Billeder på siden
PDF
ePub

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,
Though leagues asunder our opinions tend :
There are but two great parties in the end.

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?
Oh, what is lost that never may be told?—
We stray all afternoon, and we may grieve
Until the perfect closing of the night

Listen to us, thou gray Autumnal Eve,
Whose part is silence. At thy verge the clouds
Are broken into melancholy gold;

The waifs of Autumn and the feeble flow'rs
Glimmer along our woodlands in wet light;
Within thy shadow thou dost weave the shrouds
Of joy and great adventure, waxing cold,
Which once, or so it seemed, were full of might.
Some power it was, that lives not with us now,
A thought we had, but could not, could not hold.
Oh, sweetly, swiftly pass'd !-air sings and murmurs ;
Green leaves are gathering on the dewy bough:
Oh, sadly, swiftly pass'd-air sighs and mutters;
Red leaves are dropping on the rainy mould.
Then comes the snow, unfeatured, vast, and white.
Oh, what has gone from us, we fancied ours?

A GRAVESTONE

FAR from the churchyard dig his grave,
On some green mound beside the wave;
To westward, sea and sky alone,
And sunsets. Put a massy stone,
With mortal name and date, a harp
And bunch of wild flowers, carven sharp;
Then leave it free to winds that blow,
And patient mosses creeping slow,
And wandering wings, and footstep rare
Of human creature pausing there.

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,
Tranquil, whatever lot in the coming fray shall betide them.
See, where he rests, the Glory of Erin, our Kingly Youth!
Closed his lion's eyes, and in sleep a smile on his mouth.'

'The cry, the dreadful cry! I know it-louder and nearer,
Circling our Dun-the Ban-shee !-my heart is frozen to hear her!
Saw you not in the darkness a spectral glimmer of white
Flitting away?—I saw it !—evil her message to-night.

'Constant, but never welcome, she, to the line of our Chief;
Bodeful, baleful, fateful, voice of terror and grief.

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!
Glut of enemies' blood, meseemeth, to-day shall bring 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,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men.
Wee folk, good folk,

Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl's feather!

Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home-
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds

Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.

High on the hill-top

The old King sits;

He is now so old and grey,
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,

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,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees,
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring

As dig them up in spite,

He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men.
Wee folk, good folk,

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-
The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every one is known,
And not a face in all the place but partly seems my own;
There's not a house or window, there's not a field or hill,
But, east or west, in foreign lands, I'll recollect them still.

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!

« ForrigeFortsæt »