Him queried I: "O, my Lord and Khan, What clime is this, and what golden time?" The clime is Erin's, the green and bland; And it is the time, These be the days, Of Cahal-Mor of the Wine-Red Hand!" Then saw I thrones And circling fires, And a Dome rose near me as by a spell, Of silver lyres, And many voices in wreathéd swell; Fell on mine ears As the heavenly hymn of an angel band: "It is now the time, These be the years, Of Cahal-Mor of the Wine-Red Hand!" I sought the hall, And, behold! a change From light to darkness, from joy to woe; King, nobles, all, Looked aghast and strange; The minstrel group sat in dumbest show. Had some great crime Wrought this dread amaze, This terror? None seemed to understand. "T was then the time, We were in the days, Of Cahal-Mor of the Wine-Red Hand. I again walked forth; But lo! the sky Showed flecked with blood, and an alien sun Glared from the North, And there stood on high, Amid his shorn beams, a SKELETON ! It was by the stream Of the castled Maine, One autumn eve, in the Teuton's land, Of the time and reign Of Cahal-Mor of the Wine-Red Hand. THE ONE MYSTERY. "T is idle; we exhaust and squander Beyond her chain. The flood of life runs dark, - dark clouds, Make lampless night around its shore; The dead, where are they? In their shrouds, Man knows no more. Evoke the ancient and the past, Will one illuming star arise? When life, love, glory, beauty, wither, Will wisdom's page or science' chart Map out for thee the region whither Their shades depart? Supposest thou the wondrous powers Pale types of what shall yet be ours, When this decaying shell is cold, O, sayest thou the soul shall climb That magic mount she trod of old, Ere childhood's time? And shall the sacred pulse that thrilled, Reborn, revived, renewed, immortal, No more, no more, with aching brow, And restless heart, and burning brain, We ask the When, the Where, the How, And ask in vain. And all philosophy, all faith, All earthly, all celestial lore, Have but one voice, which only saith, W WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. ILLIAM ALLINGHAM has a place in literature beside that of an Irish poet; but he is one of the most powerful and national in the list, and has given the world an original phase of Irish poetry. He was born in Ballyshannon, a beautiful little town in the West of Ireland, in 1828. His father was a banker in the town, and occupied a position among the gentry. He was liberally educated in Ireland and England, and his first poems were published in "Household Words," when conducted by Charles Dickens, who appreciated his talents and promise; and he also received kindly encouragement from Leigh Hunt, to whom he dedicated his poem of "The Music-Master." He held an appointment in the customs service until 1872, when he resigned to succeed Mr. James Anthony Froude as editor of Frazer's Magazine, which he has since resigned. For the later part of his life he has been a resident of London, and an associate in the most accomplished literary society of the time, his wife, formerly Miss Helen Patterson, holding a distinguished place as an artist. Since 1864, he has been in the receipt of a pension for his literary services. His published works have been "Poems," issued in 1850, and republished in Boston; "Day and Night Songs," published in 1854; "Lawrence Bloomfield," first published in successive numbers of Frazer's Magazine and issued in book form in 1869; and "Songs and Ballads," published in 1877. Mr. Allingham's Irish poetry is not national in the political sense usually associated with the word, nor does it deal with themes of national history. Its subjects are taken from contemporaneous life, and it depicts the beautiful scenery of the country, particularly of the vicinity of Ballyshannon, sings the love-songs and lamentations of the peasant people, and draws sketches from figures in Irish life of all grades. His ballads and songs have the pure simplicity, the idiom and the local coloring, the sweetness and the pathos, of peasant verse refined and vivified with a fine skill that preserves their national flavor with the highest poetic form. "Lovely Mary Donnelly" and "The Girl's Lamentation" are two of the most perfect specimens of genuine Irish poetry. They have touched the popular heart, as well as moved the admiration of critics, and are to be found in the sheaf of popular ballads that are the common property of the peasantry. His longest and most important poem is "Lawrence Bloomfield in Ireland," a descriptive poem in decasyllabic verse. It is a novel in poetic form, describing the scenes of national life, with portraits of landlords, priests, and peasantry, and depicting the social gatherings of high and low life, the eviction, the meeting in the Ribbon Lodge, the wake, the Sunday service, and all the characteristic scenes of national life. The characters of the landlords have all the distinctness and naturalness of those in "Castle Rackrent," and he has given, what Miss Edgeworth did not attempt except incidentally, equally natural portraits from the peasantry. The landscapes are described with a vividness that impresses them most powerfully upon the mind, and with a faithfulness as complete as that of a photograph, while there is a pathos and a power in the scenes from life, the stronger for being restrained to the literal transcription of incidents of ordinary life, like that of Crabbe. In fact, since "Nature's sternest painter, yet her best," there has been no English author who is so |