'gainst passion's tide can cope?
Headlong it swept this bosom through,
And left it waste by Avondu.

O Avondu! I wish I were

As once upon that mountain bare,
Where thy young waters laugh and shine
On the wild breast of Meenganine;

I wish I were by Cleada's hill,
Or by Glenluachra's rushy rill.
But no!-I never more shall view
Those scenes I loved by Avondu.

Farewell, ye soft and purple streaks
Of evening on the beauteous Reeks ;*
Farewell, ye mists that lov'd to ride
On Cahir-bearna's stormy side;
Farewell, November's moaning breeze,
Wild minstrel of the dying trees;
Clara! a fond farewell to you,
No more we meet by Avondu.

No more-but thou, O glorious hill!
Lift to the moon thy forehead still;
Flow on, flow on, thou dark swift river,
Upon thy free wild course for ever.
Exult, young heart, in lifetime's spring,
And taste the joys pure love can bring ;
But, wanderer, go-they're not for you!
Farewell, farewell, sweet Avondu !

169

JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN.

* Macgillacuddy's Reeks in the neighbourhood of Killarney; they

are the highest mountains in Munster.

DARK ROSALEEN.*

Он, my Dark Rosaleen,

Do not sigh, do not weep!
The priests are on the ocean green,
They march along the deep.
There's wine from the royal Pope,

Upon the ocean green;

And Spanish ale shall give you hope,
My Dark Rosaleen !

My own Rosaleen!

Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, Shall give you health, and help, and hope, My Dark Rosaleen!

Over hills and through dales,

Have I roamed for your sake;
All yesterday I sailed with sails
On river and on lake.
The Erne, at its highest flood,

I dashed across unseen,
For there was lightning in my blood,
My Dark Rosaleen!

My own Rosaleen !

Oh, there was lightning in my blood,
Red lightning lightened through my blood
My Dark Rosaleen!

All day long, in unrest,

To and fro do I move.

The very soul within my breast

Is wasted for you, love!

*This is allegorical throughout. Rosaleen is Ireland.