1 "This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the Monarch of Ireland in the tenth century) and the Danes, in which Malachi defeated two of their champions, whom he encountered successively, hand to hand, taking a collar of gold from the neck of one, and carrying off the sword of the other, as trophies of his victory." Warner's "History of Ireland," vol. i. book ix. 2" Military orders of knights were very early established in Ireland: long before the birth of Christ we find an hereditary order of Chivalry in Ulster, called Curaidhe na Craiobhe ruadh, or the Knights of the Red Branch, from their chief seat in Emania, adjoining to the palace of the Ulster kings, called Teagh na Craiobhe ruadh, or the Academy of the Red Branch; and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the sick knights and soldiers, called Bronbhearg, or the House of the Sorrowful Soldier." - O'Halloran's Introduction, etc., part i. chap. 5. 3 It was an old tradition, in the time of Giraldus, that Lough Neagh had been originally a fountain, by whose sudden overflowing the country was inundated, and a whole region, like the Atlantis of Plato, overwhelmed. He says that the fishermen, in clear weather, used to point out to strangers the tall ecclesiastical towers under the water. Piscatores aqua illius turres ecclesiasticas, quæ more patriæ arctæ sunt et altæ, necnon et rotundæ, sub undis manifeste sereno tempore conspiciunt, et extraneis transeuntibus, reique causas admirantibus, frequenter ostendunt.-" Topogr. Hib." dist. 2. c. 9. THE SONG OF FIONNUALA.1 SILENT, oh Moyle, be the roar of thy water, Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose, While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter Tells to the night-star her tale of woes. When shall the swan, her death-note singing, Sleep, with wings in darkness furled? When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, Call my spirit from this stormy world? Sadly, oh Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping, Fate bids me languish long ages away; Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping, Still doth the pure light its dawning delay. When will that day-star, mildly springing, Warm our isle with peace and love? When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, Call my spirit to the fields above? COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE. COME, send round the wine, and leave points of belief To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools; This moment 's a flower too fair and brief, To be withered and stained by the dust of the schools. Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue, But, while they are filled from the same bright bowl, The fool, who would quarrel for difference of hue, Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul. 1 To make this story intelligible in a song would require a much greater number of verses than any one is authorized to inflict upon an audience at once; the reader must therefore be content to learn, in a note, that Fionnuala, the daughter of Lir, was, by some supernatural power, transformed into a swan, and condemned to wander, for many hundred years, over certain lakes and rivers in Ireland, till the coming of Christianity, when the first sound of the massbell was to be the signal of her release. I found this fanciful fiction among some manuscript translations from the Irish, which were begun under the direction of that enlightened friend of Ireland, the late Countess of Moira. Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree? Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried, If he kneel not before the same altar with me? From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly, To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss? No, perish the hearts, and the laws that try Truth, valor, or love, by a standard like this! SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING. SUBLIME was the warning that Liberty spoke, And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke Into life and revenge from the con queror's chain. Oh, Liberty! let not this spirit have rest, Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot, Nor, oh, be the Shamrock of Erin forgot While you add to your garland the Olive of Spain! If the fame of our fathers, bequeathed with their rights, Give to country its charm, and to home its delights, If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain, Then, ye men of Iberia, our cause is the same! And oh! may his tomb want a tear and a name, Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death, Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath, For the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain ! Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resigned The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find Unchilled by the rain, and unwaked by the wind, The lily lies sleeping thro' winter's cold hour, Till Spring's light touch her fetters unbind, And daylight and liberty bless the young flower.2 Thus Erin, oh Erin, thy winter is past, And the hope that lived thro' it shall blossom at last. 1 The inextinguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare, which Giraldus mentions: -"apud Kildariam occurrit Ignis Sanctæ Brigidæ, quem inextinguibilem vocant; non quod extingui non possit, sed quod tam solicite moniales et sanctæ mulieres ignem, suppentente materia, fovent et nutriunt, ut a tempore virginis per tot annorum curricula semper mansit inextinctus."— Girald. Camb. "de Mirabil. Hibern." dist. 2. c. 34. 2 Mrs. H. Tighe, in her exquisite lines on the DRINK TO HER. DRINK to her, who long Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl, who gave to song What gold could never buy. Oh! woman's heart was made For minstrel hands alone; By other fingers played, It yields not half the tone. Then here's to her, who long Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy. At Beauty's door of glass, When Wealth and Wit once stood, They asked her, "which might pass?' She answered, "he, who could." With golden key Wealth thought To pass - but 't would not do: While Wit a diamond brought, Which cut his bright way through. So here's to her, who long Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl, who gave to song What gold could never buy. The love that seeks a home That dwells in dark gold mines. But oh! the poet's love Can boast a brighter sphere; Its native home 's above, Tho' woman keeps it here. Then drink to her, who long Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl, who gave to song What gold could never buy. OH! BLAME NOT THE BARD.1 OH! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers, Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame; He was born for much more, and in happier hours His soul might have burned with a holier flame. lily, has applied this image to a still more important object. 1 We may suppose this apology to have been us, Every passion it nurst, every bliss it adored; uttered by one of those wandering bards, whom Spenser so severely, and, perhaps, truly, describes in his State of Ireland, and whose poems, he tells were sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which have good grace and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, would serve to adorn and beautify virtue." 2 It is conjectured by Wormius, that the name of Ireland is derived from Yr, the Runic for a bow, in the use of which weapon the Irish were once very expert. This derivation is certainly more creditable to us than the following: "So that Ireland, called the land of Ire, from the constant broils therein for 400 years, was now become the land of concord." -Lloyd's "State Worthies," art. The Lord Grandison. 1 See the Hymn, attributed to Alcæus, év μύρτου κλαδὶ τὸ ξίφος φορήσω "I will carry my sword, hidden in myrtles, like Harmodius, and Aristogiton," etc. 2 "Of such celestial bodies as are visible, the sun excepted, the single moon, as despicable as it is in comparison to most of the others, is much more beneficial than they all put together.". Whiston's Theory, etc. In the Entretiens d'Ariste, among other ingenious emblems, we find a starry sky without a moon, with these words, non mille, quod absens. |