cause' receives from him but little direct encouragement or help, let it be remembered that Allingham wrote this great and treasurable truth : We're one at heart, if you be Ireland's friend, LIONEL JOHNSON. William Allingham was born, in 1824, at Ballyshannon, in the County Donegal. He had his early education at his native place, and at the age of fourteen became a clerk in the town bank, of which his father was manager. In this employment he passed seven dissatisfied years, during which his chief delight was in reading and in acquiring foreign literature. An opening was then found for him in the Customs Office, and after two years' preliminary training at Belfast he returned to Ballyshannon as Principal Officer. In 1847 he visited London for the first time, and the rest of his life was largely spent in England, where he received various official appointments. He retired from the Government service in 1870, when he became sub-editor, under Mr. Froude, of Fraser's Magazine. In 1874 he succeeded him as editor. Some years before he had been granted a pension for his literary services. In the same year (1874) he married, and he died at Hampstead in 1889. He was a fairly prolific writer, both in verse and prose: his first volume appeared in 1850, and there is a posthumous edition of his works in six volumes. No Life of him has been written, but the LETTERS OF DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI TO WILLIAM ALLINGHAM, edited and annotated by Dr. Birkbeck Hill, with a valuable introduction, record the chief facts of his life and literary friendships. Allingham's principal volumes are: POEMS, 1850; DAY AND NIGHT SONGS, 1854; THE MUSIC Master, &c., 1855 (containing Rossetti's illustration of The Maids of Elfin-Mere' which moved Burne-Jones to become a painter); FIFTY MODERN POEMS, 1865; LAURENCE BLOOMFIELD IN IRELAND: A MODERN POEM, 1864; with SONGS, BALLADS, AND STORIES, 1877; EVIL MAY-DAY, 1883; ASHBY MANOR: a Play, 1883; FLOWER PIECES, 1888; LIFE AND PHANTASY, 1889; BLACKBERRIES, 1896. EOLIAN HARP WHAT is it that is gone we fancied ours? Listen to us, thou gray Autumnal Eve, The waifs of Autumn and the feeble flow'rs A GRAVESTONE FAR from the churchyard dig his grave, THE BAN-SHEE A BALLAD OF ANCIENT ERIN 'HEARD'ST thou over the Fortress wild geese flying and crying? Was it a gray wolf's howl? wind in the forest sighing? Wail from the sea as of wreck? Hast heard it, Comrade?' 'Not So. Here, all's still as the grave, above, around, and below. 'The Warriors lie in battalion, spear and shield beside them, 'The cry, the dreadful cry! I know it-louder and nearer, 'Constant, but never welcome, she, to the line of our Chief; Dimly burneth the lamp--hush! again that horrible cry!— If a thousand lives could save thee, Tierna, thou shouldest not die.' Now! what whisper ye, Clansmen? I wake. Be your words of me? Wherefore gaze on each other? I too have heard the Ban-shee. Death is her message: but ye, be silent. Death comes to no man Sweet as to him who in fighting crushes his country's foeman. 'Streak of dawn in the sky-morning of battle. The Stranger Camps on our salt-sea strand below, and recks not his danger. Victory that was my dream: one that shall fill men's ears In story and song of harp after a thousand years. Give me my helmet and sword. Whale-tusk, gold-wrought, I clutch thee ! Blade, Flesh-Biter, fail me not this time! Yea, when I touch thee, Shivers of joy run through me. Sing aloud as I swing thee! 'Sound the horn! Behold, the Sun is beginning to rise. Whoso seeth him set, ours is the victor's prize, When the foam along the sand shall no longer be white but red — Spoils and a mighty feast for the Living, a carn for the Dead.' BB THE FAIRIES A CHILD'S SONG UP the airy mountain, Trooping all together; And white owl's feather! Down along the rocky shore Of the black mountain-lake, High on the hill-top The old King sits; He is now so old and grey, On his stately journeys From Slieveleague to Rosses; Or going up with music On cold starry nights, To sup with the Queen Of the gay Northern Lights. They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came down again, Her friends were all gone. They took her lightly back, Between the night and morrow; They thought that she was fast asleep, By the craggy hill-side, As dig them up in spite, He shall find their sharpest thorns Up the airy mountain, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather! THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE; OR, THE EMIGRANT'S ADIEU TO BALLYSHANNON A LOCAL BALLAD I ADIEU to Belashanny! where I was bred and born; Go where I may, I'll think of you, as sure as night and morn- I leave my warm heart with you, tho' my back I'm forced to turn So adieu to Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne! |