— The Corvey Poets Project at the University of Nebraska —

 

British Poetry of the later Eighteenth and Earlier Nineteenth Centuries

Bibliographical and Contextual Apparatus

 

 

 

 

Bourke, Hannah

O'Donoghue, Prince of Killarney: A Poem.  Dublin:  William Curry, Jr. and Co., 1830.

FULL TEXT
Edited by Sean Patrick Conaway
Portions of this text were prepared by April Nicole Conaway

 

 

O’Donoghue, Prince of Killarney. A Poem: In Seven Cantos

 

By Hannah Maria Bourke

 

Dublin: William Curry, Jun. And Co. Dublin

And Hurst, Chance And Co. London

 

1830

 

 

Inscribed

To

Mrs. Elizabeth Palmer

Of Ormly Lodge, Surrey

 

 

O’DONOGHUE,

Prince of Killarney

 

[page 3]

 

THE CHASE

 

I.

Harp of the West, that long hast silent lain

In the dark ruins of Tara’s* once gay hall,

Oh! Wake again thy bold heroic strain –

Thy splendid visions of the past recall,

When all was chivalry and festival.

Long time thy golden chords have been unstrung,

Which once to Brian’s ear such pleasure gave,

When minstrels in Ken Kora’s palace sung

Thy praise of beauty, and chieftains brave

Whose fame, like them, has met an early grave.

 

*Mythical seat of Irish nobility.

 

[p. 4]

 

Arouse thee, wizard, from thy moody dream,

Tune thy wild harp again on Mucruss’* shore;

I’ll give thee, for thy lay heroic theme,

Such as was never sung by bards of yore –

The praise of valour – beauty, now no more,

And tho’ forgotten long, they now have been:

Oh! bid their mem’ry live, as but a day

Had past; recall each memorable scene

Of chace, of combat, or of battle fray –

Of captive’s sorrow, or of revel gay.

 

And now I would thy gentle voice divine,

Thou minstrel harp by its sequestered lake;

And, oh! vouchsafe one thrilling note of thine,

For prince, for warrior, and for beauty’s sake.

The chain of silence twin’d around thee break –

Yet oh! how feeble is the hand which fain,

And much unskill’d, would wake thy minstrlsy:

And give again to life once gentle strain,

Nor ever let thy wild sweet numbers be,

Drawn forth by midnight blest, and fell – Ban-shie.

 

*Muckross Lake near Killarney, in modern Kerry National Park. 

 

[p. 5]

 

II.

The first bright ray of morning sun,

Had gleam’d on lofty Mangerton,

And set upon its tow’ring head,

A crown of purple gold and red,

And many bright and ruddy beams,

Danc’d o’er the lake’s and mountain streams;

Nor did a single ripple break

On streamlet, river, fount, or lake;

For peace shed her holiest balm

upon that morn, so fair and calm,

Subduing ev’ry ruder breeze,

Save that which stole from flow’rs and trees,

Their sweets, to send again on air,

A richer fragrance o’er the Mere;

And sweet the minstrel of the sky –

The lark pour’d down his melody;

While joyous over hill and dale,

Rung loud the merry matin peal

Of ev’ry feather’d warbler blight,

Fluttering in the golden light –

 

[p. 6]

 

While sweeter rose from hallowed shrine

Devotion’s solemn voice divine,

Like to that gentle lullaby

            Of sylphides* in their moonlit bowers,

Which comes like heaven’s melody,

            At even tide thro’ summer flowers.

 

III.

But soon came wild, harsh sounds from far,

Like cry of death from distant war,

That chim’d thro’ brake and mountain fell.

Thro’ cavern, glen, and rugged dell,

And broke upon the ear as rough

As the shrill whistle of the chough†:

They were the rude, discordant sounds

Of bugles and unkennel’d hounds,

That, borne abroad on echo’s wing,

Were wont to rouse Killarney’s king

At early morn, to join the chase –

The first and braves of his race;

Thrice over Mucruss lake was borne,

The winding of the huntsman’s horn,

 

*An elemental creature of the air.

†A blackbird.

 

[p. 7]

 

Ere its notes, so loud and clear,

Told upon the monarch’s ear;

For he sat at his breakfast board,

With ev’ry delicacy stor’d;

Beside him stood his ganymede*,

Who held a draught of sparkling mead –

But ere the monarch drank, the page

First tasted of the beverage,

To shew innoxious was the juice

Prepared for his royal use†:

And there an aged minstrel play’d,

Beneath the marble colonnade,

On his light harp; and gave to all,

Of valour true, within that hall,

Their meed of praise; nor were the fair

Who grac’d the scene forgotten there.

 

IV.

O’Donoghe dropp’ed th’ golden cup,

Exclaiming – hark! the chase is up:

‘Tis Aspar’s blast which now I hear

Echoing o’er the Mucruss mere;

 

*Young boy who became lover and cup bearer to Zeus.

† See note p. 253

 

[p. 8]

 

And strange that hound and hunter’s cry

Gives me this time but little joy.

Then rose, the summons to obey,

And gird him for the sylvian fray:

And now his little pages brought

His hunting suit, of velvet wrought –

With thread of gold on ground of green;

The gift, ‘twas said, of Munster’s queen.

One smoothed down his mantle fold,

One brought his massive chain of gold,

Pendant from which his bugle horn

Light, graceful from his neck was borne;

While yet another held his case

Well stor’d with arrows for the chase:

A broider’d girdle, cup and plume,

Completed then his gay costume.

The vassals cast the portals wide,

Before the royal Nimrod’s stride,

Who wending down by cliff and brake,

Soon stood beside the middle lake.

 

[p. 9]

 

V.

The royal shallop drawn beside

A grey rock, there untouch’d the tide;

Its bargemen gone, nor vassal slave

To launch it on the slumb’ring wave;

For sped the youth from near and far,

To follow in the sylvian war.

Must one, he cried, of Heber’s* race

Thus so neglected, lose the chase?

Dearly shall slave and subject rue

Such banter on O’Donoghue.

And now beneath the sable lash

Of his bright eye there shot the flash

Of kindl’d wrath, as when light’nings fly,

Thro’ night’s dark gloom, across the sky;

Thus like to that electric fire,

Sparkled the flashes of his ire;

For now a wild and shrilly shout

Proclaim’d the hunters on their route,

And that the stag had left his lair

Beside the Mucruss† inland mere:

 

*Descendant of Heber Fionn.  In mythology, one of the first inhabitants of Ireland.

†In the centre of Mucruss peninsula is a little sequestered lake; in the thickets near it the deer often make their mid-night’s lair. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 10]

 

And now upon the dark blue tide

A small black speck was seen to glide,

Like as upon the Ganges’ stream,

At sunset, flits the solar beam;

As quick as light then glided o’er

A chieftains currah* to the shore; –

The monarch blew a blast to guide

The frail skiff to the island’s side;

And saw, with pleasure, flutter light,

The pendant of the Dunlo knight

Waving, like Sappho’s plumage fair,

O’er the clear surface of the mere.

 

VI.

Swift o’er the lake the currah flew –

For well the Dunlo chieftain knew

The form and air of him who stood

On the lone beach, in sullen mood.

Within it stood, in beauty’s pride,

Like Naiad, risen from the tide,

 

*A small boat, made of horse’s skin, much used on the western coast of Ireland.  In Wales they are called corracles. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 11]

 

The young and lovely Rhinda More,

Resting upon her sapling oar;

And when the currah touch’d the strand

She smil’d, and kiss’d her snowy hand;

O’Donoghue then, with gallant air,

Doffed his bonnet to the fair,

So low, that its dark plume of pride

Swept the smooth surface of the tide:

Hail! Monarch of Killarney’s throne,

The Chieftain said, why thus alone?

Where are thy lads and lasses fair –

At dance, at wake, or matin pray’r;

Or do they loiter still at court,

Nor deign to join our rustic sport?

 

VII.

Already gone, the prince reply’d –

Behold them on the Mucruss’ side;

There – speeding blight, while I am here

To mourn the joys of hunted deer;

My coal black steed awaits me now,

Beneath Crough-gower’s* beetling brow,

 

*The goat’s rock or cliff, on the northern shore of Mucruss. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 12]

 

Sent round, long since, and there to ‘bide

My coming o’er the Mucruss tide.

I see him now, the chieftain said,

Pawing the beach near yon green head;

And further on my iron grey

Snorts, impatient at my stay:

But hark! there sounds a bugle note

From Dinnis Point – Prince, to the boat;

You take my sister’s oar, while she

Our pilot to the bridge shall be.

O’Donoghue bounded from the strand,

Obedient to the chief’s command;

Taking to him the maiden’s oar,

As sped the currah from the shore –

Swift it shot by many an isle,

Illumin’d by the sun’s bright smile,

Which ‘twixt Ross isle and Mucruss lie,

Like planets in the purple sky;

And from them came a rich perfume,

From herbs and flow’rs of ev’ry bloom:

And aromatic shrubs and trees,

Impregnating the morning breeze,

 

[p. 13]

 

Such as one smells in autumn time,

In far-fam’d Oriental clime,

When sultry zephyr lazy roves,

Thro’ Cashmere’s bow’rs and Delhi’s groves;

And many a light skiff glided o’er

That clear blue lake from ev’ry shore;

With peasants blight – a hardy race

To join, on foot, that morning chase.

 

VIII.

When O’Donoghue they espied

Now landing on the Mucruss side,

They sent a loud and long huzza

Thro’ Dingle-fell and Copse-wood gray,

And peal of bugle-horn and tongue

Long in its num’rous caverns rung;

But warmer was the greeting there

Given to Dunlo’s maiden fair;

For long she held in silken thrall,

By her kind acts, the hearts of all:

And her brave brother, Ormon More,

Heard his name hail’d along the shore;

 

[p. 14]

 

And now their steeds, a gallant train

As ever gallop’d o’er a plain,

Throng’d the gay beech in proud array –

In housings rich, and trappings gay;

And hounds as fleet and strong as e’er

Rous’d a ten antler from his lair,

Were led by liveri’d vassals there.

There, on a steed as white as snow,

Rode the fair maiden of Dunlo;

While many noble ladies there,

More proud than she, though still less fair,

Envied her the praise and sighs

Of hero’s lips and chieftains’ eyes;

For vassals, knights, and nobles brave,

The palm of beauty to her grave –

And hearts, which only beat before

To clash of swords, in battle roar,

Now fell a willing sacrifice

To ruby lips and laughing eyes;

And ev’ry look they at her cast

Serv’d but to bind love’s chain more fast.

 

[p. 15]

 

But Rhinda coldly gaz’d around –

For little joy in chase she found,

And less of it she reck’d, I deem,

In the world’s praise, or man’s esteem.

 

IX.

And now, to shun their gaze, she sought

Some lone sweet spot, apart for thought,

Where she might stay, conceal’d from view,

Until the stag his whyniard* drew.

Many youths who there in vain

Sought one kindly look to gain,

With sorrow at the last confest

Love but a torment at the best;

And turn’d away, resolv’d to cull

Some other fair, less beautiful.

And now the monarch’s huntsman wound

His horn of chase, and steed and hound

Rush’d madly forward – for the deer

Had issu’d from a thicket near,

And sped along the plain as fast

As ever rush’d the tempest blast,

 

*A short-sword, a hanger [OED]

 

[p. 16]

 

Off headland high, with fearful sweep

O’er the broad bosom of the deep:

In gallant style he led the way

Towards Saint Francis’s* cloisters gray –

Dashing, like antelope, across

Each rugged gorgle, glen and fosse,

Light as the air, swift as the wind –

Left Mucruss and the hounds behind;

Then flying o’er the plain, he made

His bold retreat by Turk’s Cascade

Passing the Devil’s Punch Bowl deep,

Hail’d Mangerton with many sweep†,

Scarce drawing breath, until he came

To where th’ bright Kavoge rolls its stream:

There, pausing on its rocky brink,

He dipt his antlers deep to drink,

And mustering fresh breath anew,

He heard the distant view, halloo –

Cast quick one look behind, and then

Broke fresh for Esknamucky’s glen.

 

*Mucruss Abbey, founded about the year 1440, was for mendicant Friars of the order of Saint Francis. [H.M.B]

†See note p. 254

[p. 17]

 

X.

Close follow’d, at their utmost speed,

Like light’ning shot, both hound and steed,

Until beside a deep ravine –

Th’ ancient boundary between

The territ’ry of M’Arthy More

And the chiefs of the Northern shore –

And here the hunters made a stand,

As at th’ last limits of the land:

Beside it frown’d majestic Turk

Which look’d the vast and pond’rous work

Of giants’ hands, when they, intent,

Resolv’d to scale the firmament:

‘Twas then the monarch’s gallant steed,

Urg’d to the utmost of his speed,

Plung’d madly forward – ‘twas in vain

O’Donoghue check’d th’ bridle rein,

Or that the hunters rush’d before

He plung’d, he rear’d, and bounding o’er,

Swift as the barbed arrow sent

From Parthian bow across the rent;

 

[p. 18]

 

All star’d agast – it was a deed

Ne’er done before by mortal steed;

And winks and whispers went around,

That where they rode was hallow’d ground,

And that the monarch had the aid

Of Elfin Knight, or Sylvan maid.

 

XI.

The hunters chose a safer way,

For at the base of Turk there lay

A path, with briars overgrown,

To man or beast  but little known:

This rugged vista careful past,

Each hunter fearing to be last,

Loos’d from his hold the tight’ned rein,

And madly spurring o’er the plain,

Pursu’d the stag by fell and brake,

In Ross-burkrie, by the upper lake;

And when they gain’d Barnasna’s base,

Many a good steed lagg’d the chase;

And panting on its rugged shore,

The toilsome race and sport gave o’er.

 

[p. 19]

 

Strain’d to the last was nerve and joint,

As round the upper lake’s dark point

The chief of Dunlo’s gray steed flew,

To keep the wary hart* in view;

But on that plain which lies between

The northern shore and mount Girmaen,

He sudden fell, and breathless lay –

To birds and beasts a noble prey.

But free and fresh, O’Donoghue

Still kept the flying stag in view;

O’er hill and dale his coal black steed

Flew after, with Pegasus speed.

One hound, the best of many a pack,

Was all that followed in the track:

The prince cheer’d on his fav’rite Sru –

One single bugle blast he blew,

Just where the long range rises o’er

That bleak and wild sequester’d shore,

Near to that projection high,

Known by the name of Colman’s eye –

A narrow and dangerous way –

Desperate turned the stag to bay.

 

*The male of the deer, esp. of the red deer; a stag; spec. a male deer after its fifth year [OED]

 

[p. 20]

 

O’Donoghue bent his bow, but ere

The well-aimed arrow sped thro’ air,

The wily stag had turn’d to take

The waters of that dark blue lake*:

No boat was near, nor hunter hound

Had answer’d to his bugle sound;

And griev’d, he saw him soon divide,

With one long bound, the peaceful tide,

And making for th’ Arbutus isle,

His keenest sport and pleasure foil;

Where in its deep and darkest shade

His midnight lair secure be made.

 

 

XII.

And while the hounds and hunters far

Had carried on the sylvan war,

Within a ruin’d Druid fane

Rinda tyed her bridle rein,

To an aged oak tree’s pendant bough,

Beneath which many a rite and vow

Was offer’d up, at morn’s first light,

By Druid priest and Pagan knight!†

 

*See note p. 254

†See note p. 255

 

[p. 21]

 

She sat upon an altar stone,

With moss and ivy overgrown,

One of the many strewn around

Upon that lone spot’s hallow’d ground;

Behind her rose the sacred tree –

The god of their idolitry –

And Ilex*, whose luxuriant shade

Droop’d proudly o’er the lovely maid.

Her hat, her bow, and arrow-case,

Each ensign of the morning’s chase,

She laid aside, and there reclin’d

Against its giant trunk – ensrin’d

By foliage of the brightest green,

A waving and umbrageous screen:

And now, from all the world apart,

            Her thoughts from earth to heaven rose –

Chast wand’rings of a sinless heart,

            Like Eve’s first dream at ev’ning close†,

When slumbering in her bridal bow’r,

            In Eden’s blest and blissful clime,

Ere the foul fiend, by his power,

            Beguil’d her from its shades by crime.

 

*Genus of the Holly tree.  Believed to be sacred among the Druids.

†Allusion to Book IV of Milton’s Paradise Lost where Satan whispers evil thoughts into a sleeping Eve’s ear.

 

[p. 22]

 

XIII.

Now from her sylvan solitude

Rhinda the scene before her view’d; --

There, like a sheet of silver, lay

The sleeping lake, and ev’ry ray

Of sunshine on its bosom shone,

Like diamond or sardonyx stone;

And there an oak and chesnut wood

Peer’d far its shadow o’er the flood;

And marble rocks and caverns wide

In gloomy grandeur frown’d beside*,

While, in their deep and lonely gloom,

Fragrant shrubs shed their sweet perfume.

She said, if Paradise there be

On earth, ‘tis here – where one may rest

‘Mid scenes of sweet tranquility,

With less of earth than heaven blest;

And Oh! how sweet to slumber here,

Within this arboret reclin’d,

And dream, as angels in their sphere,

Of high elysium bright enshrin’d!

 

*See note p. 255

 

[p. 23]

 

Sweet my sleep, ‘till Ormon wake,

            With bugle sound on echo’s wing,

When o’er the bosom of the lake

            He comes to break my slumbering.

Thus said, upon her waxen arm

She laid, in peace, her lovely head;

While Somnus* soon, o’er every charm,

His softest influence gently shed.

 

XIV.

And now a wild, sweet melody

Stole thro’ the trees, the shrubs and flow’rs,

Like the angels’ psalmody,

On harps of gold, in Eden’s bow’rs:

It came as if across the lake,

Like sound of lute or light guitar;

Yet there was many a pause and break

In its wild notes, irregular,

As if some one, in playful mood,

Had stolen on her solitude,

And in the lonely Ilex shade

Had giv’n the fair a serenade.

 

*The Roman god of sleep

 

[p. 24]

 

But sweet the lovely Rhinda slept,

As o’er her angels watch had kept,

To guard her ears, lest sounds ublest

Should break upon her hour of rest.

The music died upon the breeze,

And slow among the forest trees

The figure of a minstrel sage

Advanc’d, and bending low with age:

A small harp in his hand he bore,

On whose fine chords wandered o’er

–  His fingers; and such sounds he drew

As summer zephyrs, when then they woo,

The blushing flow’rs in gay parterre,

And echo on the scented air—

Then softly whispers through the grove

Their gentle blandishments of love.

 

XV.

Time had blanched each raven lock

White as the sea foam on a rock;

And bow’d a form of majesty

Which once was strong as forest tree;

 

*See note p. 256

† A level space in a garden occupied by an ornamental arrangement of flower-beds of various shapes and sizes [OED]

 

[p. 25]

 

And though the sun of youth had set

Long time within each eye of jet,

Yet still a milder radiance shone—

More lovely than that ray long gone;

A sweet, expressive, lucid gleam,

Like summer moonlight on a stream,

Which to the heart more peace conveys

Than ever sun's meridian blaze.

A tale was told, that in his youth

The bard had giv'n his plight in truth

To a young and lovely peasant maid,

In Glenaa’s lonely foliaged shade;

And that they us'd, at even tide,

When rose love's bright star, meet beside

A fountain's deep and limpid spring.

Which thro’ the dell flow'd murmuring:

One ev’ning came, the minstrel boy—

His heart was light—his hopes were high.

He rescu'd from an eagle's beak

A lambkin on the mountain's peak;

And lull'd with parent's care to rest

The little trembler on his breast;

 

[p. 26]

 

Then tripping down the mountain's side,

He to the well-known fountain hied,

To trust to his fair Reda's care

His little charge, if she were there;

And take, as guerdon for his toil,

One blameless kiss—one chasten'd smile.

 

XVI.

 

Beside the clear and bubbling brook

His lonely seat he pensive took;

And cull'd from flow'rs which round him grew,

Bespangl'd with the evening's dew

Of lilly, rose, and violet,

To wreath among her locks of jet.

Long did he wait, and ev'ry breeze

That murmur'd thro' the Ilex trees,

He fancy'd was her footstep's sond,

Of fairy lightness o'er the ground.

Provok'd and wondering, he laid down

His lambkin and his wreathed crown,

And look'd thro' thicket, copse and brake—

Along the valley and the lake;

 

[p. 27]

 

And pierc'd each arboret's dark shade

With falcon eye—but still his maid,

His lovely maid, appeared not:

Then hasting to her mother's cot,

He sought her there, but all was lone,

For Reda's lovely maid was gone.

Nights' gloom increaced, the rain fell fast,

And thunder howl'd upon the blast,

While meteors shot across the sky;

And curlew's scream, and herron's cry,

Came o'er the lake, which 'gainst the shore

Now dash'd, with wild terrific roar:

Frantic he fled across the plain,

Recking not th' lightning's flash or rain

That fell in torrents drifting wide,

Like cataract flown the mountain side;

Still calling on his Reda's name,

Until ten thousand Reda came,

Loud borne by echo back agen—

Thro' dingle, valley, brake and glen.

 

[p. 28]

 

XVII.

And now he thought, that in the storm,

He could perceive the maiden's form,

Glide slowly t'wards an aged yew,

Where it vanished from his view;

He look'd, and there his Reda lay

Upon the mountain's narrow way;

Stiff—cold in death, with cheek as wan

As plumage on the breast of swan;

He rais'd her, and he madly press'd

Her cold, senseless form to his breast:

A flash of light'ning struck the maid,

As down the mountain path she stray'd;

And stretch'd her lifeless never more

To meet her bard on Gleaaa's shore:

For many years the minstrel boy,

Stranger alike to peace and joy;

In tattered raiment wild did roam,

A maniac from his native home;

But listing on a summer's day,

To a wandering harper's lay;

 

[p. 29]

 

Who sung the minstrel's hapless state—

His love, and Reda's awful fate:

Giving to the tale of misery

Such feeling, and such melody;

That from that hour, the minstrel's eye,

Resum'd its light of peace and joy;

And never more a maniac wild,

He roamed about—but gentle, mild;

With light harp o'er his shoulders slung,

From isle to isle he pensive sung,

Of maiden fair and chieftain brave;

And seated oft by Reda's grave,

On his light harp he'd wile away,

With wild sweet song, the summer day;

Until at ev'ning's twilight close,

The well-remember'd star arose:

When he distracted, then would leave

His harp, and hasten from the grave;

And lone remain within his cot,

Till star, and she, were both forgot.

 

[p. 30]

 

XVIII.

And now he cried, what do I see

Beneath the sacred Ilex tree—

Dunlo's lady !—ye gods above!

Slumbering near the haunted grove.

Where Druids* with the good folks keep

Their revels here, when mortals sleep†:

The elfin dart, they've at her cast,

Or stay'd her by a charmed blast††;

For sure the maid would never rest,

In such a spot so lone—unblest:

I'll watch by her, lest they should bear,

To fairy land, the sleeping fair.

He then sat on the verdant sward,

As sentinel, the maid to guard;

And oh! he said, what pity thou

            Should e'er be wed to spirit fell,

Or be for ever as thou 'rt now—

The victim of a sleeping spell†††:

 

*The lower class of Irish, generally call the fairies good folks, or gentry, as they verily believe the little ones would be much offended at being called by any other name. [H.M.B.]

†See note p. 256

††See note p. 257

†††See note p. 257

 

[p. 31]

 

I'll try and wake thee now—for if

The sun once sinks behind yon cliff,

That casts its darkest shadow o'er

The upper lake's bleak northern shore;

No pow'r on earth, or heav'n, can save

Thee from a foul unhallow'd grave.

Harp of old Erin now shall I,

Thy holy gifted power try;

And break the slumber of the maid,

Who rests beneath yon Ilex shade:

Then touching light its chords he sung,

Th' following lines with gentlest tongue.

 

XIX.

THE MINSTREL'S SONG.

1.

Wake, slumbering beauty, awake,

            The sun is fading away.

And on the bright bosomed lake,

            His crimson rays now play.

Oh! wake, I pray thee, sleep no more,

There's danger on this lonely shore.

 

*One of M’Gilly Cuddy’s reeks, to the west of the lakes. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 32]

 

2.

'Rouse thee, fair one now or never,

            A boat will soon be here;

Thy spell-bound chain of slumber sever,

            No danger need thou fear:

The breeze is blowing, which will waft

Soon to Ross's shot, the little craft.

__________

 

The last strain just had died away,

When Rhinda slowly op'd her eyes,

And from them shot such sparkling ray

As sun-beam from the summer skies.

Then spoke the bard—Oh lady dear

Haste from this spot, nor slumber here;

For here the elves, at eve repair,

The heedless peasants to ensnare

If they perchance alone should rove,

To new their sacred bow'r and grove.

Rhinda reply'd, what should I fear

No evil one sure lurketh near;

 

[p. 33]

 

And surely Cathal, thou would'st lend

A hand, thy lady to defend:

Oh! maid of Dunloe if this arm

Could shield thee from impending harm,

Thou might'st command it, he paus'd—and now

Darkly contracted grew his high brow;

And fix'd became his look like one—

Whose visial rays had gleam'd on

Some phantom strange, or sylphid fair,

Wandering thro' the dark groves there:

But no, he said, 'twere death to tell,

The secret of the haunted dell;

For babbling echo soon would bring

The story to the elfin king;

And I should mourn the hour which wrung

The legend from my simple tongue.

 

XX.

And though the maiden, when a child,

Had hearken'd to such romance wild,

Yet now she unbelieving smil'd;

 

[p. 34]

 

For her maturer sense had taught

To spurn such tale, by fancy wrought;

And little credence, well she knew,

To Cathal's warning now was due.

In humour gay, and nothing scar’d,

She thus address'd the minstrel bard:

You mean the fairies then, but why,

            If such then there are, why harm me ?

No Elfin slanderer am I—

            E'en more their friend than enemy.

Never, 'till now, has Rhinda More

Strayed alone on Mucruss shore.

No other, said the bard, I mean—

And lady, since I must speak plain,

It is thy angel loveliness,

            Thy peerless form, and face so fair,

That Oberon would fain possess,

            By elfin art, if he but dare;

Only this little amulet,

Pendant from this silk cord of jet,

Hath now been with me, to undo

The spell he breathed then on you.

 

 

 

[p. 35]

 

Cathal now unclasp'd the chain,

Which for many years had lain

Within his vest, and thereunto

A red heart, ty'd with ribbon blue*:

Bard, said the maiden, let me touch

That counter wonder-working charm,

Which king Oberon dreads so much—

Able his malice to disarm:

Oft have I heard of its great pow'r,

But never saw it, 'till this hour

The amulet she took, and o'er

She turn'd and view'd it, to explore

If Cabalistic† word or spell

Were on its cover visible;

But nought was wrought or written there,

Its worth or power to declare:

Oh! not expos'd to human eyes,

The virtue which I so much prize,

Cathal observ'd;—but there's conceal'd

Within th' cover a parchment, seal'd,

Writ by a monk, in Latin tongue,

Which from my neck the good man hung;

 

* See note p. 258

†Referring to the ancient Hebrew mystical tradition.

 

[p. 36]

 

And since that time, until this hour,

O'er me the elves have lost their pow'r.

Most strange! said Rhinda:—yet 'tis true.

Cathal reply'd;—I never knew

One moment's pain—but here he paus'd,

As if a sudden panic came

Of fear, or sorrow, which had caus'd

Some bitter thought he might not name:

But soon the dark cloud past away,

As adding now in humour gay,

Lady 'tis thine, if thou but wear

It henceforth on thy bosom fair.

Nay, Rhinda said, that cannot be;

To you the value—not to me:

And, Cathal, thou shouldst never part

So highly priz'd and charm'd a heart.

 

XXI.

Then, lady, since it is thy will,

That I should keep the red heart still,

I'll give yon what the old ones say

Is full as good—Saint Cummin's clay*:

 

*See note p. 258

 

[p. 37]

 

One Mahon, with the pow'r possess'd,

Gave it to me when in the west,

When I a maniac roam'd o'er

Th' Atlantic's wild and lonely shore.

And now the hallow'd sky was shewn-

So valu'd, and so long his own;

Which, taking from the linen hand.

He plac'd upon the maiden's hand.

She said, fearless and secure I'll rove,

Thro' Elfin bower and Druid grove—

Fearing not dark or lonely way,

When this one little bit of clay

Can save from peril, pain and wile,

A maiden of the shamrock isle:

And in return now Cathal take

            This amulet, long time been mine,

And keep it for the donor's sake,

            As I will keep this one of thine.

She said, and from her 'kerchief's fold

Presented him a cross of gold;

Close, to his lips the gift he press'd-

Then signing it upon his breast,

 

[p. 38]

 

Placed it, not a little vain,

Then pendant from his silken chain;

And now, an echo's wing loud borne,

Chim'd o'er the lake a bugle horn.

Rhinda knew the blast, and cried—

The prince's yacht comes o'er the tide;

And while they slowly cross the mere,

I'll greet them with some simple air.

She said, and graceful bending o'er

His minstrel's harp, from Mucrnss shore;

Breathed, like vesper hymn on high,

A strain of sweetest melody.

 

XXII.

And now, beneath the gannet cliff,

The hunters near'd the royal skiff:

O'Donoghue stood upon the prow—

His dark plumage waving o'er his brow;

So stands on lofty pinnacle,

Over-hanging chasm, deep, or dell,

The Alpine hunter holding there,

Hit finely woven silken snare,

 

[p. 39]

 

To catch the gaudy butterfly,

Flattering in the summer sky;

Or resting on his unstrung bow,

He gazes on the depths below,

Watching there, the traveller

Like speck upon the mountain's side:

So thus reflected in the flood,

The princely hunter stately stood.

Advancing from her dark recess,

Like nymph or lovely Dryadess—

Rhinda appear'd—he laughing said,

Say whither fair one, hast thou stray'd,

Or has some satyr thee decoy'd,

To woo and win thee for his bride;

In these dark groves, where ne'er has been,

A lovelier maid than thou I ween.

Behold the satyr who has try'd,

To guard, not win me—Rhinda cried;

His light harp's sweet and gentle strain

Has not been play'd to me in vain—

It breaking, by its wilder swell,

My slumbers deep and heavy spell

 

[p. 40]

 

XXIII.

What! Dunlo's bard! the monarch said,

As Cathal low obeisance made-

Why chas'd yon not Killarney's deer,

Nor break the sleep of beauty here?

Prince, said the bard, and bright there shone

A sparkle of that ray long gone

In his dark eye—and shook away

From his high brow his tresses gray—

When young, like yon, the deer I chas'd

O'er fertile glen, and mountain waste;

But youth and pleasure long gone by,

This harp is now my only joy.

Thus shall your youth and pleasure fleet—

With sunshine friends so fair and sweet;

Health, frolic, fortune, revel gay,

Like midnight phantom, fade away.

O’Donoghue sigh'd, his spirit caught

The bard's grave mood of word and thought;

No more, he said—but take thy place,

To celebrate the morning's chase.

 

[p. 41]

 

In Ross's Castle held gay shall be,

This night, a feast of revelry,

Such as was never held before,

Since Danes and Norsmen* fled its shore;

By splendor, rank, and beauty grac'd—

All worthy of such noble feast;

And thou art welcome, Cathal, there,

The pleasures of my court to share.

 

XXIV.

What Cathal said, 'twere to forget

            Thy birth and rank, for one so low

As I, to wave that etiquette

            Which subjects to their monarchs owe:-

I must not think with thee to share

The courtly ball and princely fare.

Come-, said O'Donoghue, what you will

Of sage monitor or minstrel still;

But think not, though a prince I be,

That worth shall e'er be scorn'd by me:

One strain of thy harp's minstrelsy

Are worth the joys of chase to me;

 

* Danes and Norsemen refer to the Vikings who controlled portions of Ireland (Dublin is Norse for “black pool”) from the eight through eleventh century A.D.  Brian Boru, legendary first high king of Ireland, defeated many Vikings in 1014.

 

[p. 42]

 

And much I lack of it, to wile

Away chagrin for loss of spoil:

And now, he said, I take my place

Beside the goddess of the chase,

To guard, as victor would his prize,

And sun myself in beauty's eyes:

Then, adding—Cathal, pray thee 'wake

Thy voice and harp's wild melody,

'Till ev'ry isle that gems the lake

Re-echo's back thy lullaby.

The bard obey'd; and as they bore

By the gun rock, to Ross isle's shore,

Swift gliding o'er the crystal bay,

Cathal sung the following lay.

 

XXV.

MINSTREL'S LAY.

1.

Warrior! Prince of Heber's line,

Every joy on earth be thine;

For none more generous or brave

E'er sail'd upon Killarney's wave*:

 

*See note p. 260

 

[p. 43]

 

And when the cruel Ostmen* came,

With sword, with poison'd dart and flume,

And thought to gain, by fraud and wile,

The empire of our tainted isle,

You sav'd our home and liberty

From th' stranger's yoke and slavery,

 

2.

They took the tow'r† by escalade,

I heard their shouts from shore to shore;

But Oh! full suddenly they paid

The forfeit with their dearest gore;—

Felld by thy arm's gigantic force,

Young Hengist lay a bleeding corse.

Then victor Prince, of Heber's line,

May ev'ry joy on earth be thine—

For none more generous or brave

E'er sail'd upon Killarney's wave.

 

*Viking invaders

†O’Donoghue’s Castle, in the isle of Ross, formerly a place of some strength – for it was often besieged by the Danes, who were always beat off with great loss. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 44]

 

3.

Thou stoodest, on the ramparts high

With oaken spear and bloodstained sword,

And fearless glanc'd around thine eye,

While many a dart thy corslet bor'd;

Each arrow from thy bended bow

Stretched in death a pagan foe.

Then victor Prince of Heber's line,

May ev'ry joy of earth be thine —

For none more generous or brave

E'er sail'd upon Killarney's wave.

 

4.

And flow'd that day Flesk's winding stream.

Red as the sun's departing beam,

While many a corse of chieftain brave

Floatod upon its dark stained wave —

Their last sighs, borne on echo's wing,

Brought conquest to Killarney's king.

Then victor Prince of Heber's line,

May ev'ry joy on earth be thine —

For none more generous or brave

E'er sail'd upon Killarney's wave.

 

[p. 45]

 

 

The boat now touch’d the island’s shore,

The minstrel’s lay was heard no more,

While quick before O’Donoghue

The castle portals yawn’d anew;

And servitors, in rich array,

Marshalled them through guarded way.

 

END OF CANTO THE FIRST.

 

[p. 46]

 

CANTO THE SECOND.

 

___________

 

 

THE PROPHECY.

 

I.

The ev'ning sun long time had set,

And murky clouds were spreading o'er

The lakes and hills, when lonely met

Two stranger youths on Carnane's shore:

Perhaps their ages were the same,

But differ'd they in rank and fame;

Nor did their looks in aught compare-

For one was ruddy, plump and fair;

And had that sort of humour sly,

That smile of archness in the eye,

And jocund speech which ever hung

Most ready on his flippant tongue:—

 

[p. 47]

 

From th' humble cot to th' banquet hall

Young Dermod's joke was known to all;

And much his company had been

Sought, to enliven festive scene*,

By all who lov'd their guests to cheer,

With his drollery, song, and jeer.

The other youth, whose pensive air

Bespoke him much a child of care,

Peered his head as far above,

As tree o'er shrub in Druid grove;

His eyes, his hair, like raven plume,

His visage pale, and air of gloom,

Confest him, as he trod the strand,

A stranger alien to the land—

Yet there was something in his face

Which spoke him of a noble race;

That lofty look, unaided by

A haughty stare, or rolling eye,

And deep expression undefin'd,

Which indicates the gifted mind,

And marks, from th' other sons of earth.

The man of intellect and birth;

 

* See note p. 263

 

[p. 48]

 

And though scarce twenty summers shed

Their radiance o'er the stranger's head—

Yet still 'he look'd as if the seal

Of time had been long stamped upon

His marble brow, so smooth and pale,

As if ey'ry joy of earth were gone

Worn his young heart, so sad and down,

And blighted by misfortune's frown.

He was in hunter's light costume,

And wore an eagle's sable plume,

While o'er his shoulder, careless borne,

Was flung his bow and bugle horn.

II.

Hunter, long since thy task is done—

Long o'er the Reeks* has sped the sun ;

Seekest thou now the banquet board

Of Killarney's sovereign lord?

If such thy purpose, meet we fair,

On moon-lit path, to journey there.

 

*M’Gilly Cuddy’s [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 49]

 

No, said th' hunter, a boat and guide

I seek, to waft me o'er the tide;—

Not feast or revel gay be mine,

But homely cell in Tinian's shrine.

One of Saint Aman's pupils thou*!

Monk is not written on thy brow,

Dermod rejoin'd, although thou hast

Much look of penance, pray'r and fast.

It matters not, the hunter said,

While on his dagger hilt he laid

His hand, what are my looks, or why

I turn me now from feast and joy;—

Lend me a shallop and a hand,

To bear me from Ross Island's strand—

Perhaps not distant is the day

When I the kindness will repay.

If that, said Dermod, then, be all,

Though hard to turn from banquet hall,

When harp, and song, and maiden fair,

And merry dance, allure me there,

Whate'er the toil—whate'er the cost,

Ne'er shall be said that Dermod lost

 

*See note p. 264

 

[p. 50]

 

A friend, for feast or revel gay,

Though danger should beset our way.

 

III.

They cross'd the ford of Flesk, and o'er

The island's moor*, sped to the shore,

Where riding in the little bay,

A shallop at some distance lay;

Soon stript the peasant to the skin,

And free and fearless plunging in.

Ere the stranger gained the pier,

Was paddling it in triumph near.

Scarce seemed nature now awake—

The moon was sleeping on the lake.

And ev'ry rude breeze slumber'd still

On lake, on mountain, vale and hill;

And as by Cherry Isle they past,

Came minstrel's peal upon the blast.—

The stranger sigh'd—I hate, said he,

Such sounds of boist'rous revelry:

 

* The bog between Kenmare house and the lake, on the castle side [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 51]

 

Little of joy can they impart,

To one, like me, of breaking heart,

But in my mind such thoughts renew

Of thy bold Prince, O'Donoghue,

That here, distraction's hottest flame

Rekindles at his hated name.

His hand upon his brow he press'd,

And paus'd, as if to sooth to rest,

The deep and agonising pain,

Which phrenzy shot across his brain ;

You know him; astonish'd, Dermod said.

Well; reply'd the hunter, for his blade

Has often drunk my kindred's blood

By mount, by glen, by fell, and flood*.

Ha! a foeman, and a soldier thou;

Such spoke the scar upon thy brow.

I knew you, Ostman, said the youth,

Ere yet thy lips contest the truth;

But fear me not, safe will I guide

Thee now across this moonlit tide,

And sing, to wile thy grief away,

What e'er thou like of battle lay;

 

*See note p. 264

 

[p. 52]

 

Or whistle, carol, or detail,

Some romance wild or goblin tale,

A legend, then, the Ostman said,

But let the plot and scene be laid

In these enchanted regions, where

All seems a heav'n so still and fair;

Then skimming with their paddles light,

The sleeping lake, so blue and bright,

He forward bent, a tale to hear,

Breath'd n'ere before to mortal ear.

 

IV.

Strange is my legend, yet 'tis true,

The hero, Prince O'Donoghue,

Dermod reply'd; and my scene lies

Where e'er thou turn around thine eyes;

But softly must my tale be told,

Which keep as miser does his gold,

Ever conceal'd, as hut a thing,

Produc'd for thy own pondering.

Thou know'st our prince has no compeer,

As hero bold he stands premier,

 

[p. 53]

 

The first in war, the last in peace,

Of giant frame and cherub face;

He rears his head as proudly o'er,

As Knoek-Ulrick* on its wooded shore,

The thousands who, with sword and shield,

Oft follow him to battle field;

And fleet of foot as mountain doe,

Or arrow shot from Parthian bow;

He swims the lake as fast as e'er

Cuts eagle thro' the middle air;

Knows ev'ry mountain, pass, and ford,

And wields, with ease, great Oscar's sword;†

Can wrestle, run, and cast a brand

'Gainst any noble in the land;

I've seen him, in the battle, rein,

His war steed 'mongst the heaps of slain,

Felling where'er he threw his glance,

A foe with arrow, spear, or lance,

And sitting with that ease and grace

As if he followed in the chase;

Compar'd to his the falcon's eye

Is not more sharp, for bird or fly

 

*The eagle’s mountain, or nest, as some call it, on the banks of the Serpentine river. [H.M.B.]

†See note p. 266

 

[p. 54]

 

That ever soar'd aloft on wing,

By arrow shot he down will bring;

Nor is his hand inferior too,

His gazzle eye of brightest blue;

Wo, to that one who dare engage

Him, front to front, in battle rage:

Thou know'st it well.—Aye, that I do,

The knight reply'd, 'twas he that slew

My father and his galland band

By treachery on Ventry's Strand,

And left me welt'ring in my gore,

Cold, senseless, on the Dinagh's shore*.

 

V.

Yet still, said Dermod, he is mild

In peace, and gentle as a child;

No knight ere sat in shaded bower,

At lovely ev'ning's moonlit hour

To list to minstrel's melody,

With kinder, gentler heart than he;

 

*The Dinagh river runs by the town of Killarney, through Kenmare park, into the lower lake. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 55]

 

He often tunes his light guitar

By the soft light of vesper star,

Breathing such sounds as sweet and low,

As when murmuring waters flow

O'er verdant meads; or like the sigh

Of Eolus' harp* on some lone shore.

When the loud winds in caverns lie,

And hush'd to rest is ocean's roar:

For there is in his minstrelsy

Much more of grief than gaiety-—

A sadd'ning thrill which often stole,

Like feel of death, upon my soul;

And oft the peasants pause to hear

Such music floating on the air;

So like it is to that wild glee,

Oft sung at midnight by ban-shie†;

And loves he often lone to stray

By the still lake at twilight gray—

Or wending over mount and hill,

When earth seems heav'n, so fair and still,

And echo slumbers in her cave††;

Nor noise is heard by mortals, save

 

*Eolus – the Greek god of the wind.  An Aeolan harp is an instrument whose strings are vibrated by the wind.

† See note p. 267

†† See note p. 267

 

[p. 56]

 

The murmur of the passing breeze

Thro' Ilex and Arbutus trees.

 

VI.

Perhaps when reminiscence brings,

As oft it does to tyrant kings,

The bitter thought of dark deed done,

Of throne or fight unfairly won;

Or that stern monitor within,

Conscience tells of murder'd kin,

Of exil'd friends, of slaughter'd foes,

Or numerous other ills and woes

Produc'd by wild ambition's rage,

To blot their history's fairest page,

'Tis then he flies, as others fled,

To solitude; the Ostman said.

Nay, reply'd Dermod, his soul bears

No such frail, mortal thoughts or cares;

His is a mind which soars as high

From all such mental agony,

As soars the lark at morning gray,

To welcome in the coming day.

 

[p. 57]

 

But list the plot I now unfold,

Full soon my legend will be told:—

'Twas on a summer's ev'ning, when

Was seal'd in sleep the eyes of men,

And earth and sea was calm, nor beam

Of moonlight fell on lake or stream,

For the winds were hush'd and not a breath

Stole on that eve, as still as death,

And nature slept, as in a tomb,

So quiet and so great the gloom;

From out the purple firmament

A single star its sparkle lent,

There shining like a bacon bright,

Thro' vapour, mist, and cloud of night,

It fix'd its red and guardian glance,

Upon the upper lakes expanse.

 

XVI.

Behold where stands yon marble rock,

That eve I watch'd my tender flock;

He pointed to the Glenaa shore,

Where rock, and tree, and cliff rear'd o'er

 

[p. 58]

 

Their tow'ring heads in gloomy pride,

Upon its calm and dark blue tide;

And there upon the beach I knew,

Roaming alone, O'Donoghue;

His mantle o'er his shoulders flung,

His bugle by his side was hung-,

One single feather droop'd aside

His velvet cap and brow of pride—

He saw me not, but quickly past

Towards Glenaa's mount, and blew a blast,

So loud, so piercing, and so shrill,

As broke th' almost sepulchral still,

That round us reign'd, and sped away,

As mist before the solar ray.

I follow'd close, as quick he hied,

Taking that lone star for his guide;

And now there lies at Glenaa's base

A lone and darkly shaded place,

'Tis said, since earliest time, the haunt

Of demons and of spirits gaunt;

And there the great O'Donoghue,

With wand of gold, a circle drew,

 

[p. 59]

 

And held a festive revel there,

With elves and spirits of the air;

And there loud sounds of boist'rous mirth,

Issued from beneath the earth,

And rocks and brakes, and caverns sent

An echo of their merriment

To every isle. And saw I there,

Imps, satyrs, dwarfs, and wood nymphs fair,

Tapering in that lone star's light

A wond'rows and a splendid sight,

As ever human eye had seen,

With Oberon, or Mab*, his queen.

 

VIII.

And there Killarney's monarch bow'd,

Obsequious to the little crowd;

And on his light guitar has play'd,

To the soft voice of sylvan maid ;

And woo'd, and laugh'd, and play'd his jest,

Until the portals of the east

Unfolded, and the matin beam

Sparkled on lake and mountain stream.

 

* Oberon - traditional European king of faeries.  Mab – Queen of the Connaught in the Ulster cycle of Irish mythology, often linked to the faeries.

 

[p.60]

 

Then fled he fast as sleet or hail,

When drifted by the winter gale;

'Twas morning when his bugle call

Echo'd thro' watch tower, court, and hall;

And while the lengthen'd blast he blew,

His castle gates wide open flew—

He enter'd unobserv'd, none gave

Notice to servitor or slave;

For by his pow'r sleep heavy fell,

On warder's eye and sentinel;

And thus it is our monarch roves,

Thro' lonely glens and shaded groves,

And leaves his home at midnight hour,

To hold his court in elfin bow'r.

 

IX.

Thou jeerest me, or yet if true,

Do'st thou not fear O'Donoghue

Will punish thee, the Ostman said,

For having his dread ways betray'd ?

Ah! little recks our monarch brave,

The voice of slander, as the slave

 

[p. 61]

 

Of genii recks the Knockeeu-dave*,

Dermod reply'd; and more, forsooth,

I tell to thee, the genuine truth—

And I have heard, that sly he took,

From out the temple walls, that book,

Which the wise Solomon† did prepare,

And plac'd in the Musach-lassa†† there;

For he can tell you ev'ry seed

Of plant, shrub, flower, herb, or weed,

That gems the isles or scents the air:

Of spicy tree, or balsam rare—

For 'twas by his deep art and wile,

Every mountain, vale, and isle,

Upon Killarney's crystal mere,

Looks beautiful, throughout the year;

He bid the gilder roses shed,

Their sweets upon each mountain's head—

 

* A cavern on the castle island side, much dreaded by the peasantry, as it was supposed to be the habitation of an evil spirit. [H.M.B.]

† Solomon is traditionally described as the author of much of ancient Hebrew mysitical literature.

†† Musach-Lassa a chest in the temple of Jerusalem, wherein kings cast their offerings. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 62]

 

And caus'd to spring from marble rock

Th' Arbutus tree and Holly-hock—

Taught flowers of ten thousand dies,

Spontaneous in our isles to rise;

And bid eternal verdure reign

On tree, hill, valley, glen, and plain;

Made the thundering cascades roar,

That falls on Glenaa's wooded shore.

Sparkle and foam, but in its fall,

Less boist'rous and more musical:

Free he can rove from clime to clime.

Nor dread the hand of death or time.

For on his brow, so smooth and pale,

Eternal youth has set its seal.

 

X.

Rouse thee from thy listening mood.

For now my legend I conclude,

Dermod said; and mark where yon cloud

Of gloom horrific stoops to shroud

The prison isle:—may blackest night,

He added, hide thee from my sight—

 

[p. 63]

 

Thou dreaded place of grief—of pains—

Of captive groaning in his chains!

Oh! how thy shores and shades I hate!

So dark, and wildly desolate*:

And there he pointed out a glen,

Impervious to the eyes of men,

By day;—but when the moon's pale light

Gleam'd brightly through the shades of night,

It could be seen the foul abode

Of wizard, and of loathsome toad,—

And thus did he beguile the time,

'Till broke upon their ears the chime

Of Innisfallen's abbey bell,

Summoning youth and monk to cell:

They enter'd in the little bay

Opening on the cloisters gray.

Not in my pow'r, the Ostman said,

To share with you my board or bed—

Myself a guest, depending on

The bounty, scant, of Father John.

Though hard my fate, it might be worse,

He sigh'd—and, taking out his purse,

 

* See note p. 267

 

[p. 64]

 

Hold! Dermod said — not for such meed

I lend to one in time of need:

And Ostmann dread me not, although

I own myself Lord Sitrich's* foe;—

I have a proud, but feeling heart-

In peace we met, in peace we part :

And never will my lips unfold

Thy blest abode, or lineage told.

The Ostman presu'd his proffer d hand,

And bounding to the hallow'd strand.

Watch'd, until the prison† height

Hid the shallop from his sight ;

Then sought, with heart by grief

His lonely cell and couch of rest.

 

XI.

The clouds are fled, that darkly shed

A shadow o'er the lakes;

And on the reeks the morning breaks,

While ev'ry bush and brake

 

* Commander-in-chief of the Danes at that time in Ireland. [H.M.B.]

† The Prison Isle, lying between Innisfallen and Cherry Isle. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 65]

 

Sends forth a matin hymn of joy,

To hail that bright orb of the sky.

From mountain, plain, and lonely isle,

The peasant hastens to his toil;

The housewife trims her breakfast board—

The best her cottage can afford;

The eagle rises from his rock,

The shepherd blight unpens his flock;

And the cynick awakes agen,

To rate at manners and at men.

And now arose the Ostman knight,

With the first beam of morning light;-

There was a gleam, it might be joy,

That sparkled in his dark brown eye,

As with a quick and lightsome trend,

He through the gloomy cloisters sped,

And roam'd, as oft' he did before,

Upon the darkly wooded shore;

The gray mist rose from rock and hill-

Turk hid his head in vapour still;   

And every other mountain's height

Was shrouded still in deep twilight.

 

[p. 66]

 

The hour—the scene—its loneliness.

Accorded with his mind's distress; 

And leaning 'gainst the gray rock's side,

He pensive view'd the lake's clear tide.

 

XII.

His locks were blown back by the breeze.

His thoughts were far beyond the seas—

            In his dear native land;

While he, the child of sorrow—wo,

            A wand'rer, outcast, and a foe,

Stood on the stranger's strand:

There he had hall and chamber bright.

Where noble maid and lordly knight

            Beguil'd away his hours;

Where all was freedom, peace and joy,

And fortune's sun gleam'd bright and high

            On his path, strewn with flow'rs:—

Here he in damp and lonely cell,

Like captive, was constrain'd to dwell.

            With not a friend to cheer

 

[p. 67]

 

His sadden'd heart;—or when the tomb

Would wrap him in its silent gloom,

            To drop o'er him a tear.

While thus bewilder'd—lost in thought,

Sudden his eye a small boat caught.

In which a peasant boy, its guide,

Quick ply'd his paddles o'er the tide.

The Ostman hail'd him from the shore,

And soon the light skiff quickly bore

Them to Glenaa's and th' Tomies beach,

Where that mountain-stream called screech,

Rolling through rocky glen and glade,

Falls by O'Sullivan's Cascade

Into the lake.—Mark yon lone shade!

The stripling to the Ostman said,

Where rises that pile of rocks, the hold

Of Fin M'Uil—a chieftain bold*.

Behold a grisly form advance,

Now propt upon that oaken lance,

Which many a battle fray has stood,

And drunk its share of warrior's blood!

 

* See note p. 268

 

[p. 68]

 

'Tis he—the savage homicide,

Whose body, girt with lion's hide,

Has reckless often borne the brunt

Of foeman bold, in battle front.

 

XIII.

And now the aged giant stood,

With folded arms, beside the flood;

His iron brow and ponderous form

Bore marks of many a battle storm—

For cicatrice and gaping scar

Confess'd him head of feudal war:

Although an hundred years and more,

Yet still much look of strength he bore;

Nor yet was bent his tow'ring height—

But fair and noble, peer'd upright:

Alone his hair, which silvery flow d,

The hand of time and sorrow shewed.—

Unnerved that arm is now, which bore

The ponderous shield, in days of yore,

The youth remark'd—and which could wield

A massive sword in battle field,

 

[p. 69]

 

That twenty modern heroes bold

Would not draw from its scabbard's hold.

And once a rock I saw him fling,

As if it were a schoolboy's sling,

From yon high cliff as far as where

Dips yon gray ospray in the mere.

The youth spoke thus in under tone;

But as if th' giant chief had known

The meaning of his words, he seized

A fragment rock, and while he gazed

Upon the stripling, flung it o'er

The lake, as far as Three Isle* shore.

 

XIV.

Whizzing the fragment went, then fell—

Deep buried near the holy well,

Where still it can be seen—the last

Memorial of his strength he cast.

Ne'er, said the youth, again shall bend

That gigantic form, or arm send

 

*Generally known by the name of Burn Island – three small islands, so near each other as to be taken at a distance for one;— they lie very near Glenaa’s shore. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 70]

 

Rock, pebble, spear, or barbed dart,

To chill the life-blood of my heart;—

To-morrow's sun will see thee laid

A stiff corse in thy own lone shade,

And never mortal hand shall close

Thy eyelids in their last repose;

But fix'd, horrific, they will scare

All who shall come to view thee there.

It's likely fate will give the lie,

Said th' Ostman, to thy prophecy.

Ha! say'st thou so? the stripling said,

And smiling' ghastly, shook his head;—

I see his shrouded wraith* beside,

Following him with hasty stride:

Mark! Saint Tinian's† bell shall toll

The knell of his departed soul,

Ere in a lonely cave you say

A Christian's prayer, at morning gray;

 

* The pretended apparition of a person before death; lower classes of Irish give them the name of Fetches, and believe in such appearances. [H.M.B.]

† The founder of Innisfallen’s Abbey. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 71]

 

Then stretching to their oars, they soon

Neared the fair shores of the Lewn,

Where, peering o'er its crystal flood,

The chief of Dunlo's castle stood.

 

XV.

Round it flowers of every bloom

Wasted on the air their sweet perfume;

And cyprus trees their amber wept

O'er beds of rose and violet:—

And there the hop and eglantine

Crept round the ilex, ash and pine,

While honeysuckle, peep'd between

The branches of each hazel screen;

The fawn and lambkin sported there—

The stately swan sail'd on the mere.

And goldfinch, linnet, lark and dove

Sang and coo'd in every grove.

Delighted gaz'd the Ostman knight,

For look'd it like that phantom* bright

 

* The Fata Morgana, or enchanted island. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 72]

 

Seen in Reggio's Straits to rise-

The Eden of Italian skies.

Behold a fairer picture now!

The youth remark'd—beneath the brow

Of yon high cliff, a light skiff there,

Launch'd by the hand of Dunlo's fair;—

See how she plies her paddles light,

As just to kiss the waters bright;

And slightly bends, but to increase

Her sylph-like form's exquisite grace.

 

XVI.

The Ostman look'd, and to his eyes

She seem'd as spirit from the skies,

Just stolen from that world of bliss,

To roam awhile, alone on this.

His heart confest a fairer one

Sun-beam had never glanc'd upon.

Her's were the locks of auburn true—

Those eyes of deep and clearest blue;

That profile chaste, of Grecian stile—

That lofty brow, and happy smile,

 

[p. 73]

 

Which, ever beaming on her face,

Spoke sinless thoughts and heart at peace.

Short did th' beauteous vision last-

For sudden blew an headlong blast,

And swept beneath the dark blue mere

The little boat and maiden fair.

He heard the plash, and piercing cry

Of one in death's last agony;—

It died away as clos'd the wave.

And all was silent as the grave:

The lake—the sky was bright, serene,

Nor vestige of the wreck was seen,

Save that a little white pannier*,

Filled with flowers, floated near.

Soon plung'd the Ostman in the tide—

Dashing with sinewy arms aside

The waters false—quick did exhume

The lovely Rhinda from her tomb;

And, like a sea-washed pearl, bore

Her, senseless, to the nearest shore.

 

* A basket for carrying fish.

 

[p. 74]

 

XVII.

Her cheeks—her lips, which once were for

More bright than tint of cinnabar*,

As smooth—as cold, and pallid shone

As statue of the parian† stone.

With trembling hand he wip'd away

The wet that on her bosom lay,

Which, falling from her trusses fair,

Repos'd, like crystal dew-drops, there;—

And chaf'd each hand, more white and chill

Than hail-drop on Slieve Donard's†† hill.

Could it be call'd idolatry,

To bow before such witchery—

Such angel charms ?—oh! no, he cried—

And knelt, adoring, by her side.

Her eyes unclos'd, and soon o'erspread

A homing blush of deepest red:

Her lips—her neck—her brow, the same—

One bright, unvari'd tide of flame;

For all was lonely, still, and void,

On shore, on hill, on rock, and tide—

 

*A vivid vermillion pigment.

† Name given to a fine white kind of porcelain. [OED]

†† A mountain in the County Down, supposed to be the highest in Ireland. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 75]

 

Save he, a stranger youth, whose hand

Upheld her kindly on the strand.

In words but few her thanks she paid;

For scarce her falt'ring voice obey'd

The dictates of a grateful heart,

Now breathed to him but in part,

 

XVIII.

She rose — and turning towards the gate

That open'd on tow'r and hall of state,

Here enter in, Sir Knight, she said —

Her hand upon the portal laid-—

Pray enter and receive such meed

As best becomes thy gen'rous deed.

The Ostman paus'd.-How could he face,

As friend, the foeman of his rare?

And yet, how could he turn away

Coldly, from her who wish'd his stay?

Aught he deny his rank—his name,

He thought? — Oh! no;  it were a shame

Whate'er the risque, whate'er his fate,

Falsehood never should emanate

 

[p. 76]

 

From his proud heart, in truth or jest,

To stain the bright star on his breast:

A parting step he made, and then

Irresolute, approach'd agen;

Then falter'd out his title, brief.

Was Hengist, the bold Ostman chief.

 

XIX.

Rhinda scarce suppressed a scream-

Oft had she heard his dreaded name,

And knew how heavy fell his hand

Of slaughter, in her native land:—

You sav'd my life, she said — for such

The chief of Dunlo owes thee much:

I know his heart is kind — is warm.

An act so gen'rous may disarm

His vengance, and perhaps —— but here

She paus'd;—Oh well I guess thy fear,

Hengist reply'd — but lady know,

Since I am doom'd thy brother's foe,

Trust me; — my sword alone shall buy

Peace, friendship, pardon, victory:

 

[p. 77]

 

But if my arm 'gainst him prove weak—

He paus'd ; then added—for thy sake

Alone shall I the sword or dart

Glance henceforth, faintly, at his heart.

Still rested Rhinda's hand beside.

The portal, as she flung it wide;

And as those words concluded were,

He lowly bow'd, and kill'd it there;

Then hurrying down th' castle cliff,

Once more within the little skiff,

Lightly they shot by crag and brake,

Bordering on the Lower Lake:

Nor did the Ostman stay his hand

Until they touch'd Saint Tinian's* strand.

 

XX.

There, seated on a rock beside

The sleeping lake's translucent tide,

One of the holy brotherhood

Ponder'd in deep and gloomy mood:

 

* That part of Innisfallen’s shore near which Saint Tinian, or Finian, founded the abbey. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 78]

 

He rais'd his eyes—their glance malign

Confest th' superior of the shrine.

Saint Aman, though a man of pray'r,

Was yet revengeful and austere;

Scarce ever did his cold heart relent

To suppliant's pray'r, or penitent;

Nor was his soul or dark mind fraught

With one humane or tender thought:

Each was as loveless as his form—

Th' receptacle of gloom and storm;

And when to heav'n arose the swell

Of matin, or of vesper bell,

His, vengeful pray'r, short and alone,

Would rise before the Almighty's throne,

To sweep from off the earth all those

Who might be found his country's foes.

Sir Knight, he said, I crave a boon—

With thee a season to commune;

Then motion'd, with no sign of grace,

The stripling from the landing place.

 

[p. 79]

 

XXI.

And now the man, whose single nod

Could awe the servants of his God,

Unto obedience of his will,

Whate'er it was, of good or ill,

Thus spoke:—Pagan, of the Ostinan line,

Who spurned'st at our laws divine,

And Sends the knee, in forest shade,

To idols rude, by mortals made,

No longer shall our holy fane

Yield refuge to a traitor Dane,

Unless that at our altar thou,

With uplift hands, an unbent brow,

Forsake thy country's gods and kin,

And turn thee from such crime and sin.

Dwelling in yon lone solitude,

As one of th' holy brotherhood,

I'll give thee 'till the lunar shine

Gilds this night our hallowed shrine,

To choose——he paus'd; then added, low,

Thou shalt not 'scape again the foe;

 

[p. 80]

 

For thy lair is known—the watch is set.

Each friar and peasant thy vidette,

Make soon thy choice, or durance vile

For life, upon the Prison Isle:

Then glancing, with contemptuous eye,

Ere well the Ostman could reply,

He sudden wended from the shore,

And gain'd the abbey's inner door—

Closing it with a clang, which made

An echo to its inmost shade.

 

XXII.

Scarce had he chang'd his dress when one

Knock'd at his door—'twas Father John;

Upon his face, so fair, benign,

Melancholy reared her sign—

While a deep, but half-breath'd sigh,

Told forth his rigid embassy.

Ostman, he said, 'till vesper bell

Saint Aman dooms thee to thy cell,

As the great O'Donoghue demands

Thee now a prisoner from his hand-:

 

[p. 81]

 

But if the world thou wilt resign,

And worship, in Saint Tinian's shrine,

Heaven, and that brave monarch's smile

Shall bless thee in our lonely isle.

Continue the son of Vosco here!

Hengist exclaim'd—Father, you jeer.

Say what authority or right

Have they to judge a free-born knight?

Alone to thee, my only friend,

E'er shall the knee of Hengtst bend:

And, little I fear O'Donoghue,

Or what his minions base can do,

As reek I, when in bloody fray,

The clash of swords on battle day.

The father's looks betray'd his fear:—

Hush! he cried—there's danger near:

Then, in a voice more low—depend,

I'll ever prove to thee a friend:

Stay yet but here a little while,

Until night shrouds our sainted isle—

Then seek some far and safer shore.

Until his present, wrath be o'er;

 

[p. 82]

 

When thou collect thy scatter'd band,

And hie thee to thy native land.

 

XXIII.

Father, said Hengist, I accede—

But promise, in this hour of need,

If ever to this holy shrine

Should come a prince of Ostraan line,

Thou wilt receive him, as thou hast done

Vosco's unfortunate orphan son.

Agreed—reply'd the father—and,

As warm he press'd the knight's chill hand,

Take thou this little book of pray'r,

And when comes wafted on the air,

At vesper hour, or matin time,

A convent bell's slow, solemn chime,

Do thou, on bended knee, alone,

Send up thy pray'r to heaven's throne—

Worshipping, in thy heart, sincere,

The Holy One who sitteth there.

Hengist made no reply, but took

From him the little sacred book;

 

[p. 83]

 

And placing it within his breast,

Set the good father's fears at rest.

Mute was his benediction giv'n,

With hands and eyes uprais'd to heaven;

Slow mov'd his lips, but no sound fell

Of pray'r, of blessing, or farewell:—

Then, slow and sad, he took his way,

Through lonely aisle and cloisters gray—

Leaving the Ostman youth alone:

His only, and his best friend gone;

And Oh! that friend, so gentle—free

From monkish wile and bigotry;—

Pious, without appearing so—

Pure as that fountain's crystal flow,

Which, in its course, so calmly led,

Ne'er turns a pebble from its bed;

But gliding o'er the mossy green,

Looks ever lucid and serene.

He hung his head, like faded flower,

When blasted by the tempest's power;

While on his cheek one heavy tear

Roll'd, like a dew-drop, bright and clear.

 

[p. 84]

 

XXIV.

How deep that sorrow, then, must be—

How great the mental agony.

When from warriors' eyes can flow

That pearly drop of sorrow—wo!

Oh fate! he said—how hast thou cross'd

My path of life!—friends, fortune, lost!

Like captive, here—condemn'd—alone—

Peace, glory, joy, for ever gone!

Oh! fatal, luckless, cursed hour.

When first I own'd ambition's pow'r:

And left my peaceful, happy home,

Through foreign lands and wilds to roam.

Ah! dire exchange, in truth, I've made;

Lost the substance—gained the shade?

Then desperate render'd, by despair,

He rush'd from his cell, and sought the mere,

Which reflect'd back, like mirror bright,

The phrenzy'd visage of the knight—

As high with folded arms he stood,

Like some gaunt spirit of the flood,

 

[p. 85]

 

Gazing on its unruffled breast,

By gentle zephyrs lull'd to rest.

Already glanc'd the lunar shine

Upon the lone and ivy'd shrine,

While loud upon his ear now fell

The chiming of its vesper bell.

This is the hour, he said—now wait

The judges to decide my fate;

But sooner shall yon swelling wave

Roll now before their synod grave.

Than I shall hie me from this strand.

Before their tribunal to stand:

Then measuring, with ample pace,

The shore, he soon had gain'd that space,

That the last vesper chime, so clear,

But faintly told upon his ear.

 

XXV.

It was an evening calculate

But little the sad heart to elate;

For fitful blasts, now and agen,

Swept loud through dingle, copse and glen;

 

[p. 86]

 

And many dark clouds flitted past

            The wanish moon, while o'er the mere

Came scream of gull, and shrilly blast,

            In wailing sad, upon the air.

And now there was a darksome brake,

That border'd on the Lower Lake—

A dismal, lone, sequester'd spot,

Which the peasants call'd the wierd's grot;

And which they shun'd, in days of yore.

Upon the Innisfallen shore.

Behind it rose a granite rock,

Rent by some great volcanic shock,

Out of which narrow fissure grew

A weeping willow and an yew—

Forming a foliag'd canopy,

Almost impervious to the eye.

The Ostman paus'd, and cast a look

Of scrutiny into the nook,

And felt his heart unusual beat—

It ne'er had look'd so desolate.

Sudden a meteor's flash broke through

Th' umbrageous shade, and shew'd to view,

 

[p. 87]

 

By time's chill hand and tempest sear'd,

Within its gloom, the dreaded wierd*.

Her pigmy form was bow'd, and shrunk,

Like to the black and blasted trunk

Of oak-tree, riven by the storm,

So wither'd and decay'd her form;—

She lean'd upon a willow staff,

While burst a loud and fiendish laugh,

From her parch’d lips, of bloodless hue;

While her decrepid body grew

More hideous to his wond'ring view.

 

XXVI.

Hence offspring of the perjur'd Dane†,

She loud exclaim'd, nor dare prophane

My lone abode; then scowl'd a look,

While every member dreadful shook.

Unaw'd by her terrific stare,

Hengist exclaim'd, with dauntless air,

What'ere thou art of hell or heav'n,

Thou hast to me assurance giv'n

 

*One of the Fates

† See note p. 268

 

[p. 88]

 

That thou knowest much, therefore say

Shall Vosco's son the sceptor sway,

Of those fair isles which gem the Lene*;

Or shall he humbled, seek agen,

That blanched, chill, and dreary land,

Where winter rules with iron hand,

And clouds of snow eternal lie

Upon the Doffrine mountains high?—

Ha ! said the wierd, I find thou art

A youth of nerve and valiant heart,

Well worthy of Killarney's crown;

When scared not by witches frown,

Thy fate is written upon thy brow;—

List patient and thou'lt hear it now;

Yet only part I can reveal,

For destiny has thrown a veil

O'er all the rest. She then became

More fair of form, while rose a flame,

Of vapour blue and brightly set,

Its lamp within the arboret—

 

* Laune, or Lene, is a river which rises near the summit of Turk mountain, it gives its name to the whole lake anciently called Loch Lene.

 

[p. 89]

 

She paus'd, then in a voice which might,

Like the loud Simoon blast, affright

A weaker heart or gentler ear,

With thrill of more than mortal fear:—

My words, prophetic, Pagan hear—

Thou wilt thy father's gods forsake.

When midnight cloud and mist, shall break:

And gloom and vapour take their flight.

Before the solar's golden light,

Turning from thine idolatry,

And worshipping, on bended knee.

Amid the gloom and stillness there.

The one true God in Christian pray'r.

And now there grows in Dunloe's bow'r,

A lovely and a tender flow'r,

Which, this morning, thy sheltering hand,

Had propt upon its own fair land—

Thou'lt woo it in the arms of death,

When blasted by misfortune s breath,

And bear away the drooping prize,

To perish 'neath ungenial skies-,

 

[p. 90]

 

I can reveal no more, for now,

A thick mist veils thy palid brow,

And shaded from my aged sight,

Each mystic character of light.

 

XXVII.

Hengist reply'd:—thy prophecy

Impenetrable is to me,

As is that cloud of blackest hue,

Now resting on the great Ben-Dhu*.

Ha! said the wierd, as fell her glance

Horrific on his countenance,

Doubt as thou may, my presage ne'er

Shall breathed be again on air:

Hence, Ostman, from my hallow'd grot.

Lest it be now thy hapless lot,

To have yon deep lake for thy grave.

Borne to it by the coming wave.

Then from his fix'd and wond'ring view,

Within the grotto she withdrew,

 

* The black mountain. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 91]

 

Until at length he nought could see

But marble rock and waving tree ;

And now the storm which long was pent

Within the shrouded firmament.

Broke forth with fury uncontroul'd—

While lightnings flash'd, and thunder roll'd,

Tremendous o'er the boiling mere,

Which like a vast snow taped glacier,

Threw wave on wave with deaf'ning roar;

Like avalanches on the shore,

Shelter'd behind a beetling rock,

Hengist long sustained the shock

Of waring elements, until

Both heav'n and earth look'd bright and still.

And the full moon her image threw

Upon the lakes now calm and blue.

 

XXVIII.

And now there lay within his reach

A currah on the moonlit beach,

Which soon he launch'd upon the lake,

His midnight voyage lone to take;

 

[p. 92]

 

And as it flew across the mere,

A piercing shriek burst on his ear—

It was so loud so wildly shrill,

As made the life blood instant thrill

Back to his heart;—he paus'd awhile,

And stretching for the prison isle,

Discover'd bound by chain and block,*

A rival subject, to the rock.—

Say who art thou? the captive cried,

As Hengist, pitying, stood behind:

Whether thou come as friend or foe

To the bold rebel, Carol Roe—

He groan'd aloud—in pity take

One drop of water from the lake,

To cool my mouth and fever'd brain,

Phrenzy'd by sorrow, wrong, and pain.

 

*It is related that the criminal condemned to suffer this death, was stript naked, and bound by an iron chain round his waist, to the rock, having his limbs placed between two blocks of wood, over which a bolt of iron fell fastened by a padlock, compressing them so closely together as not only to prevent action on their part, but causing, often, immediate death from the sudden check given to the vital current; and thereby relieving the captive from greater and prolonged suffering. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 93]

 

The guard approach'd;—be gone, he said,

His hand upon his sword was laid:

Moist but his lips with yon bright flood,

And this true blade soon drinks thy blood.

Be it according to thy word,

Hengist exclaim'd, and drew his sword:

Now- foot to foot, and hand to hand,

I dare thee on this fatal strand,

And he who does survive the fray

His heart's best dictates can obey;

Then' glittering weapons gleam'd on high,

Each fix'd on each a vengeful eye,

And watch'd, with palpitating heart,

The vantage of unguarded part.

 

XXIX.

Enrag'd angainst his foe,

The guardsman rais'd a deadly blow .

But Hengist, warding off the stroke,

The brittle blade in shivers broke.—

Ha! fell him now, thou gallant knight,

And give to vengeance, due, her right,

 

[p. 94]

 

Carol Roe exclaim'd; strike deep, and drain

The last drop from his every vein;

Demur not on my last command,

A foeman dies beneath thy hand.

Hengist paused ere yet his blade.

Such mandate rash and stern obey'd.

Soldier receive thy life, he cried,

And dropt the weapon by his side;

Thy death, some short space, might

Yon dying rebel's vengeful rage,

But never could it to my heart,

Its peace, once lost, again impart;

One thought of deep remorse allay,

Or bid his flitting spirit stay:

Feel for the captive and the slave,

Be merciful as well as brave,

And henceforth show that clemency

To others, which I've shewn to thee.

And now unhooking from his side

A hunter's corna in the tide,

He plunged it, and stooping low,

Held the cool draught to Carol Roe.

 

[p. 95]

 

Th' rebel unclos'd his eyes, while there

Was death and horror in his stare,

Invader of my native land,

He hollow said, forbear thy hand;

May thou soon fall in foeman's toil,

Thou alien of our blood and soil,

Who fought, and yet, who fear'd to kill-

A foeman sworn, is coward still.

Then snatching from the Ostman's hand,

The horn he dashed on the strand,

Laid back his head, and gasp'd for breath

With one convulsive writh of death,

His spirit burst its bonds of clay,

And soon a stiffen'd corse he lay.

 

XXX.

The guardsman smil'd with joy malign,

As viewing him by th' pale moonshine;

He said, now rest in endless sleep,

No kindred friend shall o'er thee weep;

Nor ever shall thou raise agen,

Rebellious flag in Cobmbe's glen.

 

[p. 96]

 

But turning from the painful sight,

Hengist launched his currah light,

And ere the guardsman left the spot.

Far oe'r the lake lie soon had shot.

Brightly the moon now lent a beam,

As landing near the Dinah stream,

He took his solitary way

To shelter in a copse wood gray ;

Green leaves and moss, but thinly spread,

On tangle wood,  serv'd for his bed:

While on the lake the bitterns cry,

Shrilly chimed his lullaby.

Oft he pressed each eyelid down,

As if his closed eyes rould drown

Remembrance, or oblivion cast,

On each sad event of the past;

And try'd to sleep, but try'd in vain.

For fever rack'd his burning brain—

And thoughts on thoughts successive rose,

Until despairing of repose,

He left his lone retreat, and o'er

The lower lake's fair eastern shore

 

[p. 97]

 

Roam'd lone and melancholy till,

Bright gleam'd on mountain, lake, and hill,

The morning: beam; and daylight set

Its rays Tinian's minaret.

 

XXXI.

Shaded by many an ivy wreath,

A gloomy cavern frowned beneath

The cliffs high brow, where one might lie,

Ever conceal'd from mortal eye ;

No chink or crevice small was there.

Light to admit or draught of air,

Save what the narrow portal gave,

Sufficient for to light the cave ;

And here within its shades of peace,

Young Hengist sought a resting place.

And now upon the calm air stole

A convent bell's slow solemn toll:

And sad its distant chime told, on,

His list'ning ear, of spirit gone—

Recalling to his memory,

The stripling's strange dark prophecy:—

 

[p. 98]

 

A warrior chieftain's soul had fled,

The giant Fin M'Uil was dead.

Oh! that like him I now could rest,

He said, and taking from his breast

The book that Author John had given,

Pour'd forth his soul, in pray'r to heav'n:

And soon he found its truth console

His troubled and benighted soul,

And wonder'd how it could impart,

Such peace and comfort to his heart:

For every pray'r he fervent said,

A thought of sin and sorrow fled,

Until the tears which trickling fell,

Contest th' warrior infidel

Had turned him from that gloomy way,

O'er which gospel sun had ne'er shed ray,

And which long he had unhappy trod,

To serve now the ever living God*.

 

END OF CANTO THE SECOND.

 

* See note p. 269

 

[p. 99]

 

CANTO THE  THIRD.

 

__________

 

 

THE  FEAST.

 

l.

'Twas at that hour when sailing thro'

A tranquil sea of brightest blue;

The moon, fair regent of the night,

Shed down her soft and silv'ry light,

Upon Ross castle's high rais'd walk;

While gaily thro' its festive halls,

Danc'd knight and maiden merrily

To sound of harper's minstrelsy;

For nobles, friends, and kindred grac'd

That night, the warlike monarch's feast-

And bright the golden corna crown'd.

The banquet board, and circle round,

 

[p. 100]

 

While servitors in flaggons bore

The ruddy grape juice, bubbling o'er;

And peace and pleasure fell to all.

Within that castle's banquet hall:

There mirth and glee shone in each eye-,

Laughter and badinage wax'd high-

Lays were carol'd and tales were told,

By nobles o'er their cups of gold;

While louder peal'd, on high, the din

Of tabor, harp, and violin.

Here is to all, of friendship true,

Exclaim'd the brave O'Donoghue:

To heroes bold, whose swords have been,

Oft drawn for me in battle scene.

And whose try'd faith, and valour broke

The, Ostman's hard and galling yoke;—

Warriors, we shall alone be bound

By beauty's chain—he bowed around.

 

II.

Then vassal, chieftain, leige, and lord,

Sudden arose, with one accord,

 

[p. 101]

 

Drain'd to the dregs their cups, and gave

Again to him, the good and brave,

The noble hearted, kind, and free,

Their unaffected fealty.—

Yet there was one in that gay crowd,

Upon whose brow there fell a cloud,

Of darkest gloom; who slunk away

From the young, the lovely, and the gay:

For his mind was rack'd by thoughts unblest

Black as the plumage on his crest;

Nor did he rerk to hide the rage,

Imaged on his stern visage!

But wrathful scowl'd around his eye,

Upon that scene of revelry;—

He spoke not, and his cup remain'd,

The only one of all, undrain'd

Upon the banquet board,—Few there

Loved to see Glin's orphan heir,

As he was call'd, frequent the board

Of him who oft had stain'd his sword,

In the best blood of his brave clan,

And scourg'd his kin with brand and ban*.

 

* See note p. 270

 

[p. 102]

 

They long presag'd the storm which now,

Fast gather'd on his sable brow;

And when his hand touch'd his sword-hilt,

They knew that blood would soon be spilt.

 

III.

Long O'Douoghue mark'd, with pain,

His vengeful mood, and try'd in vain,

With song, and tale, and merry jest,

To cheer the sad heart of his guest:

And now, in humour gay, he said,

Why has the [heir] of Glin thus fled

From all that's gay and happy here,

And hangs his head, like stricken deer?

Ha! said the knight, as fell the mask,

Of friendship now well may thou ask:

Why I should shun the board and smile

Of him who, in the prison isle,

Chain'd to its rock, with ruthless hand,

The chief of Esknamucky's land?

The father of that youth who now

Confronts thee, monarch, brow to brow,

 

[p. 103]

 

Without cov'ring to his aged form,

To perish in the midnight storm;

And now, upon this festive night,

See vengeance comes to claim her right,

Lulled but for a while to sleep,

Within this bosom dark and deep.

 

IV.

And now upon O'Donoghue

His sword he in a moment- drew:

The monarch stept aside, and seiz'd

The glittering weapon o'er him rais'd-

Exclaiming, as from the chieftain's hold

He wrung its basket hilt of gold,

What! craven!—lift thy traitor arm

'Gainst one who can as soon disarm

Thee, as if now he stretch'd his hand,

To pluck from out the hearth that brand;

And now receive, from thy own blade,

That punishment too long delay'd:

He said—but pausing on his death.

Plunged the weapon in its sheath;

 

[p. 104]

 

Then chiefs and kinsmen rush'd between,

The knight from his just wrath to screen;

While on the monarch's side arose

A host of brave and daring foes,

Forming a phalanx bold and strong,

To right their warlike monarch's wrong.

Hence, cried O'Donoghue, from my sight.

Ye base gildons of Glin's traitor knight—

Hence instant from my banquet board,

Nor 'bide the vengeance of this sword;

For he who makes this festive hall

Again the scene of fight and brawl,

E'en were he friend, my wrath shall feel,

And breathe his lust upon this steel;

Adding—not here nor now the time

To punish yon rash chieftain's crime:—

Go, heir of Glin, he said—I give

Thee now thy life, but henceforth live

An exil'd noble;—never more

Set foot upon this island's shore;

Thy castle shall thy prison be,

Within whose high wall's boundary

 

[p. 105]

 

Thou 'rt free to roam—but else debar'd

Of egress, by incessant guard.

Convey him in the royal barge—

Here guards and warder, to your charge.

 

V.

Summon'd by their prince's call,

An arm'd band soon fill'd the hall:

Vain was oppos'd dirk, axe and blade—

Vain was the weak resistance made

By friends and kinsmen—soon the knight

Was borne in triumph from their sight,

And, guarded by a trusty band,

Soon wafted from the island's strand;

And in the castle vaults confin'd

Were chiefs, and vassals bold, who join'd

His luckless cause—there to abide

Until their cause the Brehon's* try'd.

And now once more was peace restor'd,

And round again the banquet board

 

* Judges. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 106]

 

The corna went, and loud the din

Of tabor, harp, and violin;

And merry song, and catch, and glee,

Awoke again their revelry.

They thought not of the banishment

Of Glin's rash heir;—but merriment

Encreas'd ten fold in ev'ry breast,

As if it but receiv'd a zest

From his misfortune, and their joy

Was only damp'd when he was by.

 

VI.

And rivetted was ev'ry glance

On Rhinda, as she led the dance—

So light, so fair, and gracefully,

As sun-beam on a summer sea,

Scarce seem'd she, as she flitted o'er,

To tread upon the marble floor;

While yet her fairy step's smooth turn-

So answer'd to the minstrel's chime,

Like as if they were attun'd by

The very hand of harmony.

 

[p. 107]

 

What call'd the color to her cheek—

So deep, like that first ruby streak.

Which oft, at even-tide we see,

Of sunset on the dark blue sea?

Was it call'd up by sentiment,

Or feel of shame, unwonted sent

Back to the bosom of the fair,

For the love that she created there?—

Oh! no—although her's was a face

That grief or terror soon would chase—

The roseate hue, or vulgar gaze,

Fan up into a brighter blaze;

It was a flame more ardent blown—

A feel—a thought, 'till then unknown

In her pure breast, by heaven inbred,

Which now dy'd her cheeks and brow with red.

And arrested, as she glided by

The colonnade, her wandering eye.

 

VII.

For o'er his lyre, like one who ne'er

Had pleasure known, a harper there

 

[p. 108]

 

Drooped low his head in reverie,

As one more in sorrow than in glee:

Although disguis'd as minstrel sage,

The hand of sorrow—not of age,

Had check'd youth's wild and vivid joy,

And bent a spirit bold and high.

As on him Rhinda, wond'ring gazed,

Sudden to her's his eyes were raised,

With such fix'd and deep scrutiny

Of pleasure and surprise, that she

Soon recognis'd, in their dark shine,

The Ostman, of Saint Tinian's shrine—

That youth who risqu'd his life to save

Her from the lake's o'erwhelming wave.

From cheek and brow the deep blush fled,

And death's bland hue came in its stead,

While o'er her gentle heart and frame

An universal faintness came;—

The Ostman mark'd her palid hue,

And instant from his light harp new,

Heeding not servitor or guest,

Caught her, as sinking, to his breast.

 

[p. 109]

 

VIII.

Gone is the maiden's bloom and breath;—

She coldly sleeps, but not in death;

What pity one so young and fair,

Should ever rest in sepulchre!

Stay, oh, stay, such heavenly charms:

Haste, snatch her from the stranger's arms:

Thus all exclaim'd, and matron chief

Now hasten'd to the maid's relief,

And with the rest O'Donoghne

Within the crowded circle drew.

The Ostman now must yield up his prize,

Sorrowing, he follows with his eyes,

As captur'd from him in her swoon,

She is born from the gay saloon.

And now with more than brother's care,

O'Donoghue tend'd on the fair;

And when the first bright ruby glow,

Spread lightly on each cheek of snow,

And languid oped each dark blue eye,

It brought his warrior heart more joy

 

[p. 110]

 

Than ever revelry's soft pow'r,

Had shod upon his gayest hour.

None wonder'd why she thus betray'd

Whate'er she felt, for it was said

That Esknamucky's hapless heir,

Had long been suitor to the fair;

And that upon the field of death,

Her father Roderic's latest breath

Had given to his kinsman's son,

That being whom he doated on:

Like the life boat, which tempest tost,

Now seems among the billows lost,

But rising on their fearful height,

It cheers the drowning sailor's sight;

But while amidst their hopes and fears,

Again it sinks and disappears;—

They think it gone, when lo! beside

The wreck, it spurns the faithless tide.

So Rhinda rose again more fair,

To bless the eves of mortals there.

 

[p. 111]

 

IX.

And now again the harp and song,

In merry wassail peal'd along;

The fretted roof and matron maid,

The joyous summons blight obey'd:

Each rustling in their silken sheen,

Hurried to the festive scene;

But Rhinda's heart was sad no more—

Had music any power o'er,

To sooth its grief, much less to cheer

It, now the prey of doubt and fear;

She drew the silken shades aside,

Opening the saloon's latice wide,

And ent'ring on the balcony,

Exclaim'd thus in soliloquy :—

It is the Ostman youth I fear,

But what on earth could tempt him here.

Perhaps revenge has spur'd him on,

Like Gerald's brave but hapless son.

On whom happiness ne'er will smile

To cheer him in his lone exile;

 

[p. 112]

 

Yet heav'n forbid so black a deed,

That ere my kinsman's heart should bleed

Upon his sword; it was a thought

So dread, and with such horror frought,

That she shudder'd e'en but to think

How near he stood on ruin's brink;

Oh ! no, she said his embassy

Is more of peace than cruelty,

For when to mine his eyes were raised

            There seem'd in them such gentle sorrow,

That pitying, I could have gazed

            Still on them till the coming morrow :

But then, what should a foeman here,

In minstrel guise; aye much I fear

My brother—oh! my heart be still,

Thy throbbing sure but augurs ill.

 

X.

She paus'd, and fearful look'd around,

For now a heavy footstep's sound

Broke on her ear—can it be he ?

Oh heav'n! I trust, it may not he;

 

[p. 113]

 

Scarce these words from her lips fell,

When a voice, which she knew well,

Cried fairest one why thus alone?

Say wherefore now from pleasure flown,

Dost thou fear that song or dance

Will again that form entrance ?

Oh! gaze no more on moon or flood,

'Twill but encrease thy pensive mood.

O'Donoghue, the maiden said,

And would have on the moment fled,

Had not the monarch stept before

Her now, and the half open'd door.

Oh! fly me not thou maiden dear,

Little hast thou from me to fear;

For of all this world's works confest,

I deem thee, fair, the loveliest.

Why should I fear thee, she reply'd

And much her countenance belied,

What her lips uttered, for alarm

Was depicted in its ev'vy charm.

Roderick of Dunlo's lovely child,

However fair, however mild,

 

[p. 114]

 

Possessed a soul as pure and chaste

As ever heav'n in woman plac'd;

Nor would she for a moment brook,

A word, an act, or e'en a look,

From prince, or chief, that savour'd aught

Of light or unbecoming thought.

 

XI.

Had he beheld the cloud which now,

Shadow'd her pale and lovely brow,

Her worth he would have then forgot,

Nor sought a heart that lov'd him not;

But love and wine had dim'd the power

Of keen perception, at that hour;

And on his every word and thought,

A spirit of bolder freedom wrought.

On him Rhinda fixed her eyes,

            In mute reproach so dark and keen

That their cold glance would paralize.

            A heart less warm than this, I ween,

For his fair words were to her ear

A pang of sorrow and of tear.

 

[p. 115]

 

She lov'd him not;—respect was all

That to his share could ever fall;

And much it pain'd her now to see

Her monarch bend to her the knee,

Avowing that flame within his breast

Which his looks had long before confest.

What honor bade, and truth impell'd,

Surprise and pity both withheld;

And the bright tear-drop in her eye

Came but to dash his cup of joy.

 

XII.

Speak, Rhinda, speak—for he who sues

Will ne'er thy confidence abuse:

Say may I hope thy love untold,

Nor turn away from me thus cold.

Cease, prince, she said, for not to me,

In love, should e'er be bent the knee;

Oh! no—the child of Rodrick ne'er

Was born to wed with Morto's heir;—

Destin'd in humbler life to move,

Nor object fit for prince's love.

 

[p. 116]

 

What! cried O'Donoghue, as his eyes

Now grew more dilated with surprise;

Reject the monarch of the lake!

Impossible!—you must mistake

My words.—Oh! no, fair one, their sense

Was not to blight thy innocence:

Forbid it heav'n!  I should betray,

            E'en were I sure thy heart was mine;

Or for a moment lead astray

            Innocence so pure as thine.

I woo thee, fair one, for my bride,

            And if thy heart already be

Another's right, oh do not hide

            Its hopes and fears, dear maid, from me. '

Twas then a kind of feeling came

            To Rhinda's heart, as if she felt,

Within its core, love's warmer flame,

            The icy chain which bound it melt.

Had she spoke then, I doubt if not

            Her lips had vouch'd her heart's relent;

But as 'twas pity that begot

            The glow, soon fled the sentiment.

 

[p. 117]

 

XIII.

And now he thought she was his prize;

For in her sweet, expressive eyes

Such tenderness and pity shone

As if her heart were all his own—

Reflecting, as a mirror fair,

The sympathy she harbour'd there;

While from her lips in tremor fell

Th' following words, scarce audible,

Confess to love you, were to lie,

Confess to hate you were another;

But such I feel, I can't deny,

            As sister feeleth for a brother.

Forgive me, prince, 'tis all I can——

            Then sudden ceas'd her voice, and grew

Her lips, her cheeks, as chill and wan,

            As if again their ruddy hue

Were blanched by the hand of death;

And stayed was her fragrant breath,

Setting its pallid seal upon

That lovely, fair, but mortal one.

 

[p. 118]

 

But O'Donoghue's ear had caught

Enough of her resolve and thought;

And much as he had wish'd her love,

His gallant soul now rose above

That low revenge, which he might claim,

The right to know a rival's name.

 

XIV.

He rose, and as he gently spoke,

            There was a look of fix'd despair,

Expressive of a heart now broke.

            In his wild countenance and air.

Enough, he said, thy heart I scan;

            You cannot, shall not, be my bride—

I yield thee to some happier man,

            Who shares that love to me deny'd.

And here he paus'd—for Rhinda's look

            Was such, that for a moment he

Forgot his grief, and deeply took

            Its share in her's, intensity.

Grieve not, he said—we are but slaves

Under fate's government, who leaves

 

[p. 119]

 

It not in our own power to choose

Our happiness, or such love refuse;

As oft, in its wild mood of play,

It dooms us to such one to pay.

Not thine the fault, but destiny—

Who wills it so, to torture me:

Be mine the pain—be mine the smart—

But never shall a rival see

The sorrows of a breaking heart—

A heart which only liv'd for thee.

Farewell, lov'd one—O'Donoghue

For ever bids farewell to you.

One look of love—of pain, he cast

On Rhinda now—it was his last;

Then with a step quick, sudden, light,

Was gone for ever from her sight.

 

XV.

Left now again to ruminate

Upon her strange and hapless fate;

A painter might have sketch'd her there

The very image of despair.

 

[p. 120]

 

And now her brother ne'er had been

So blight before in revel scene;

Of all that gay and happy throng,

None gave to jest, to dance, or song,

Such spirit, and such drollery,

Or yet had kinder heart than he:

Light as his footstep in the dance,

Light as a merry maiden's glance,

Thus it bounded—lightsome, gay,

On that great and festal day;

But light and cheerful hearts, we know,

Are those which soonest feel the wo

Of others—and are happiest

When they are also truly blest.

'Twas thus that Dunlo's youthful chief

Partook now in his sister's grief;

Supposing that her sorrows were

For Esknamucky's exil'd heir;

And kindly came to sooth, and try

To win her soul again to joy.

 

[p. 121]

 

XVI.

Oh! cease to sorrow thus, he said—

Why should my Rhinda's heart be made

Afflicted, that M'Arthy More

An exile is—his power o'er;

Richly has he deserv'd his fate,

A traitor to his king and state ;

His punishment, although condign,

Merits, sister, no tear of thine;

Nor is it fair or right for thee

To murmur at our king's decree.

Oh come—thou must be sad no more;

The festival will soon be o'er—

Brighten up thy drooping brow,

No time for thee to mourn now.

Nay, Ormon—not for him, she said,

Does gloom or sorrow my brow shade-—

Although to him a tear is due,

As hero bold, and kinsman too:

Yet dare I not the pow'r arraign

Of him, the Monarch of the Lene?

 

[p. 122]

 

The truth to him she now contest,

Confiding to his faithful breast

Her ev'ry thought, save- one alone,

And that she could not—dare not own:

Oh! need I that celestial flame—

That first, and dearest, secret name?

 

XVII.

And now, confirmed, Ormon heard

What he had wish'd—now what she fear'd;

For well he knew her noble mind,

As ether pure and unconfin'd,

That no power on earth could move

To wed the man she did not love;

Nor would she barter, for an hour,

Her peace, though 'twere for sov'reipn pow'r.

He pac'd the room;—perhaps, he cried,

When thy coy mood and grief subside,

Thou may'st receive that tender'd hand—

The first and bravest in the land.

 

[p. 123]

 

Rhinda rejoin'd not—but the sigh

            She utter'd now, confest the pain

His words inflicted; while, in reply,

            Her heart responded, they were vain:

Nor was it lost on one, whose heart

Could never act a cruel part.

Fear not, he said—I'll never blight

Thy happiness, by claiming right,

As brother or a guardian ought

To guide each word—to know each thought.

Thy peace I value as my own—

Nor, for an earldom, or a throne,

Would I compel thee to resign

That peace of mind, so purely thine:—

I swear by each chaste thought, unscann'd,

To council thee, but not command;

Then imprinting on her brow, so fair,

A fraternal kiss—he sent a prayer

To that Omniscient Power, to guide

Her, who was so much his joy and pride.

And now the clouds, which throng'd the east,

The near approach of morn confest;

 

[p. 124]

 

Each slightly tinged with red and gold,

Before the flaming orb unroll'd—

While from the mountains roll'd away

Both midnight cloud, and vapour gray.

 

XVIII.

To currah, barge and shallop flew,

Warrior bold, and clansman true;

And others for their homes, with speed,

Departed, blithe, on foot or steed:—

For now the revel gay was o'er—

Harp, jest and song were heard uo more;

And sleep was stealing fast on all,

In chamber, tow'r, and banquet-hall.

The slumb'ring bard dream'd that he sung

The battle lay, and music rung

Still in his ears—he, stalling, 'woke—

His chain of silence round him broke,

Peal'd loud the chorus wild, and then

Bent o'er his harp, and slept agen.

In dream the hunter still pursu'd

The stag, by mountain, vale and flood;

 

[p. 125]

 

Cheer'd on the lagging bounds before,

While lying on the marble floor:—

There the veteran warrior thought,

In battle field the foe he fought—

That 'neath his sword some chieftain bled-

Then spurned aside the prostrate dead;

There still the buffoon play'd his prank—

There the bacchanalian drank—

Each in his occupation strong,

Roll'd on the floor, a merry throng.

 

END OF   CANTO THE THIRD.

 

[p. 126]

 

CANTO THE FOURTH.

 

__________

 

 

THE COMBAT.

 

I.

By sleep's soft power unsubdued,

O'Donoghue roamed, in pensive mood,

Along the shore—and saw swift glide

Many a light skiff o'er the tide,

Each, quick impell'd by sail or oar,

Shot lightly for its native shore:

Yet, there was one which fix'd his eye,

As it flew past the mainland high;

And standing 'mongst the many there

A maiden's form, surpassing fair,

Burst on his view—-his heart confest

'Twas she, the lov'd and loveliest.—

 

[p. 127]

 

That angel one—doom'd to destroy

His fairest hopes of life and joy.

One sigh of bitterest anguish stole

From his full heart, as if his soul,

To shun such fair, but painful sight,

Had taken its everlasting flight.

He struck his breast—his look was wild,

While to his heart the blood recoil'd:

Ne'er from the sculptor's hand had shone

A statue of the Parian stone,

More bland than at that moment stood

Reflected in the lake's clear flood,

His visage fair—and while his eye

Could aught of her or boat descry,

It foliow'd o'er the waters blue,

Until both faded from his view,

 

II.

Oh! cursed hour! he cried, that gave

My heart to low a willing slate,

And bade me seek, in woman's heart,

A balm to sooth my bosom's smart.

 

[p. 128]

 

Fool that I was!—to lose one thoaght

On such frail bliss—oft dearly bought,

To worship one, who knows not why,

Rejects me for some peasant boy:

'Twere better far, if I had plung'd

            Within the bosom of yon stream,

And from my weak heart there expung'd

            Love's wild and visionary dream.

I'll quaff thee, as the Lethean rill,

Which hath the power, alone, to still

The passions—and oblivion cast

On each fond scene and event past.

This said—he, in a desperate mood,

Bent quick his steps to where the flood

Ran dark and deep—and o'er it hung

A precipice, which gloomy flung

Its shadow far—up this ascent,

With hasty steps, the monarch went,

Resolv'd to take his eagle's flight,

From off its steep Leucadian height.

 

[p. 129]

 

III.

He now had gain'd about midway

The rugged height, whew darkly lay

A ridge of rocks, beneath whose shade

The gulls and herons long had made

Their aviary;—it was a scene

Terrific-for there a deep ravine,

Shadow'd by shrubs and waving broom,

Concealed, in part, its hollow womb,

He paus'd in doubt, his purpose crost-

For here the winding path was lost;

Nor could his eye around discern,

Through brambles, sedge, grass, firs and fern,

One sign to shew that footstep fair

Had ever been imprinted there.

Now faintly, in the west afar,

Shone all alone the morning star-

Fading from the dark blue sky,

As each solar beam rose high,

Until its last expiring ray

Had usher'd the blushing day.

 

[p. 130]

 

Never a fairer morning shone,

For beauty there had rais'd her throne-

Diffusing round such loveliness

On lake isle, that seem'd it less

A heavenly, than an earthly scene,

All look'd so smiling and scerene:

It was an hour to soothe to rest

Each sad thought of the human breast,

And lure ones heart from a world like this,

To that of eternal peace and bliss—

Fixing it there? as its happier now,

Never again from its God to roam.

 

IV.

On the farthest edpe of that deep ravine

O'Donoghue gaz'd on the lovely scene;

Vacant his wand'ring eyes roam'd o'er

Each fair spot on his own lov'd shore,

Then turned away, with a look of wo,

And mournfully fix'd on the gulf below.

Haste, Oh stranger ! front that precipice,

Echo'd a voice from the deep abyss ;

 

[p. 131]

 

If death thou seekes hither fly,

Better in battle field to die,

Beneath the stroke of the axe or glaive,

Nor yield thy life in yon dark deep wave.

O'Donoghue paus'd on his dread intent;

An eagle's glance from the cliff he sent,

And stay'd his breath, as the voice agen

Louder arose from the neighb'ring glen:

Ha! thou bold and venturous one

Who dares to intrude upon

My solitude-I meet thee now,

He said-and from the cliff's high brow

Leaped-swift he glided through the air;

Never lance or arrow shot more fair,

And then, unharmed, took his stand

Once more upon his native strand.

 

V.

One of Saint Tinian's brotherhood!

He said—as from the birchen wood

A friar approached—'tis well for thee,

Thou wearest the garb of sanctity,

 

[p. 132]

 

 

Or this arm would have thee sent,

Far, as lance from battlement,

Has oft been thrown by it before,

In yon deep lake, to rise no more.

Thou sayest so, the friar cried;

And pausing, as he stepp'd aside,

Lifted his hood, and shew'd to view

A face, which soon the monarch knew;

Thus adding—Prince, behold one here,

Who never did a foeman fear;

And one who fought thee, hand to hand.

Upon this very island's strand:

Look on me now, nor doubt the truth—

I'm Hengist, the bold Ostman youth.

Son of that warlike monarch, slain,

By thy fell hand, on Ventry's plain.

Impossible! O'Donoghue cried—

Beneath my sword young Hengist died;

And I have seen Flesk's wooded shore

Stain'd, dark and deep, with his heart's gore.

 

[p. 133]

 

VI.

True, said the youth, on that dread day,

Faint, bleeding, on this shore I lay;

But when the blazing sun had driven

His chariot from the vault of heav'n,

Favour'd by the twilight shade,

A friar had me safe convey'd

To Innisfallen's isle, where he,

With a father's feeling, tended me.

Restored to life and health once more,

I've often wandered to this shore,

At even-tide and morning break,

To meet thee, Monarch of the Lake.

Heaven has heard my pray'r at last;

The hour is come—the die is cast :—

Take now thy meed, most noble foe,

Tis Hengist now who deals the blow.

With that he flung his cloak awide,

And grasp'd a dagger by his side—

Prepar'd himself for deadly strife—

'Twas blood for blood, and life for life.

 

[p. 134]

 

VII.

O'Donoghue smil'd:—Come on, he said;

Thinkest thou now, I fear thy blade,

Or, that Killaraey's king is less

Thy equal here, though weaponless?

Never will I refuse to right

My country's cause, in single fight,

Though thousands of thy kind, were found

Thus vengeful, to beset me round—

Still would I boldly face them all,

Nor dread beneath their swords to fall:

But conquer them as easily

As now, rash youth, I conquer thee.

Once more, again, thy blood be spilt,

He said, and seiz'd the poignard's hilt;

But Hengist, desperate, still retain'd

His hold, and every sinew strained—

Exerting such great muscle pow'r,

That, like the rain-tree's dropping show'r*,

His body ooz'd from ev'ry pore

A stream, upon that island's shore:—

 

* See note p. 273

 

[p. 135]

 

They writhed, bow'd, until at last

O'Donoghue, enraged, cast

Him off—he reel'd then 'gainst a rock-

Fell heavy, with such dreadful shock,

That from his now unnerved hand

The poignard dropp'd upon the strand.

 

VIII.

O'Donoghue seiz'd it:—now, he cried,

Be mine the task to check thy pride—

Thy dastard insolence—and free

My country from such enemy.

He rais'd the poignard, as lie spoke.

To give the dread and fatal stroke;

But stopp'd, unable to proceed

In the dark and merciless deed—

Fixing upon the prostrate Dane

Such look of pity and of pain,

That shone in his eyes' brilliancy

Less of revenge than clemency.

Sheath here my weapon, Hengiet said-

Or is thy hand, for once, afraid

 

[p. 136]

 

To wreak its final vengeance on

Brave Vosco's wretched orphan son?

He bared his breast—his ev'ry sense

Wound up in deep and dread suspense;

No vain regret or fear felt he,

'Till, rushing on his memory,

Now came the dark wierd's prophecy:—

And then, did Rhinda's form and face

Despair's horrific calm erase—

Awaking within his tortur'd breast

Each worldly thought, just lulled to rest:

When, starting from the strand, he flew

Again upon O'Donoghue.

 

IX.

What! madman! would'st thou tempt me still,

O'Donoghue said, thy blood to spill?

Heaven forbid that I should press

My vantage on the vantageless.

Go—thou art too fallen a one

For me to wreak my vengeance on.

 

[p. 137]

 

Forbear thy pity, Hengist cried—

I have a heart—a heart of pride;

Oh! far, far better I could bear

That thou, in sunder it should tear,

And fling it to that raven, on

Yon chestnut bough, to feed upon,

Than wound it thus, as thou hast done.

For such, then, vengeance claims her dues:

For such thou cannot well refuse

To join, as would a valiant knight,

Again with me, in single fight.

And now upon him bold he sprung—

His arm around his waist he flung;

But the prince, strong as forest tree,

Soon forc'd him down upon one knee.

And spurning him, with giant hand,

He roll'd, ignoble, on the strand.

Hence, he cried, rebellious Dane—

Tempt me no more to combat vain:

Oft have I conquer'd you in fight;

Begone I—for ever quit my sight.

 

[p. 138]

 

Behold! far in the lake I fling

This soldier's toy—this glitt'ring thing.—

Thus said, with nervous arm, unstrung,

Deep in the lake he instant flung

The Ostman's poignard;—'twas a deed

Of gallant knighthood, not of need;

For, heaven to mortal never gave

A heart more warm, a soul more brave.

Than his, I ween—ne'er had he known

A heart or hand to match his own.

 

X.

And now around him Hengist gaz'd,

Bewilder'd, doubting, and amaz'd—

For sudden, in the neighbouring glen,

O'Donoghae vanish'd from his ken;

And nothing met his eager view,

Save shrub, and wild flow'r, dropping dew.

What hidden cause, he cried, could bring

Here, at this hour, Killarney's king?

There's phrenzy in his eagle eye:—

To leave his home of peace and joy!

 

[p. 139]

 

Perhaps, some soul-tormenting pain

Has broken the sweets of slumber's chain;

And qualm of conscience given its meed

Of bitterness, for many a deed

Of dread, unhallow'd crime — unknown

To every bosom save his own. —

It is most strange, and I will see

The issue of the mystery.

Thus said, he toilsome wound his way,

As blood-hound follows keen his prey,

Along the winding's of the lake,

Through copse-wood, thicket, glen and brake,

Until the setting sun's red glare

Had made to blush the peaceful mere;

When, turning from his purpose, vain,

Within a ruin'd gothic fane,

In one of its dark recesses laid,

His couch of rest that night he made.

 

XI.

And now, as passing through a dell,

A darksome, lonely spot, known well

 

[p. 140]

 

To kern and chief, as being the haunt

Of witches, and of goblins gaunt,

O’Donoghue had sudden seen

A female form, trip light between

The thickly foilag’d trees, and take

Her airy passage to the lake.

His was a heart that beauty bright,

In any mood, would give delight;

And his were eyes that would pursue

Such beauty, while it were in view.

Soon his wandering steps were stay’d;

And while he gaz’d, ‘tis thus he said:

An angel form has cross’d my way,

            Fleet as the wind, light as the air;

It shot, like bright reflected ray

            Of sun-beam, on the dark blue mere.

No being of this world it seem’d,

            But liker some inhabitant

Of Paradise, so radiant beam’d

            The beauteous æriel visitant.

But here she comes;-nought shall deter;

I’ll stay the heav’nly wanderer.

 

[p. 141]

 

Thus said, he stretch'd his arms, to clasp,

But flying from his eager grasp,

She flitted, like a summer breeze,

Again between the forest trees.

 

XII.

Stay, lovely maid, he said, nor fly—

No savage being rude am I;

And only leave my own gay home,

When sad of heart, a while to roam:

For sweet it is, in solitude,

To wander, when in pensive mood.

Oh! Prince, she said, it were as vain

            For thee to think to stop my flight-,

As stay yon shadow on the plain,

            Or check that rising orb of light.

My being not from earth I take—

But spirit of Killarnoy's lake.;

And queen of Naiads 'neath the deep

Of Mucruss lake my court I keep:

There now I go;—I cannot stay—

            For see the eastern portals ope;

 

[p. 142]

 

Forth springs the blazing orb of day;

            My last, my all, my only hope

Is now to shun his glance—farewell;

I must not, dare not, now rebel.

Then to her ruby lips applied

            A silver call—a blast she blew,

And soon upon the bright blue tide-

            A small boat sudden rose to view.

No hand was seen to stretch an oar,

            No pilot there, or silken sail

Propell'd it on, but to the shore-

            It came, slow drifted by the gale.

 

XIII.

Then lightly bounding from the strand,

That Naiad wav'd her golden wand,

And soon the light boat gaily went

Across the crystal firmament:

And while she wav'd a mute adieu,

Thus exclaim'd O'Donogbue—

Oh! lovely one, say where or when

Thou wilt bless those eyes agen?

 

[p. 143]

 

She stay'd her light boat on the tide,

And smil'd on him as she replied,

                                    To-night,

When the moon, with silvery light,

Brightly relumes the purple skies,

In this small boat you'll see me rise

From the calm bosom of the deep,

In Mucruss vale a feast to keep*;

Where sylphs and oreads† shall repair,

With angels from the middle air,

Unseen by mortal eye, save thine,

Shall be our revelry divine.

The fairest beauties of the skies,

With those of earth, shall bless thy eyes

And thou shalt be the happiest

Of all the happy there, and blest;

Partake of bliss by angels given,

You'll taste on earth the joys of heaven.

Remember near the Druid dell,

Mortal we meet—'till then, farewell.

 

*See note p. 273

†Mountain Nymphs. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 144]

 

XIV.

Scarce ceas'd to vibrate on his ear

Her mellow voice, so sweet and clear,

When the calm lake, yawning wide,

Receiv'd within its peaceful tide

The little boat, and Naiad fair,

To dwell in coral palace there.

And thus, exclaim'd O'Donoghue,

As faded from his earnest view

The lovely vision—'tis strange, the dell

Where hideous night birds love to dwell,

That angel spirits there should meet,

In council, and in converse sweet;

Where, in the midnight gloom, are seen

Spirits of strange and savage mein,

Who once, on earth, were chieftains brave,

Prowling from the unhallow'd grave;

And there, perhaps, I'm doom'd to see

Some of my royal ancestry-

Heroes who were in battle slain—

Re-visiting the earth agen;

 

[p. 145]

 

Telling the deeds they did of yore,

The battles fought on each island's shore;

How the Tuatha de Danans fell*,

Who dar'd against them to rebel;

And how, beside that rivulet,

In Allan's Vale, great Oscar met

His fate†, and how Turgesius died,

Thrown, fetter'd, into Loch Anuin's tide††:

Such deeds of wonder I will hear

Recounted in my list'ning ear,

And angel maidens from the skies,

And Naiads from the lakes shall rise;

With fays, and sylphs, and oreads fair,

To bless Killarney’s monarch there.

 

XV.

Ah! no deceit, he cried, they know,

Unlike the maiden of Dunlo,

Who spurn’d my fortune, hand, and throne,

And this which beat for her alone——

He paus’d, and in distraction press’d

His hand upon his aching breast,

 

*See note p. 274

†See note p. 274

†† See note p. 275

 

[p. 146]

 

Exclaiming—now the trial's o'er,

I'll never, never see her more;

And never shall O'Donoghue

A maiden of this world woo:

Immortal bliss be mine, to prove

The pleasures of celestial love!

Come night, be swift—enwrap the skies

With clouds of gloom—sun never rise;

Or when thou do'st, be short thy race

Of glory o'er the bright blue space,

'Till I, Killarney's king, am blest,

As angels from the land of rest,

Revelling in the Druid dell,

With spirits fair, invisible.

I'll off, and sleep away the noon,

            Until a sprite from elfin bower

Comes, lightly tripping, with the moon,

            To 'wake me at the appointed hour.

Then to his royal home of pride,

For the last time, he hasty hied.

 

[p. 147]

 

CANTO THE  FIFTH.

 

__________

 

 

THE  SPELL.

 

________

 

 

SONG.

 

I.

Dear is the sound of the hunter's horn,

At ev'ning close or opening morn;

When shadows rest on the mountains high,

And th' summer breeze, like a gentle sigh,

Exhales its warm and balmy breath

On waving broom and purple heath:

But oh! far sweeter, then, to me,

Is the pensive song of the little Ban-shie.

 

[p. 148]

 

'Tis sweet to hear the Cascade's* roar,

When twilight rests on Glenaa's shore;

And mark the night-clouds gloomy set,

Like spectres, o'er each fair inlet:

And sweet it is a lay to hear,

From lips of merry mountaineer—

But oh! far sweeter 'tis to dwell,

In thought, on those we love so well.

 

________

 

'Twas thus the lovely Rhinda sung.

            On Dunlo's shore, at close of day;

While on her breath as list'ning hung

            The winds, to catch the plaintive lay.

Rosa-she said, to one who had

Behind her lean'd, with heart as sad

As that which now had breathed there.

In song, such sweetness on the air—

Didst thou not hear what Cathal said

Last night, of stranger youth betray'd—

 

* O’Sullivan’s Cascade. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 149]

 

Of captive rebel's dying pray'r—

Of hero ta'en in foeman's snare;

And midnight combat, fought beside

The Prison island's moonlit' tide;

And how the bold Milesian* cast

The pagan knight in chains at last.

Oh! could the gifted minstrel mean

Hengist, the bold and generous Dane ?

 

II.

Here Rosa turned her head aside,

The tears which dim'd her eyes to hide:

Long time, but vainly, had she strove

To wean her lady from this love;

And better pleas'd had she been now.

To see around that lovely brow,

Entwin'd, the mournful cypress wreath.

In all the chilling pomp of death,

Than see her, on her bridal day,

In jewels, bright, and fair array,

Seated, as the happy bride,

By a foreign foeman's side.

 

* Referring to Mileus, one of the original inhabitants of Ireland.

 

[p. 150]

 

Cathal, she said, had oft foreseen,

In vision clear, the battle scene,

And knew, array'd in funeral pall,

Each hero who was doom'd to fall;

And now 'twas like the spirit cast

Its power o'er him, the eve now past;

And oh!  she said, my lady dear,

Take council of the royal seer—

King of elfs, and dwarfies brown,

And wearer of the iron crown—

Invoke him, through that prophetess

Who dwells in Glenaa's dark recess.

Oh! simple, girl!  her lady said—

What! seek alone that horrid shade,

Where Enna, with her charms and spells,

In misery for ever dwells—

Whose race upon this world begun

Coeval with the stars and sun?

Aye, said Rosa, but had you seen,

As I have once, on Hallow-e'en,

Her cavern flaming to the glare

Of numerous torches blazing there;

 

[p. 151]

 

And the turf fire blazing bright

In the deep hearth, that wond'rous night;

With all the village maidens round,

List'ning while she did expound

To them their dreams—then seem'd she less

A wierd, than one so mild and harmless;

And such silvery solace hung

Upon her charm'd speech and tongue.

Oh! lady,  believe her witchery

Hath not the power to harm thee

 

III.

Rhinda paus'd;—was it a crime,

In such a case—at such a time,

When she, the prey of doubt and fear,

Needed some kindly one, to cheer

Her drooping soul, and tell if she

Should wed her country's enemy.

But yet that monitor within—

Conscience, told it was a sin

For her to place reliance on

The saying of such impious one.

 

[p. 152]

 

Oh! human nature! thou art frail:

How soon thy wisest counsels fail,

When thy hope and trust is not in him.

Whose all-seeing eye ne'er waxeth dim.—

Rosa, she said, I go with thee

Now, fearless, o'er our inland sea:—

Haste—launch yon skiff, and ply the oar.

Now, quickly, for the dark wierd's shore.

Soon her mandate was obey'd;

Lightly now their paddles play'd

Upon that deep and dark blue tide,

Where groves and rocks, in gloomy pride,

And beetling cliffs, their shadows rest,

Eternal, on its silvery breast.

And now on echo's pinion borne,

Came sound of harp and loud French horn;

Each maiden lent attentive ear,

Such flood of melody to hear;

For it seem'd as if the blest had giv'n

A concert in the courts of heaven,

And that the sounds bad issu'd through

The portals of eternal blue,

 

[p. 153]

 

And floating from the starry spheres,

Had thus burst sweet, upon their ears.

Rosa breathed soft a prayer,

As its last strain died on air;

And raising up mild her tearful eye,

Thus exclaim'd, with a heavy sigh— 

Well do I recollect the night,

When watching by the lamp's dim light,

Your sainted mother's sick bed-side,

A little while before she died,

I heard the wailing of ban-shie,

Breathe just like heaven's own melody.

Feebly, then, she rais'd her head,

Fixing on me her eyes and said,

Cease, Rosa, for my death to weep;

Then clos'd them in eternal sleep.

 

IV.

The bright tear-drop, which heavy fell

On Rhinda's bosom, told how well

Her memory, with pain, retrac'd

Each surrow on its boundless waste.

 

[p. 154]

 

My father, on the field of fight,

            Had heard the same, she now reply'd;

And ere the next moon's pallid light,

            By the foeman's sword he died.

Now on M'Gilly Cuddy's Reeks

Where first grey twilight slowly breaks,

The sun his lengthen'd shadows threw,

In many a form of sober hue;

And dark the Toomies* cast their shade

Upon O'Sullivan's Cascade;

They pass'd that cape† of Glenaa, known

By its grey pyramid of stone,

On whose high pinnacle now had set

The setting sun's red coronet—

Nearing its dark indented shore,

Where maiden's shallop ne'er before

Had enter'd at that gloomy hour;

Or maiden sought the witch's bow'r.

 

* The name of a mountain to the west of the Lower Lake, and separated from Glenaa by a narrow glen, in which falls O’Sullivan’s Cascade. [H.M.B.]

† That headland opposite the island, called Darby’s Garden. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 155]

 

Behold the glen and cavern, where

            Old Enna dwells, and keeps her court;

Where elves and spirits of the air,

            They say, on Hallow-e'en resort*,

Rosa exclaim'd-and pointed to

A dark spot, shadow'd by an yew,

Where, in the mountain's pathless side,

A cavern deep yawn'd dark and wide.

 

V.

I like it not, her lady said-

As half approaching, yet half stay'd:

To Rosa's arm she timid clung

While terror ev'ry nerve unstrung.

Tremble not, lady, Rosa cried;

Saint Brandon† be upon our side:

Thy aid I now invoke-oh! save

Us harmless, from yon dismal cave.

 

*See note p. 277

†Saint Brandon was the first who established monastic rules in the island of Innisfallen; and under his instructions did Saint Tinian Lobhar, who was son of Alild, king of Munster, found its Abbey. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 156]

 

Forgive, oh! heaven, if crime it be,

            Rhinda said, with cheeks blanch'd pale,

If now from dread eternity

            We mortals dare to lift the rail,

And bring from out yon dark recess,

To read my fate, its prophetess.

Then came a voice upon the air,

Like that from out a sepulchre,

When an unhappy spirit's groan

Ascends from it to heaven's throne.

A scream each maiden, shudd'ring gave,

As spoke the hecate from her grave.

The heron, now, which dips its beak

In that bubble rising on the lake;

The curlew's scream, and the flight of deer.

Announce the approach of strangers near.

Here Enna dwells in cavern deep,

Where bats, and owls, and reptiles sleep.

 

[p. 157]

 

But Rosa, bold, exclaim'd, I'll venture—

            And in the rave her pebble* cast,

Saying, rise! thou witch of Odin's glen—

Thou who fearest neither gods or men;

For a maiden of Milesius' line,

Descended from great Heber Fionn,

Now awaits your presence here;

We can't delay—appear, appear.

Then, leaning on her willow staff,

The wierd came forth, with fiendish laugh;

            Scarce cubit and a half in height

She stood—and black as foulest night,

Mishapen, both in face and form,

Like genius of the midnight storm,

When driving on the loud whirlwind,

He comes, the scourge of human kind.

Enchantress of yon dismal grot,

For heaven's sake, approach me not,

Exclaim'd the affrighted Rhinda—while:

As if blighted by her demon smile,

 

*Done in defiance of the Devil. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 158]

 

She drew behind her trembling maid,

Who to the Virgin inward pray'd;

Lady, you have nought to fear—

Boldly speak thy purpose here,

The wierd exclaim'd—nor fly the sight

Of one who ne'er, by spell or sleight,

Hath power such fair one to blight.

 

VII.

An isolated being am I,

Stranger alike to peace and joy:

Two thousand fall moons have roll'd o'er

Since first upon this lonely shore

I drew the breath of life, which gave

My only parent to the grave.

Nurs'd by an imp, I have the power

Of foresight, since my natal hour;—

I know thy wish, and, by a spell,

Thy destiny on earth can tell.

Good wierd, I pray thee now begin;

Say shall she wed the heir of Glin,

 

[p. 159]

 

Rosa exclaim'd—and drew more near,

Her lady's destiny to hear.

First, said the witch, I cross her hand

With ring of gold and ebon wand;

Then draw a circle fair and round,

With laurel branch, on elfin ground;

And touch the centre thrice, and bring,

From shades of gloom, the mystic king.

And when she had prepar'd each rite

Of demon jugglery, and sleight,

She loud exclaim'd, in voice as shrill

As everr broke sepulchral still,

Great Odin, Prince of all the West,

Who in the depths of chaos rest,

Arise!* and from thy book of fate

What I shall ask you, true relate.

 

VIII.

And now from out the circle came

A vapourish blue, and flick'ring flame

Which, gradually diminishing,

Expos'd to view the mystic king.

 

*See note p. 278

 

[p. 160]

 

He look'd a mighty skeleton,

And had an iron crown upon

His head, o'er which a cypress bough

Shadow'd his high and fleshless brow.

A white cloud issu'd from the ground,

Wrapping his limbs and body round,

While an oak sapling in his hand

Serv'd him for sceptre, and for wand.

He wav'd in air the sacred oak,

And grin'd horrific as he spoke:—

Say, thou wierd, for what dread cause

Hast thou transgress'd great heaven's laws;

And summon'd me from shades of night,

To blast me with this fair world's light?

Then Enna made the mystic sign—

Great Odin say, by art divine,

The fate of her of Heber's line,

Whose brother soon shall sway, alone,

The sceptre of Killaraney's throne?

 

[p. 161]

 

IX.

Odin paused—then, in a voice

Which through the dark glen echo'd thrice, T

The fairest flower of Dunlo

Is doom'd to wed her country's foe.

Say by what art shall he beguile

A maiden of our lonely isle ?

He snatch'd her from untimely grave,

When buried beneath the lake's high wave:

And then, triumphant, safely bore

The fair one to the Dunlo shore.

Again the mystic sign was made,

By laurel branch in air thrice, wav'd,

And again was silence broke,

As the dark wierd hollow spoke—

Shall she forsake her native shore,

And go, with th' stranger foeman, o'er

The faithless ocean's swelling foam,

As exile, from her native home?

Long a wanderer the maid shall be,

O'er many a land, and unknown sea.

 

[p. 162]

 

Until the Ostman youth shall yield

His warlike soul, in battle field.—

The trumpet's clang shall sound their knell,

The foeman's shout shall loudly tell,

That by the stranger Ostman's side,

In bloom of youth, and beauty's pride,

Dunlo's fair, of sorrow, died.

No more.—I seek the shades below:

She's doom'd to wed her country's foe!

 

X.

And now was heard a rumbling sound,

            Within the dark wierd's magic ring;

While slowly op'd the elfin ground,

            And vanished the mystic king-

And his white and vapourish shroud

Arose on air, a thunder cloud,

Which bursting, with tremendous roar,

Sent its loud peal from shore to shore.

Upon the trembling Rosa's breast

The sorrowing Rhinda's head did rest:

 

[p. 163]

 

Oh, grieve not! said the wierd, but wait

The just resolve of certain fate;

Nor murmur, that in foreign clay

That angel form must soon decay.

'Twere wrong, 'twere sinful in th' extreme,

The will of destiny to blame,

Rhinda, with quiv'ring lip, replied—

Whate'er it wills I must abide:

I grieve not, since I'm doom'd to share

My Hengist's love—my Hengist's care:

Then adding, in a firmer voice,

As if her heart did now rejoice

In such prediction—yes, I'll brave

            The tempest, and shall happy be,

To moulder, though in a foreign grave,

            Since Hengist is to rest with me.

 

XI.

Now, far along those wooded shores,

Continued she, we ply our oars.

Haste, Rosa, see the sky's o'ercast,

And clouds of gloom bring night on fast;

 

[p. 164]

 

Behold how wave the forest trees,

A tempest whistles in the breeze:

Oh, haste! ere foulest night o'ertake

Us, on our voyage o'er the lake.

Then turning to the wierd, she said,

While on her hand her gift she laid,

Oh, never breathe to mortal ear

The presage of the royal seer,

But let oblivion stamp her seal,

Eternal, on the hapless tale.

The wierd agreed:—speed on, she cried,

A water imp shall safely guide

Your little frigate o'er the tide.

No breeze shall blow, or wave shall fright,

Nor cloud of gloom obscure the light

Yon crimson orb sheds o'er the scene,

Until your native shore you gain.

A parting look each maiden gave,

Then launch'd their light skiff on the wave.

Swiftly it flew by cliff and brake,

Nor rais'd bubble on the lake;

 

[p. 165]

 

But flitted round each cape and crag,

As o'er the chase ground flies the stag;

Until, beneath the Dunlo cliff,

The maidens moor'd the little skiff.

 

XII.

Slumber on, nor awake, the little page said,

As he lean'd, in despair, o'er the warrior's head;

Slumber on, nor awake, for the next thou shalt take

Shall be deep in the caves of the blue haunted lake.

Oh! slumber ever, or wake to a world of bliss,

Where, if sorrow be found, 'tis as gladness in this,

He ceas'd, as the herald of spirits was sent,

On a beam of the moon, from the blue firmament,

To rouse from his long and his deep slumbering,

To join their gay revel, that warrior king.

The setting sun's last ray gleam'd through

The silken shades of tyrian blue,

When, pleasant as a morning dream,

The Naiad's herald softly came;

 

[p. 166]

 

And touching, with his silver wand,

The monarch lightly on the hand,

Arous'd him from his slumber sweet,

The queen of Naiads, then, to meet.

And now O'Donoghue arose,

From couch of down, and soft repose;

And chang'd his dress of courtly sheen

For one more plain, of hunting green:

Then turning from the pillar'd hall,

Sprung, joyful, to his well-known call,

His old and faithful wolf-dog, Sru,

The fiercest of his canine crew*.

Just then the full moon deeply shed,

Upon the lakes, a dusky red,

Which chang'd as oft their blood-stain'd hue,

As 'cross her disk the dark clouds flew;

And on the breeze a wild shriek stole,

As if some hapless being's soul,

Just summon'd to the shades below,

Had giv'n its farewell scream of wo!

 

*See note p. 278

 

[p. 167]

 

XIII.

And while be gave, at the utmost ward,

The watch-word to bis faithful guard*,

As if forewarn'd of his dread fate,

Sru pull'd him, thrice, within the gate;

And thrice did he retrace, agen,

His steps through thicket, grove, and glen;

And oft his way, bewilder'd, lost,

Ere he the island final cross'd—

And gain'd that shore, where lone, beside

The dimly moonlit Mucruss tide,

He stood.—And now, to promise true,

Swift gliding o'er its waters blue,

The Naiad's light boat soon he knew.

She sung, and sea nymphs, in her train.

On conch shells accompanied the strain.

 

*See note p. 278

 

[p. 168]

 

NAIAD'S SONG.

From' crystal caves and coral bowers,

Where grow the choicest marine flowers,

                        I, queen of Naiads, rise;

My palace, gem'd with jewels bright,

Shines lucid as yon globe of light,

                        Enthroned in the skies.

 

Eternal summer reigneth there—

Fragrant flowers perfume the air,

                        And fruits of honey'd taste:

Rivers of purest nectar flow,

Ambrosia in my gardens grow—

                        On it my subjects feast.

 

No clouds obscure my silv'ry skies,

No storms are ever known to rise—

                        All beauteous and serene;

Nor sickness, sorrow, gloom or care,

Revenge, or hatred, dwelleth there,

                        And I am sovereign queen.

 

[p. 169]

 

XIV.

The Naiad ceas'd her gentle lay;

Light was her speech—her humour gay.

Great monarch of Killarney's lake!

I leave my kingdom for thy sake;

Nor ever have I met, before,

A mortal on this elfin shore:—

Yet, joyfully I go with thee,

To grace this moonlight revelry.

Thus said—she proffer'd him her hand,

As her light boat touch'd the strand;

Gallant and gentle it he wrung—

Then, from the beach into it sprung.

Not lighter flies, on summer air,

The gossomer, so soft and fair,

Than flew their elfin frigate o'er

That shadow'd tide, to Mncruss shore;

Where sylphs and nymphs, of fount and flood.

To receive the prince and Naiad, stood:

And viewless spirits, in the air,

Gave welcome to the goddess fair;

 

[p. 170]

 

And flung down from the purple skies

Fruits and flow'rs, of ten thousand dies.

 

XV.

And on her brow a chaplet fell,

Of myrtle, rose, and asphodel;

While a voice exclaim'd, from high—

We, spirits of the upper sky,

Hail thee!  queen of coral bowers

And strew thy moonlit path with flowers,

Cull'd from the celestial spheres,

Where happy Eden's gay parterres

For ever bloom, luxuriant, gay—

Nor, like the flow'rs of earth, decay;

For with us eternal summer reigns

And brightest verdure clothe the plains:

Nor tempest blast, or breath of air.

To blight one tender blossom there.

Haste! cried the nymphs—soft music pours

A flood of melody round the shores;—

Haste, onward, to the merry dance,

Ere the moon fades from the expanse

 

[p. 171]

 

Of heaven's concave, and the pure day

Puts an end to our elfin play.

They enter'd now the sacred grove,

Where, within a myrtle alcove,

Paved with every precious stone,

Was rais'd a high and glitt'ring throne,

On which, proudly, sat the sylphian queen,

As presiding goddess of the scene;

And round her sylphiads danc'd and sung,

And nymphs around her odours flung;

While, under the arbutus shade,

Satyrs with hobgoblins play'd.

 

XVI.

And now, in speech most bland and sweet,

The fair Sirena rose to greet,

Saying—welcome, monarch of the lake!

Freely of all our joys partake ;

And thou, great queen of Naiads, share

This moonlight feast, which we prepare,

In honour of this mortal brave,

Who now becomes our subject, slave:—

 

[p. 172]

 

Sylphs, dance to him, and bend the knee,

Who shares our immortality.

Then round the monarch danc'd and play'd.

Both elfin knight, and sylvan maid;

And echo, gave to grove and glen

A loud and lengthened specimen

Of their strange mirth — while caverns wide

Long to her airy voice reply'd.

Now came the gay, luxuriant feast.

On golden tables, richly chas'd,

Which rose, within that sylvian bower.

Adorn'd with many a gem and flow'r:

And now Sirena gaily led

O’Donoghue to the table's- head.

Where, on that- throne of state and pride,

She plac'd him, gallant, by her side.

 

XVII.

Warrior monarch! freely taste

Of all upon these tables plac'd—

By angel hands, who had their choice

Of every fruit in paradise ;

 

[p. 173]

 

And cull'd them, as the very best

That ripen'd in that land of rest.

She said, and gave him some of each—

Of fig, pine apple, pear, and peach,

Of orange, grape, and apricot,

And nectarine—nor was forgot

Conserve sweet, which could delight

The most luxurious appetite.

Then added—now the goblets fill,

With nectar, which the gods distil,

From fruits which grow above the sky,

Where celestial vineyards lie;

E'en from the gardens of the sun,

Where rivers of liquid fire run,

They've brought ambrosia, as a treat,

Which none but angels ever eat;

And from the tree of life they pull'd

            Apples of the ruddiest hue,

And in celestial bowers cull'd

The choicest flow'rs which therein grew.

 

[p. 174]

 

XVIII.

And now, great monarch of the lake,

Freely, she said, of all partake;—

Here, drink of nectar from this bowl,

'Twill yield peace and pleasure to thy soul.

She fill'd the golden goblet high,

While pleasure sparkl'd in each eye;

Then touch'd it lightly with her wand,

And laid it on the monarch's hand:

Then turning from him, low she said,

In whisper, to the Naiad maid—

May the virtue which therein lies,

Secure to us the glorious prize!

He rais'd it to his lips, when loud,

Just o'er his head, a thunder-cloud

Burst, awful—while a tempest blast

Rush'd, with resistless fury, past;

And, from his now unnerved hold,

Dash'd to the earth the cup of gold.

 

[p. 175]

 

XIX.

Some spirit, surely, has done this,

Envious of our present bliss,

The Naiad said—but still will we

Enjoy our moonlight revelry.

What, though the thunder roll on high,

And the loud, howling wind, rush by?

Yet, fearless will our revel-rout

See the moon's last gleaming out.

And now, again, the goblet bore

Its share of nectar, flowing o'er;

She put it to her lips, then gave

            It to his hand—saying, in this wine

Now pledge to me, thou bold and brave,

            That faith, and warrior heart of thine.

He took the cup, he press'd her hand-

What mortal hero could withstand

The challenge of the loveliest,

Ere exiled from the land of rest.

Once more, again, the cup he join'd

To his warm lips, when one behind,

 

[p. 176]

 

Invisible, spoke in his ear

A word, which chill'd his heart with fear-

Oh, taste it not! there is a spell

Spoken o'er it, by the Prince of Hell;

Thy faith from the true God to sever.

And bind thy soul to him for ever*!

 

XX.

What wanting voice is that I hear,

Prophetic, whispering in my ear?

O'Donoghne said—as wild, astound,

He cast his eagle glance around:

No person near! yet sure some sprite,

Or guardian angel of the night,

Holering o'er me, in the air,

Has bid me of this draught beware.

Tis strange! This is the second time

I have been warn'd of this wine!

Then from his hand be dash'd the cup:

And, impassion'd, starting up,

The alcove pac'd, with hasty stride,

And knit his marble brow of pride.

 

*See note p. 279

 

[p. 177]

 

Again the golden cup was laid—

Again the demon's spell was said;

While the Naiad queen softly took

O'Donoghue's hand, with sweetest look;

Why thus disturb'd?-It is the breeze,

She said, which sighs among the trees;

Or babbling echo, from her cave,

Or the loud dashing of a wave:

Tis fancy, all;—now, monarch, see,

It has not the powr to harm me!

She rais'd the bowl, and smiling, quaff'd

A portion of the magic draught;

Then plac'd it on the ebon stand,

Ready to the monarch's hand.

And now the sweetest music e'er,

That ever rose from earth on air,

Warbled through the sacred grove,

Like that song of happiest love;

While a bright and sparkling ray   

Lit grove and alcove, light as day.

 

[p. 178]

 

XXI.

Soon from the gay, unearthly scene,

Fled Naiad maid, and Sylphian queen;

And, under leaves and brambles laid,

They hid them in the deepest shade.

But, lost in sweet bewilderment,

From earth to heaven the monarch sent

A hasty glance, when the opening skies

Display'd a vision to his eyes,

Of beauty, so transcending bright,

As ever burst on mortal sight.

First look'd it like a twinkling star,

Which soon became a wond'rous car

Of crysolite, and strange device,

Drawn by the birds of paradise;

And in it sat, bright, visible,

Heaven's messenger, swift Uriel.

He spoke—and in his eye's quick glance,

Ten thousand sun-beams seem'd to dance-

Fly, mortal, while it's in thy power.

From this hellish feast and bower;—

 

[p. 179]

 

Instant fly, lest thy God, viewing,

From his high throne, thy undoing,

Sinks thee to the infernal shades,

With all those demon sylphs and Naiads,

Who tempt thee now, by magic spell,

Against high heaven to rebel.

 

XXII.

Of ready speech, and daring mind,

The bold O'Donoghue thus rejoin'd:—

Angel, it seems to me most strange,

That heaven should permit to range

On earth, those poor spirits, who fell

From thy land of bliss, to lowest hell,

To tempt us, erring mortals, weak,

His great commandments oft to break!

The angel star'd.—What! Impious man!

Darest thou heaven's ordinances scan?

Forbear, forbear—oh! question not,

Lest it be thy unhappy lot

To draw on thee the Almighty's wrath,

Who o'er this world all power hath:

 

[p. 180]

 

Suffice it now, I warn thee—haste

From this impious demon feast;

Call up not spirits from the deep,

Nor with them their curs’d vigils keep;

For if thou do'st, not he who dwells

            In yon blue space, where vast worlds roll,

Will save thee from their magic spells,

Or when thou'rt lost, redeem thy soul!

 

XXIII.

And then he smil'd—such smile as we

Behold in playful infancy,

Saying—Farewell!—I warn no more;

Fly, oh, fly! this unhallow'd shore!

And, waving in the air his wand,

Quick did the heavenly birds expand

Their wings—and, mounting in the air.

Shot up a meteor bright and fair;

Till, in that arch of clearest blue.

They vanish'd from his eager view.

And now, he said, must I resign

Such bliss—such luxury divine;

 

[p. 181]

 

Fly such a gay and happy scene,

Where all is joy of soul serene?—

Where I have spent such happy hours,

'Mid the perfume of shrubs and flow'rs;

And watch'd the setting sun-beams streak,

With carmine glow, the slumb'ring lake,

Until the shades of night drew nigh,

And spirits, from the purple sky,

Came dancing on a bright moon-beam.

Which had rested on some haunted stream!

 

XXIV.

'Twas thus he did soliloquise—

And, turning round the bow'r his eyes,

All look'd so lovely, sweet and fair,

Of magic art, and nature, there,

That though the angel to obey,

            He half had turn'd him from the spot;

Yet still his bold heart bid him stay.

            And such strange mandate value not.

Psha! he cried—why should I flee

Such scene of sinless gaiety?

 

[p. 182]

 

How can the nectar in yon bowl

Injure my brave, immortal soul?

The coward, danger may eschew,

But little fears O'Doaoghue:—

That peril, whatsoe'er it be,

It only whets his bravery.

Then loud he spoke, in voice as shrill

As peasant's whoop, from rock or hill;

Sylphs of the grove, and fays, who play

Beneath the moon's chaste luminous ray;

Return, and bring my Naiad maid

From under the arbutus shade.

Hasten, hasten—day is coining,

Philomel has ceas'd her humming:

Oh! hasten, naiad, sylph and sprite.

I see the dusky, gray twilight

Of morn breaking—daylight falls;

'Tis I, Killarney's Prince, who calls.

Then list'ning, paus'd—rejoiced to hear

Their footsteps light ring oh his ear.

 

[p. 183]

 

XXV.

Once more, again, the alcove rung,

With peal of harp, and minstrel tongue;

And now, again, grew long and loud,

The wassail of the elfin crowd;

When the sylphian queen address'd

The prince, apart from all the rest—

Tis strange, an angel should intrude

On this, our earthly solitude;

And leave the cherubs of the sky,

To join our inferior revelry!

O'Donoghue smil'd—he knew the jeer

Most pleading to the female ear;

And answered, with a well-tim'd sigh,

And certain languishment of eye,

Who could behold such loveliness,

And not its witching pow'r confess?

When this spot lies so inviting,

Angels' sinless hearts delighting,

 

[p. 184]

 

Why should they not, then, with us share

That pleasure pure, which now we feel;

And from their own celestial sphere

One solitary moment steal?

If but to see that, all were right,

And then for ever take their flight.

 

XXVI.

If that were all, Sirena said,

Fearless, as now, we might have stay'd!

Nor wild, affrighted, sought the shade:

But 'tis so seldom that we see

            One of our happy brethren here,

That, conscious of our crime, we flee,

            Nor in their presence dare appear.

But yet we hope, and do believe,

That heaven will our crime forgive;—

And now, the tears of deep despair

Fell on the bosom of the lair;

While her clasp'd bands,

and uprais'd eye,

Bespoke an endless agony.

 

[p. 185]

 

O'Donoghue scarce suppress'd a groan—

He felt her sorrows as his own.

Grieve not, he said, you left yon sky.

Of brightest blue, tranquillity:—

Oh! grieve not—think not—on that crime,

Which drove thee from thy native clime;

Nor on thy cruel banishment,

When in Loch Lene's bright firmament

You dwell, in splendour and in peace.

Far from the envy of thy race.

What canst thou, spirit, more enjoy,

E'en wer't thou in thy kindred sky.

Than pleasure—freedom—loveliness,

And years of endless happiness?

Sirena star'd:—could she deceive

A knight so gallant, kind, and brave?

Oh, no! she sigh'd—he must know all

Our crime, our wretchedness, and fall!

 

XXVII.

Of endless bliss, Sir Knight, you say?

Oh! would to heav'n, that coming day

 

[p. 186]

 

Might bring with it some short relief

To this, my never-ending grief!

Oh! if you knew the home we lost—

            That happy home, of truest bliss;

Where th' greatest grief which could have crost

            Our sinless path, were joy to this!

Until that hour, when in our pride,

The wrath of heaven we defied

Cease, cried the Naiad—cease to tell,

Our bliss, now past, or why we fell

From that land of peace—'tis needless, sure,

To think now on it;—we must endure

That punishment, which is but just:

What is, is right—what must be, must.

The present hour let's now enjoy,

For see, the moon wanes down the sky!

With her we came, with her must go,

Or sink, condemn'd, to shades below

Then drink—be merry, while we may,

Ere the bright piercing orb of day

Bursts upon our wond'ring sight,

And drives us into endless night!

 

[p. 187]

 

XXVIII.

O'Donoghue raised the cup, but still

A something, viewless, check'd the will

He had to taste it;—ne'er, he cried,

Shall my lips touch thy sparkling tide:

And laid it on the stand once more—

A dangerous potion, as before,

Saying to Sirena—Gentle, fair,

Whose dwelling is in middle air,

And 'wakes me oft, at midnight hour,

With music from thy elfin bower,

Breathe forth some little, simple air—

Awake the angels in their sphere;

And let them see that we are blest,

As well as they who, happy, rest

In that paradise above the skies—

Impervious to our mortal eyes.

Although a spirit of the sky,

Sirena said—-yet I comply;

And only thou 'rt Killarney's king,

Thou ne'er shouldst hear Sirena sing.

 

[p. 188]

 

XXIX.

SYLPH'S SONG.

We glide upon the red sun-beams,

That gild Kiliatney s lakes and streams,

                        At evening's twilight hour;

We sip bright drops of pearly dew.

Which falleth from the skies so blue,

                        We suck the honey'd flower.

 

We plunge beneath the silv'ry lake,

The sleeping Naiads there awake—

                        Then, rising, dance in air;

Our minstrel is the sighing breeze,

Our seats of rest, those high oak trees—

                        We often slumber there.

 

Then, when we 'wake, at sultry noon.

We hie us to the cold chaste moon,

                        For there our dwelling be;

Then come on earth, at setting sun,

'Tis then our gambols are begun—

                        Our harmless revelry.

 

[p. 189]

 

The last line warbled by the fair

Had melted on the midnight air,

When O’Donoghue gave, agen,

To heaven and earth the elfin strain;

And, lifting the golden goblet high,

While his ev'ry sense was drown'd in joy,

He quaff'd its dread contents, and gave

Himself—Oh, God!—to them, a slave.

Soon vanish'd naiad, sylph and fay—

Soon melted ev'ry vision gay!

The thunder roll'd—the lightning shot

Its reddest flashes on the spot;

While Loch Lene roar'd, in sorrow, on

The ruin of her bravest son!

 

XXX.

Transfix'd with horror, 'lone he stood.

While water, fire, wind, and wood,

Roar'd Wildly round his hapless head,

In sorrow, and contention dread.

And now a voice with terror smote

His heart, like heaven's last trumpet note,

 

[p. 190]

 

Exclaiming—Mortal, hear that fate

Which on thy many crimes await;

Hear, then, thy injur'd God's decree,

Pronouncing now thy destiny:

Along with sinful spirits hurl'd

To that dark and deep chaotic world,

The thoughts of which would paralyse

The sinless spirits of the skies,

And harrow up thy soul with fear,

Didst then but guess thy lot severe.

Lost, hapless mortal! henceforth shun

The regions of the burning sun—

Nor come before his piercing light:

But thou may'st, roam, when sable night

Draws her curtain o'er the skies,

And all this world in darkness lies.

The mandate bad gone forth—no more

Was heard the thunder's deaf'ning roar;

The light'ning ceas'd, and the trees

Wav'd gently in the sighing breeze.

 

[p. 191]

 

XXXI.

The skies resum'd their placid hue,

Of loveliest and brightest blue;

And nature seem'd in slumber laid,

As thus the wretched monarch said—

Is this horrific destiny

My wish'd-for immortality?

An outcast from my God to go,

To regions of sorrow, gloom and wo!

Oh ! dreadful lot is mine, to bear,

For man, or angel, too severe.

Revoke, revoke thy sentence, heaven,

Or let some respit short be given;

Exile me from my kindred race,

But let me feel thy saving' grace.

He paus'd-then, with a deep-fetch'd groan,

Continued in an under tone,

Fairwell, ye spicy groves and bowers,

Where I have spent such happy hours!

Farewell, ye friends, and kindred dear—

Your prince shall never meet you here;

 

[p. 192]

 

And this fair world, and thou bright sky,

From thy dear light I now must fly!

Farewell, farewell—my God farewell!

Oh, dreadful, cursed, magic spell!

The morning duwn'd—the woodcock crew,

When wretched, wild O'Donoghne

Leaped from off a rock's high peak.

Far in the bosom of the lake—

Where rises oft a single wave,

To mark the monarch's watery grave!

 

END OF CANTO THE FIFTH.

 

[p. 193]

 

CANTO THE SIXTH.

 

__________

 

 

THE  MIDNIGHT  HOUR.

 

I.

The morning sun was verging high,

Up the concave mirror of the sky,

Which shone as clear, a blue expanse,

As ever smiled to his bright glance,

When, by the Lower Lake's bright flood,

A hunter, meditating, stood.

Oh! what a scene, he said, is here;

Unheeded steps the noble deer,

Through many a brake and valley wide—

Up gentle slope and mountain side;

 

[p. 194]

 

He looks the monarch of the place—

Not born for man or dogs to chase;

Such scene alone does Aspar prize,

A picture, worthy hunter's eyes.

He whistled then, in frolic gay—

Carol'd a hunter's lively lay;

And, turning from the shore, he wound

His lonely path, with horn and hound;

And now, from off a neighb'ring hill,

The shout of peasant, loud and shrill,

Rung on his ear—he turn'd his head,

That is not hunter's whoop, he said:

Yet sure my ear has drunk, before,

Such signal cry upon this shore;

And sure my eye that form must know,

Who comes, with steps so ling'ring, slow,

Down yon green slope—eh, Dermod! why

That look of wo, and tearful eye ?

He said—and kindly stretch'd his hand,

As the youth join'd him on the strand.

 

[p. 195]

 

II.

Cead-Mile-feilte!* black's the day†

I'd pass yon, silent, by the way,

Dermod replied:—but whither bound,

At this sad time, with horn and hound?

Why, said the huntsman, ere one bright ray

Had usher’d in the welcome day,

I started on my morning race,

To give the prince another chase;

But loiter'd here, I know not why,

Until the dawn and morn pass'd by.

Hunting the prince long since has gone,

With Mab, and Puck, and Oberon,

Dermod said—but why that smile ?

Thinkest thou I should revile

Him, now that he is gone ?—Ah, no!—

Far now in coral caves below

The Mucruss lake, he wields a wand,

For sceptre, in that fairy-land.

 

*A hundred thousand welcomes. [H.M.B.]

†A cant expression, often made use of among the lower Irish. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 196]

 

The prince gone with the fairies bold!

As fiction, now, such tale I hold,

Aspar replied—or yet in dream,

Perhaps, last night such vision came;

And that it still holds power o'er thee,

As tale of sad reality?

 

III.

Not in midnight phantasy,

Came the vision strange on me,

Dermod said, but when awake,

And standing by the middle lake,

Loud I heard a bugle note—

Plain I saw a fairy boat,

Rising on that deep mere's swell

Light, as if it were foam-bell;

And clearly, there, I could discern

A naiad, sitting at the stern,

Who guided it, with wand, across

Its waters, to the Isle of Ross.

 

[p. 197]

 

Well, but the prince;—pray, what of him ?

Aspar exclaim'd—methinks, I see

Him, in that elfin light barge, skim,

Now, o'er that calm and dark blue sea.

He stood, said Dennod, on the beach,

And when the naiad's boat did reach

The shore, he sprung to it, as light

As if he were a water sprite—

Taking his seat, permissive, there,

Beside the naiad goddess fair.

Well, then, cried Aspar, and what more?

When they had touch'd the Mucruss shore,

Did they transform the shrubs and weeds

Into Palfreys grey, and gallant steeds.

But, what need I longer dwell

Dermod said, on such sad theme,

When that now, I know too well,

Thou still would'st count it but a dream—

For, plain again that smile on me

Confesses thy incredulity!

Come, then, cried Aspar, we'll explore,

Now that thy jeering mood is o'er,

 

[p. 198]

 

The castle, and the island round,

Until our wand'ring prince be found.

May heaven speed thee on thy way,

And may success thy toil repay!

Replied the youth—but, as for me,

Now like the eagle bold I flee

To Dunlo, on fate's embassy.—

A crown and sceptre for its chief,

A henchman's place, to kill my grief;

Stags, and hounds, and cross bows, still—

Many path, by heath and hill;

Gyves and tassels, hawk and snare.

Ever be thy curse and care—

 

V.

Ever the sport of tale and jest-

Created but in thy own breast.

Hasten onward, on thy route;

Tell to him, who will not doubt;-

For, often have thy fictions wild,

In younger days, my heart beguiled-

 

[p. 199]

 

But now, my reason leaves no chance

Of credence, for such strange romance.

Thus Aspar spoke:—but little heed

Did Dermod take, for such his speed,

That ere his last words utt'rance found,

By cliff and cape his path he wound,

Along the lower lake, 'till 'mid

Its dark and many windings hid.

Long and devious was the way

Which sudden, now, between them lay;

As Aspar t'wards the castle bent

His steps, he ponder'd, as he went,

On Dermod's words—perhaps, thought he,

The prince has fallen by treachery;

And that he has had the hardihood

To gloss such deed of crime and blood,

By frantic tale, and black falsehood.

'Tis strange! he cried—but be it my care

To solve this deep and dark affair;

No hill so high, nor cave so deep,

But there the monarch now I seek-

 

[p. 200]

 

And, with heaven's aid, I'll bring to light,

His death, though done in gloomiest night!

 

VI.

Scarce had he spoke, when o'er his head

One, invisible, loudly said—

Generous youth, you must refrain—

Your search on earth would be in vain:

From the precincts of this world

The brave O'Donoghue has been hurled,

By that great Omnipotent hand,

Which rules hell and heaven, sea and land.

'Tis needless yon should know the cause,

Question not high heaven's laws;

It is enough to know they're just:

Be humhle—in God's mercy trust.

Seek none but him—'tis he alone

Who must be sought, and must be known.

O'Donoghne lost!—Almighty God,

Why smote, with thy avenging rod;

Into the realms of chaos hailed,

For ever lost to this fair world?

 

[p. 201]

 

Aspar exclaim'd.—Oh I that I were

Coldly enshrined in sepulchre—

Or yet more humbly had I lain

Beneath that yew*, in Mucruss fane,

Whose umbrageous branches kindly spread

Their shelt'ring shadow o'er the dead,

Than to outlive——and, pausing here,

He dash'd away the falling tear;

While poignant grief, the most profound,

In sobs the coming sentence drowned.

 

VII.

If ever, in affliction's hour,

When suffering under sorrow's power,

The tears of sympathy have sprang

From the eyes of man, by anguish wrung,

Fraught with a keener wo and dread,

They were those now which Aspar shed.

 

* A great yew tree, perhaps coeval with the building itself, stands in the centre of a cloistered court in Mucruss Abbey; while ash trees, of great size, surround and overshadow it without.  Gaping tombs, and heaps of bones, adds to the chilling solemnity of the scene. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 202]

 

Farewell! he cried—thou good and brave—

Liberal as the soil which gave

Thee all thy wealth—where art thou—where

Enshrined—in what lucent sphere ?

Say—oh! say, if spirit thou be,

What is thy unknown destiny ?

He paus’d—but neither earth, or sky,

Or air, responded in reply.

Then sadly pond’ring on his fate,

He slow approach’d the castle gate:—

There sorrow, too, her levee kept,

There vassal, chief, and clansman wept;

And trumpet, loud, from watch-tow’r sent,

To every isle, the sad event.

Away with sorrow, doubts and fearing;

            Though Killaraey’s sun be set,

It will rise, more bright appearing—

            Days of joy are for us yet.

Behold yon gallant bark, swift cleaving.

            Proudly, now, the waveless mere,

And the Dunlo pendant weaving,

            High above it, in the air!

 

[p. 203]

 

Hail! all hail!—the chief then standing,

            With folded arms, at its prow;

Joyous greet him, on his landing—

            With flowers wreath his youthful brow:

He comes, as friend, and warrior true-

As kinsman of O'Donoghue;

With knights and ladies in his train,

As monarch, now, o'er us to reign!

 

VIII.

Thus Cathal spoke, when to the shore,

            From that gay bark, came, lightly bounding,

The young and gallant Ormon More,

            While bugle-horns were gaily sounding.

There was none to mar his glory—

            Crown and wreath soon graced his brow;

And vassals, knights, and chieftains hoary,

            Paid to him their homage now.

Melancholy, and alone—

Seated on a moss-crown'd stone,

Aspar heard the fickle crowd

Cheer their new king, long and loud.

 

[p. 204]

 

He sigh'd—-nor join'd the loud acclaim,

Which now thunder'd forth his name;

But thought him of his boyish days,

When schooled in all a wilding's ways,

He follow'd the lost O'Donoghue,

O'er mountain high, and dark glen through;

By lake and stream, full many a mile,

To bear the burden of his spoil;

And oft, like Shamois goat, would creep

Up beetling cliff, and rock so steep,

To steal the eagle's unfledged brood—

Nor reck, below, the dark deep flood.

 

IX.

Now, in maturer age, his place,

To train the dogs—to lead the chase,

And teach the falcon how to snare

Its heedless prey, in middle air:—

Sighing, he unstrung his bow,

Muttering, indistinct and low-

Descendant of great Heber Fionn,

Whose like I ne'er shall look upon!

 

[p. 205]

 

With wealth and earthly splendour blest—

Why hast thou sought the land of rest?

Why leave thy peaceful, happy home,

            Where all was bliss and pleasantry,

With spirits of the lake to roam,

            And join their moonlight revelry?

They've wrought thy ruin:—oh! farewell—

May heaven break that magic spell,

Which binds thy brave, immortal soul,

Where midnight planets, glitt'ring, roll;

Or in that dark immensity—

Regions of eternity;

Where neither sun or stars illume

The vast, illimitable gloom.*

Oh, bitter thought! he said, as fell

A tear drop, with his sad farewell;

And rushing from his resting spot,

He sought his own lone, humble cot;

There many a fervent prayer he said

For the royal warrior, dead:

And oft' was borne upon the gale,

At eventide, his pensive wail;

 

*See note p. 281

 

[p. 206]

 

When wand'ring in the woodland shade,

His plaint to every tree he made.

 

X.

Loudly, from Saint Tinian's tower.

The bell had toll'd the midnight hour,

When Aspar sought its cloisters lone,

To breathe to heaven his orison.

The scene around was lone and bleak—

Neither moon or star gleam'd on the lake;

And chilling was the blast of air,

That whistled through chink and grating there.

Oh, would to heaven! he cried, once more.

My prince should meet me on this shore;

As when in days of joy and peace,

He gaily followed to the chase—

Scarce had he spoke, when now became

The dark lake like one sheet of flame;

And every wave, which high uprolled,

Seem'd to his eyes like molten gold—

Leaving a passage, by their flow,

To the subaqueous land below;

 

[p. 207]

 

And there a crystal palace bright

Flush'd forth insufferable light;

And amaranthine* bowers, there,

Exhaled their sweets on midnight air:—

There a river of nectar flowed,

And fruit trees bent beneath their load;

And birds in coral woodlands sung,

And spicy shrubs their odours flung;

While sweetly, o'er the groves and plains,

Philomel poured her dulcet strains!

 

XI.

Loud, then, he heard a bugle sound,

Echoing through the vast profound;

When rushing forth, with winged speed,

O'Donoghue came, on snow white steed.†

Aspar knew his lofty mien,

His hunting suit of broider'd green,

His sable plume, and look of pride,

And silver bugle by his side;

 

* Fadeless, immortal, undying [OED]

† Called, in the Irish tongue, Coppol-bawn. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 208]

 

With bit and bridle ringing, gay,

As they were wont on limiting day.

Loose he threw his bridle rein,

Reckless, o'er his courtier's mane;

And furious spurring o'er the lake,

Through thicket, bower, glen and brake,

O'er rock and mountain, hill and crag,

He wild pursued the elfin stag;

While swiftly, to his shrill halloo,

Sprung to his side his faithful Sru—

And dashing onward to the mere,

Boldly seized the flying deer.

A shout of joy the monarch gave,

As darkly rose the swelling wave;

And then, with hound and steed like snow

Disappear'd in the gulf below!

Long Aspar gazed, with vacant stare,

On that high wave rolling there;

And when nought but it met his eye,

He utter'd, loud, a piercing cry—

And sudden o'er his beads untoll'd,

Fell a corse, pale, stiff and cold.

 

[p. 209]

 

XII.

On that night, in Ross Castle's hall,

When slumber sealed the eyes of all,

And nature was in stillness laid,

Lonely sat the Dunlo maid.

Light o'er her harp her fingers flew—

Sweet were the sounds from it she drew

But sweeter for, in song, did she

Pour forth her midnight melody.

 

SONG.

 

Now, at this lone and solemn hour.

            When all the world is wrapt in sleep.

I'll sit me, as in shaded bower,

            And here my faithful vigils keep.

 

My harp shall swell the sighing breeze.

            And lull my mind's sad mood of care:

My fancy fairy vision sees,

            Their music wakes the silent air.

 

[p. 210]

 

Hark! now I hear their tabors sound—

            Now they trip o'er lawn and glade;

Lightly touching the hallow'd ground,

            Under the arbutus shade.

 

Then, sweet Killarney, at this hour,

            Soft music wakes her dulcet voice;

And o'er thy waves, with magic power.

            Calls on echo to rejoice.

 

XIII.

She ceased—and, rising, trim'd her light,

Whose tapering flame rose high and bright;

Then started, as the chapel bell*

Rung forth a peal, like funeral knell.

Why does the chapel bell now toll,

At this late hour?—Why am I here?

A something chills my heart and soul;

Why this unusual pang of fear?

 

* In them days of primitive Christianity, it was usual, when any person died, particularly any one of respectability, to announce the event by the toll of bell-a custom now only observed at funerals. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 211]

 

She said.—And now, in anguish, pressed

Her hand against her throbbing breast.

Peace was my bosom's inmate, when,

Advised, I sought old Enna's glen;

And oh! the spirit's prophecy,

So big with evil fate to me—

So dark, so cruel, and malign—

Has broke this simple heart of mine.

Why did I go—why did I hear

The presage of the royal seer?

She thus exclaimed—and wildly wrung

Her hands—when open wide was flung

The folding doors, and Ormon stood

Exposed, as if in list'ning mood.

 

XIV.

Why, sister, here, so sad and lorn?

Dost thou thy brother's honors mourn?

Ormon said—or do thy thoughts roam,

Yet, fondly, on thy last sweet home?

Rhinda replied, a favourite lay,

To harp's soft chime, prolong'd my stay.—

 

[p. 212]

 

But say, why now does sorrow fling

Her shadow o'er Killarney's king?

Thrice happy is the man who's free,

He said, from cares of royalty;

Who, destined to a cottage home,

Knows not the sorrows of the throne:

Secure and happy, he can rest,

In peace or war unenvied—blast.

Aye—to be happy and, yet be great,

Has never fallen to man's estate;

For sovereign power seldom brings

Genuine happiness to kings,

Rhinda said:—but who envies thee

Thy glory and supremacy?

The heir of Glin, M'Arthy More,

Now that his banishment is o'er,

Soars high again, on eagle's wing,

And claims to be Killarney's king.

What! cried the misbelieving fair—

Are not thou the elder heir,

Acknowledged by the isles around—

And in full assembly crowned?*

 

* See note p. 281

 

[p. 213]

 

And has not he allegiance sworn,

Upon thy coronation morn?

 

XV.

True, said Ormon-— but now hid sword,

I fear, will sever friendship's cord,

Unless that thou-nay, do not start —

Long known, as mistress of his heart,

Consent to be——but, sister, why

Rises that tear-drop in thine eye?

Hast thou not given thy heart, in plight,

To Esknamucky's valiant knight?

The deep blush, which at first had spread

On Rhinda's face, now instant fled;

And an ashy paleness came,

At mention of his hated name.

I'll never wed that man, said she,

Who would have slain, by treachery,

'Mongst kindred, friends, and clansmen all,

Killarney's monarch, in this hall.

He loves you, Rhinda. — 'Twas for you,

His sword upon his prince he drew;

 

[p. 214]

 

A father's wrong, a broken truce,

Served him with a base excse.

Loves me! she cried—you surely jest;

Love never dwelt in his cold breast:

And oh! how wretched would I be,

How great my future misery,

If forced to wed him.—No! she said,

Rather a pilgrim's life I'd lead;

Or, in some lonely vestal shrine,

Like an unsunn'd flower, decline,

Than act so base—so bad a part,

To give a hand, without a heart.

Hush, sister!   Why so simple thou?

I trust no rash—no foolish vow,

Has passed thy lips. Remember he

Has wealth, has power, has rank for thee:

He's young—and, surely, heaven ne'er gave

            To man a form more bold or fine;

Or enshrines a heart more warm, or brave,

            As that, which is the slave of thine!

 

[p. 215]

 

XVI.

He's all that, Rhinda calm rejoined—

But I confess, of all mankind,

I like him least;—the only one

That I could never think upon.

Forgive me, then, he said, the art

I've used, to probe thy gentle heart;

For, Rhinda, from this moment know,

The heir of Glin's my greattest foe:

E'er since Killarney's throne became,

By heirship, mine, a deadly flame

Of envy, hate, and treachery,

Has burned within his breast to me.

Oh! never shall the base rebel

Thy pure, and guileless heart, compel

To own him lord, though it may bring

To evil end, Killarney's king.

He took her hand, ere twilight break

Illumes an isle upon the lake,

I must set out, with guard, to meet

The king of Limerick, and his suit.

 

[p. 216]

 

He comes to spend a month or two,

The beauties of the lakes to view.

And now to rest;-late hours destroy

The bloom of youth, and sparkling eye

He said—and took the lamp, to go;

Then turned, and said, in voice more low,

Remember that to-morrow eve,

With smile and joy, you do receive

That valiant prince:—let thy smile be,

Such as I've always loved to see,

Good humour, tempered by good sense—

The sunshine of youth's innocence!

 

XVII.

To-morrow eve! she said—short space,

Brother, thou givest me to chase

Sadness from my heart and face;

Yet, if a smile be all thou ask,

For Limerick's king, though hard the task,

To gild the looks with seeming joy,

To call the sparkle to the eye,

 

[p. 217]

 

When the heart is sinking fast,

For each sad event of the past;

As when April sun appears,

Like beauty, smiling through her tears—

So shall, I fear, that smile of mine,

Be like to its faint flitting shine.

Aye, said her brother, if thou greet

Him, with a smile as arch and sweet,

As that, playing on thy red lips now,

By Hermon's shade, he's thine, I vow.

Just as he spoke, the guardsman's cry

Of challenge from the tower high,

And the warder's busy hum,

Gave signal of a stranger come.

 

XVIII.

Who can, cried Ormon, now so late,

Demand admission at the gate?

Then paused, as his attending page

Proclaim'd the herald's embassage.

Far distant from the west he came,

And gave O'Connor, as his name;

 

[p. 218]

 

Had stopp'd, on his night's wandering,

To speak, now, with Killarney's king.

Haste, Dermod, and admit him straight,

His prince replied—I'll here await

His coming,   Rhinda, stay, to see

This stranger knight of errantry.

Softly, now, unclosed the door—

Soon the stranger stood before:

He look'd like one who journey'd far,

The messenger of death and war;

Was mask'd, and clad in armour bright,

With spurs and plumage, as a knight.

No salutation bland he made,

Nor raised his visor, while he said,

Prince, thy morning's rout is known—

Shun the glens and woodlands lone;

Of kindred foemen now beware—

They whet their swords, they lay the snare,

And watch for thee, by glen and brake—

By river, fountain, stream and lake.

High the traitor's flag is streaming,

Bright the traitor's sword is gleaming;

 

[p. 219]

 

While vengeance comes, with giant stride,

Upon thee, from the southward side.

 

XIX.

Ha! how comest thou to know,

Ormon said, unless a foe?

Then drew his sword:—whoe'er thou be,

Thy warning, strange, is lost on me.

Hold! cried the knight—would you defy

A chief to fight, and beauty by?

I spurn thy challenge, but to spare

The feelings of thy sister fair.

For her loved sake, he said, alone,

I wish'd to make thy danger known;

And now, for her loved sake I go,

Nor own myself thy greatest foe.

Then advancing towards her a pace,

He raised the visor from his face:

Then lowly bow'd, as if to greet,

And dropt a billet at her feet.—

Unseen by Ormon, there it fell;

Unheard by him the knight's farewell,

 

[p. 220]

 

In accents softly sweet and dear,

Was breathed on her list'ning ear.

We meet again, sir knight, he cried;

Perhaps we may, the knight replied—

And bowing, slightly, as he past,

Hurried from the castle fast;

And soon his tow'ring height and plume

Vanish'd in the midnight gloom.

 

XX.

Then Ormon fixed a stedfast glance

On Rhinda's livid countenance—

Starting, as if a sudden thought

Upon his memory, then, had brought

Occurrence painful;—knowest thou,

He stern exclaim'd, that youth, who now

Has 'scaped my vengeance ? She fear'd to raise

Her eyes, before his piercing gaze;

Nor could she her knowledge disavow,

Though death should even 'wait her now.

Oh, no! She valued truth far more

Than life;—and now, just as before,

 

[p. 221]

 

Her pale and trembling lips reveal'd

That love, so carefully conceal'd.

Her brother spoke.—Aye, true; but yet,

Ere this, I think that we have met:

His look was his—his voice, his size,

The stern expression of his eyes,

As they were fix'd, with malice fraught,

As if to search my every thought,

That throng'd my breast—and, as they rose,

With power most strange, bewild'ring those

Which came before.    He paused—and then

Added, in lower voice, agen,

1t cannot be—I saw him die,

            I saw the last red torrent roll:

And, us it came, his dark brown eye

            Closed, and fled his warrior soul.

 

XXI.

What warrior does my brother mean?

Hengist, the bold, the treacherous Dane,

Ormon replied. What!  Rhinda said,

That youth you thought already dead;

 

[p. 222]

 

And told me that O'Donoghue,

On this isle's shore, in battle slew?

Her brother sigh'd.-It was but thought,

And fancy gilt the web she wrought.

Who, that suffer'd, would not fear,

When foreign foemen lurketh near?

Think not on foreign foemen now,

            Rhinda said—their glory's o'er;

Killarney's crown is on thy brow,

            Thy sceptre sways its every shore.

Thy well-known valour peace secures;

Splendid triumph now is your's!

True, Ormon quick replied—and high

His warrior soul glanced from his eye:

Be mine the triumph to controul

            That wretch, who would my peace annoy;

And keep in awe that abject soul,

            Who fain would blast my every joy!

And I shall reign triumphant here,

            Or be no king—-and thus once more Be what I was, than live, in fear

Of that false friend, M'Arthy More.—

 

[p. 223]

 

But enough of this unpleasant theme;

The night's far spent—I'm much to blame,

To keep thee from thy couch of rest:

Go now, and may thy sleep be blest,

With dreams of purest bliss and joy,

Such as the angels have on high—

And may they guard thee safe as now,

He said—and kiss'd her ivory brow.

Then to their separate chambers gone,

Rhinda a moment gazed upon

The strange knight's billet—then broke the seal,

And read, surprised, the following tale:

 

XXIII.

Fortune's sun is o'er thee shining-

Mine, alas! is fast declining;

Thine are days of peace and gladness-

Mine of danger, war and sadness:

But yet, through all my misery,

Fondly have I thought on thee.

And cherish'd the sweet hope—but no!

Thou would'st not wed thy country's foe-

 

[p. 224]

 

And one, whose chance of conquest o'er.

Must hie him from thy native shore.

To Limerick's king, to-morrow eve,

Thy hand—thy heart, 'tis said, thou’lt give :

Oh! wilt thou—can'st thou be his bride,

To gratify a brother's pride—

Or can I my hope, my all, resign ?

Yes, freely, if the wish be thine;

If so, farewell, fair one, to thee—

A rival's joy I cannot see.

Hengist, she said—and faintly came

From her lips, now, the Ostman's name—

How coldly was thy last adieu

Given to her, who will be true

To thee, though even kings should plead,

On bended knees, to Dunlo's maid.

Sad were the thoughts which rack'd her breast,

Ere slumber's sweets her senses blest;

And when it did, the morning sun

His glorious race had long begun.

 

END OF CANTO THE SIXTH.

 

[p. 225]

 

CANTO THE SEVENTH.

 

__________

 

 

THE  DEPARTURE.

 

I.

Now disappears the golden beams of day,

            And shadows fall on mountain, lake, and isle;

The shepherd homeward pipes his vesper lay,

            And the peasant rests him, wearied of his toil.

The bat and beetle wheel them through the air,

            Sad Philomel begins her pensive strain;

The stag has couch'd him in his midnight lair,

            And sober evening holds her silent reign.

Sweet, then, it is, to sit in lonely bower,

'Mid the perfume of spicy shrub and flower;

 

[p. 226]

 

And sweet to hear the mellow-breathing flute.

            Or light guitar, warbling o'er the lake;

And echo's airy voice, but seldom mute,

            Their softly dying notes reverberate.

Thus Rhinda spoke, as with light speed

She trip'd across the daisied mead;

And wended down the raven glen,*

Which she was ne'er to pass agen.

Her myrtle bower was lone and still—

The moon just rose on Glanflesk† hill;

And on the rose, and slight hairbel,

The heavy dew-drops, glitt'ring, fell:

She sat her on a grassy mound,

And drew her sattin cloak around—

Pull’d down the hood o'er curl and braid,

While, in murmuring voice, she said,

Yes then he comes, at even-tide,

Perhaps to claim me as his bride—

Affianced by a brother, too!

My heaven my hope—what shall I do':

 

*See note p. 283

†Glanflesk and the Paps are the names of a range of mountains to the East of the Lakes. [H.M.B.]

 

[p. 227]

 

Then clasped her hands; her looks were wild,

            No tear-drop glistened in her eye;

But sat alone, like sorrow's child.

            To muse on her own misery.

 

II.

Twas then her ear had drunk the sound

Of heavy footsteps, on the ground:

She look'd, and, through the deep'ninp gloom,

Discerned the drooping snow-white plume

Of the strange knight wave:—'tis he, she cried,

And soon the youth stood by her side.

She would have spoke his name—but no,

The word died on her lips; and low,

In faint and broken accents, came

Not Hengist, but her brother's name.

Ostman, oh! should he find you here——

Hengist replied, nay, maiden dear,

Stranger am I, as yet, to fear:—

For thy lov'd sake, the barbed dart

Has often spared thy brother's heart;

 

[p. 228]

 

For thy lov'd sake, in mean disguise,

I've ventured on the bold emprise,

To snatch thee, in despite of all,

From out thy guardian brother's hall:

But ever, Rhinda, from my sight

Thou hast vanished, like a beam of light;

And stoop'd, his vassal slave to be,

To get one moment's gaze of thee.

Friends I've forsaken—kindred dear,

And linger'd, an outcast rebel, here—

Have play'd before O'Donoghue,

As minstrel bard, although he slew

My aged sire; and press'd the hand

That fell'd me on this island's strand.

But this short moment, past, o'erpays

The suffering of a thousand days!

 

III.

Too much, cried Rhinda, you have borne

Of foeman's hate, and foeman's scorn:

Ill can I bear to hear that thou

Before a brother e'en should bow;

 

[p. 229]

 

Much less that thou, by vassalage,

Should have been subject to his rage.

Although thou art my country's foe,

Heaven and fate has will'd it so,

That I should love it less than thee—

Such is my cruel destiny.

Then, will you blast the hope you've given,

And murmur at the will of heaven?

Oh! call him else than foeman now,

When, lowly, to thy will I bow:—

Such to thy country have I been,

But now, farewell to battle scene:

No more, in thought or deed hostile,

I venture, Rhinda, on this isle—

But comes, an humbled one, to bend

Before thee now, as more than friend;

And oh! since then, by chance we meet,

Permit me, lowly, at thy feet,

To breathe my only hope:—a boat,

Moor'd close beside the castle moat,

Now waits our coming-The hands are good

As e'er stem'd battle fray or flood;

 

[p. 230]

 

And hearts as brave as ever beat

To clash of arms, in battle heat:—

Oh, say thou'lt come, and heaven will speed

Thee, happy, for the kindly deed.

The quiv'ring lip, and cheek like snow,

Of Rhinda, plain contest her wo:

She loved her country much and well—

And for it now the tear-drop fell;

It was her boast, her home, her pride,

And for its weal she could have died:

Then, must she fly it, and bestow

Her hand upon its veriest foe?

Hard was the struggle, to decide

'Twixt virtuous love and patriot pride;

'Twas death to go—'twere worse to stay.

And flitting time brook'd no delay.

 

IV.

Speak, Rhinda speak—the time flies fast—

Our meeting here is for the last;

There's danger on this shore—oh! fly,

Or, at thy feet see Hengist die!

 

[p. 231]

 

Where go, cried Rhinda—where remain ?

No isle that gems the crystal Lene

Could yield us shelter, for an hour,

From my brother's wrathful power.

Then, Hengist said—and his dark eye

Gleam'd bright again with hope and joy—

Give me the power, Rhinda, to defend

Thy innocence, and be thy guardian friend .

Fearless I'll meet the man who’d dare

Blast the bosom's peace of one so fair;

Whether on land, or on the ocean's foam,

My breast thy shield, my faithful heart thy hum;,

Rhinda replied, wait yet a little while,

Until better fortune on us smile;—

Days, months, and years, may pass in vain,

My constant heart will ne'er complain—

But bow, resign'd, to heaven's will,

If but assured thou lov'st me still.

Wait, Hengist said, 'till age's gloom

Fades on thy cheek the roseate bloom;

And hoary time's pale coronet

Upon that lovely brow be set;—

 

[p. 232]

 

Yes, wait 'till future years destroy

Youth, beauty, hope, with all its joy:

Then, pointing to a flower which hung

Its head, to die, he smiled, and sung.

 

SONG.

How lowly droops yon tulip flower!—

            Every leaf denotes decay;

Nor can the soft and gentle shower

            Restore its colors, once so gay.

 

Youth and beauty, oh, how flitting!

            Where is, then, thy boasted power?

Heaven, thy bright hopes defeating,

            Destroys thy charms, like that flower!

 

V.

Scarce died the strain upon the gale,

When Rosa, breathless, wild and pale,

Rush'd in — exclaiming, lady dear,

Thank heaven, thou 'scaped his murd'rous spear!

 

[p. 233]

 

Whose murderous spear?  Hengist cried—

Or say who by such, now has died?

The heir of Glin.  What! M'Arthy More!

When came he on this island's shore?

Rhinda exclaim'd. I know not, said

The trembling and astonished maid:

But, as I went across the bourn,

To see the prince and suit return—

And a gay sight it was to see

The pageant of their royalty;

For Limerick's king, and many a knight,

Glittering in sheen and jewels bright,

Came along, in proud array,

With minstrels hoar, and harpers gay;

And while they rode beside the lake,

A boat shot from a neighbouring brake—

Swift and smooth it on did glide,

As ever currah, on that tide,

And there a knight lean'd on his oar;

I looked—it was M'Arthy More!

He waited 'till the troop was near,

Then instant seized an oaken spear;

 

[p. 234]

 

Gave but one look, and flung it fair,

With giant force, across the mere:

Whizzing, it sped—then took its rest

In the valiant Prince Ormon's breast!

 

VI.

Just as she heard her brother's name,

Rhinda gave a piercing scream,

Then fell, as flake of snow would slide,

Off Turk's steep and rugged side;

But ere the mossy sward she press'd,

Hengist caught her to his breast.

My lady dead! Oh, cruel power,

To wither such a lovely flower!

Rosa cried, with guileless tongue,

While, frantic with despair, she wrung

Her hands, and shriek'd, 'till far was sent

An echo of her loud lament.

Hush'd be thy frantic words and cry,

Hengist exclaim'd, for footsteps nigh

Approaches;—can you nought discern

Of form, moving through the fern?

 

[p. 235]

 

Rosa still'd her grief, and cast

A look of fear, through tears which fast

Full, like a wintry shower—but still

All slept on streamlet, lake, and hill;

Save where a stray sheep browsed between

The openings of the hazel screen.

 

VII.

And now the Ostman's heart beat high.

With less of sorrow than of joy;

Around the fair her satin cloak

He wrapt, and thus, delighted, spoke:

Hail, happy hour, that gives such charms,

Now, and for ever, to my arms',

I hail thee as the happiest

That e'er the son of Vosco blest!

Senseless beauty! thou now art mine;

Safe in my arms I do enshrine

Thy angel form, and bear thee to

Where prince or slave dare not pursue.*

You follow, Rosa, to the moat,

Where now wait the crew and boat—

 

* See note p. 283

 

[p. 236]

 

To Innisfallen's isle we steer;

Be silent, and you've nought to fear.

Then, fleet as hart, when closely chafed

O'er mountain, plain, or moorland waste,

From out the tower he rush'd, and bore

His prize of beauty to the shore.

 

VIII.

My hope in heaven, my trust in thee,

Where'er thou go, I follow thee,

Be it over ocean, land or lake—

This do I for my lady's sake.

Thus Rosa said, and, sorrowing, took,

Through midnight gloom, one farewell look

Of that dear isle, which never more

Was she to tread again its shore.

Haste, boatman, haste—the price is won!

One of Erin's fairest daughters

We hear away, ere rising sun,

Far distant o'er the dark blue waters.—

 

[p. 237]

 

Haste! now Loch Lene's waters cleaving

            Take a last and long adieu

Of those fair shores, for ever leaving,

            And each green islet now in view.

Fallen in the field of glory,

            Friends and kin we leave behind;

But they shall live in martial story—

            Their fame in every breast enshrined.

For them alone, then, be our sorrow;

            A tear, now, to their memory:

Then let us joy, that on the morrow,

            From the foeman's land we flee!

IX.

And now, the earth's bright satellite,

Diana, empress of the night,

Her fair-panoply'd steeds had driven

Midway o'er the arch of heaven;

When from Tinian's tower came

A fitful, bright, and ruddy flame

Of torches, moving through the shade

Of cloisters dark, and high arcade;

 

[p. 238]

 

While, beneath the abbey's porch     

A friar stood forth, with lighted torch:

Its crimson glare shone full upon

The visage meek of Father John.

He threw a searching glance around,

But no form met his eye—or sound,

Came on the stillness of the night,

Or breeze e'en swept the torch's light:—

All peaceful here, he said—nor eye

Upon our movements now to pry;

Nor sound, save what the beetle brings,

And bat, with their distended wings;

But hark! the abbey bell tolls one!

Haste, Son of Vosco—now begone;

For ere its next slow chime shall tell,

Saint Aman will have left his cell—

A prayer of rest must now be said.

By him, for a father dead.

 

X.

Then Rhinda gave a sudden start—

Back thrill'd the life-blood to her heart:

 

[p. 239]

 

This was her nuptial hour, and she

Thought now upon that prophecy!

Doom'd through foreign climes to roam,

An outcast from her native home;

Her only brother slain—and, oh!

Now wedded to her country's foe,

She drooped upon her Hengst’s arm—

Chill'd in her reins was the Life-blood warm;

And the deep-drawn sigh, which stole

From her blanch'd lips, seemed if her soul

Was parting from its frail abode,

To join its kindred saints, with God!

Mourn not, lady, the father said,

That now in death thy brother's laid;

Nor mourn for thy splendour down,

Or that Glin's heir usurps the throne:

Oh, mourn not! the will of heaven bear

With calmness now—'twere sinful to despair.

Then Hengist spoke, in voice apart,

Fair idol of my faithful heart

Is this thy love?—Think on thy sacred vow;

The nuptial wreath now entwines thy brow;

 

[p. 240]

 

Oh! let those pearly tears of thine be dried—

Remember now that thou art Hengist'g bride!

Then, in a voice less soft and low,

Yet such as spoke the hero's wo,

The time is come, when I for ever leave

            These isles of earthly bliss, and o'er the foam

Of faithless ocean's undulating wave,

            Seek with thee, Rhinda, my forsaken home—

That peaceful home, which, if I ne'er had left,

I had not been of kindred friends bereft:—

Doom'd to return with solitary band,

A conquered prince, to Norway's frozen land!

 

XI.

And now I leave these heaven-enchanting isles,

Where one eternal spring, in triumph, smiles—

These shades romantic, and these shores, forsake,

These fairy bowers, and this matchless lake;

Relinquish vengeance, fame, and victory,

A blissful climate, fortune-all but thee!

Nay, Rhinda, cease thy tears—do not repine,

Great are thy sorrows but far greater mine;—

 

[p. 241]

 

With thee my hope of future peace doth rest—

With thee how happy, and with thee how blest;

Possess'd of thee, how lightly will I bear

The ills of life—if yet I'm doom'd to care:

If thou, dear maid, bestow one cheering smile,

It full rewards thy Hengist for his toil.

Oh, chide me not, if for my brother, dead,

The tears of Rhinda at this time be shed;

Small tribute, Hengist, surely 'tis to grieve—

It's all I can, it's all I have to give.

And now a peasant's whistle, loud and shrill,

Disturb'd the silence of the midnight still.

Hark! cried the father—Ostman, did you hear

That signal now?—I dread a spy is near;

Aye, much I fear we are betny'd,

And that M'Arthy seeks the maid;

Or yet, perhaps—he paused, to list—

An islander his way hath missed;

Beguiled through dingle, vale, and swamp,

By Will-o'-the-Wisp's alluring lamp——*

Ha, no, again! for footstep's sound

Now echo'd through the cloisters round.

 

* See note p. 284

 

[p. 242]

 

XII.

Father, cried Hengist, I confide

To thy kind care my sorrowing bride'

Retire within some cell, while I,

Alone, this last adventure try.

Pray heaven to aid my single arm-

Dear Rhinda, cease this vain alarm;

For now to him she wildly clung

Her every nerve, by fear, unstrung-

Fear not, he said;-oft' has been tried

This faithful sword, in battle tide,

And never has it fail'd a blow,

When drawn by Hengist on the foe:

And now, on it I solemn swear,

That should it meet Glin's treach'rous heir,

Deep in his breast will I it sheath-

His last sigh at thy feelt he'll breathe;

While loud shall Tinian's cloisters, lone,

Reverberate his dying groan.

Hold! cried the father-wouldst thou oppose

Singly, perhaps, an hundred foes,

 

[p. 243]

 

Who, ambush'd in the grove, may wait

To cut off this, thy last, retreat.

Angels now our guardian be!

A human form sure I see:

Ah me! this torch has been his guide-

He hastens from the chancel side!

Lady, now forbear alarm;

Ostman, vengeance nerve thy arm;

Bold be thy heart, thy steel but true-

See, see, the foeman is in view!

 

XIII.

Ha! exclaim'd Hengist-whoe'er thou be,

Herald of war and treachery,

I seek thee, though a host of foes

Should my just wrath and way oppose.

He drew his sword:-Hold! Rosa said,

And, fearless, seized the naked blade-

For mercy sake, strike not the blow,

That form advancing, sure, I know:

Speak, Dermod speak-dispel my fear;

Seekest thou now thy Rosa here?

 

[p. 244]

 

Ah, How! was it not unkind,

To leave me, he exclaim'd, behind—

Nor e'en one token to bestow?

I could not, would not, treat thee so.

My brother's henchman! Rhinda said—

Say does he live—are we betray'd?

Oh! speak the truth, if aught you know

Concerning us, of weal or wo?

Yes, much concerning you, lady dear—

And here he wiped away a tear,

That trickled down his sun-burnt cheek,

And sigh'd, as if his heart would break

Although his hand was hard as steel,

Yet Dermod had a heart to feel;

And deep and bitter was his grief,

To see the child of Dunlo's chief

An alien wand'rer, and disgrace,

Now, to her native land, and race.

 

XIV.

Then, in a voice almost suppress'd,

Hengist, apart, he now address'd—

 

[p. 245]

 

Ostman, hasten now thy flight,

Thou must be gone ere morning light;

Th’ usurper comes, at early morn,

With blood-hounds, guards, and bugle horn,

To drag thee from thy hiding place,

That thou his triumph great may grace.

I grace his triumph! Hengist cried-

Never, while one drop of tide

Laves Turk’s rough and solid base,

Shall I my country so disgrace.

Hush, Ostman, hush! Dermod said-

And on his lip his finger laid:

Old walls have ears, and echo dwells

In empty vaults, and friars’ cells!

You shall escape-mark what I say-

Across the Reeks a private way,

Known only to myself alone,

With heath and briar overgrown;

And at the end a cavern, where

A stag might ever make his lair-

And rest him there safe, snug and sound,

Though hounds and hunters hemm’d him round:

 

[p. 246]

 

I'll be your guide—and, by day-break,

Far will we be from Lene's fam'd lake!

 

XV.

Hengist mute and wond'ring stood—

He could pour forth his gratitude;

But he such misery had borne,

From truces broke, and vows forsworn,

That much he found his heart distrust

His proffer'd service—yet he must

Confide in him—he'd no resource;

Though hard his fate, it might be worse:

For—dreadful thought!—the regicide

Might force his loved and lovely bride

From him, and cruelly confine

Her in some distant vestal shrine;

Or yet—he press'd his brow, and here

Distraction soon out-balanced fear;

He grasped the hand of Dermod hard—

I take thee for our guide and guard:

Thou art our hope—our only friend;

On heaven and thee I now depend.

 

[p. 247]

 

Thou do'st well the youth replied—

I'll be to thee an honest guide;

In weal or wo, whate'er betide:

If I prove false, may this warm heart

The first lie pierced by foeman's dart,

 

XVI.

Yet swear, cried Father John, before

Thou quit, with him, this hallow’d shore,

That thou through lone and dangerous way

Will guide them safe—nor e'er betray.

The crosslet to his lips he press'd,

Then sign'd it thrice upon his breast.

Enough, said John—if thou should'st break

Thy vow, so shall thy God forsake

Thee, in the hour of need—and he

Shall curse thee for thy perjury!

Ostman, onward speed thy way,

Nor fear this youth will e'er betray:

He cannot break his oath, until

I free him from it—such my will.*

 

*See note p. 284

 

[p. 248]

 

Then, Hengist said, I leave behind

A few who had my standard join'd;

In caverns and in brakes they lie,

Concealed from every mortal eye:—

The same protection thou, my friend,

Did'st shew to me, to them extend;

But if Glin's heir, M'Arthy More,

Should drive them from their native shore.

My home, my country, shall be their's

A heaven of rest from all their cares!

 

XVII.

Little of wealth I now can boast—

Some few gold pieces, at the most:

Barely sufficient do I keep,

To pay our voyage o'er the deep;

The rest I leave in trust with thee,

As meed for their fidelity.

And now, for ever I forsake

Killarney, and its matchless lake:—

Wilt thou promise-

 

[p. 249]

 

                        Ostman, I swear

To 'tend thy charge, with parent care;

Nay, more, I promise to procure

Their pardon from M'Arthy More.

Enough, enough.—Oh! farewell, then,

Thou kindest, gentlest, best of men!

Around his neck his arms he threw,

And loudly wept his last adieu;

While in deep and heavy sigh

Told forth his parting agony.

Free he let his sorrow flow;

But calm, suppressed was Rhinda's wo!—

She spoke not, and no tear-drop fell,

To gild her final sad farewell;

But her quivering lip confest

A lasting sorrow—ill suppress'd.

Soft now the father's blessing rose

To heaven, like that last dying close

Of vesper hymn, or requiem, sung

In holy choir, by vestal tongue.

Dermod alone had aught to say;—

Light was his heart, his humour gay;

 

[p. 250]

 

Nor reck'd to leave his native land,

When sure of Rosa's heart and hand:

And when he push'd off the boat, which bore

Them, for ever, from Saint Tinian's shore;

And bade a long and last adieu

To every isle within his view,

A smiling glance from Rosa, sly,

Soon chased the tear-drop from his eye.

 

________

 

Harp of old Erin! now thy task is o'er—

            With deep regret I take my leave of thee ;

And hang thee on the ilex bough once more,

            'Till better hand awake thy minstrelsy.

The chain of silence once more round thee thrown.

            The midnight blast again thy chords shall sweep;

And in the groves of Glenaa, sad and lone,

            Some Naiad of the Lene shall o'er thee weep,

            And try in vain to break thy magic sleep!

 

[p. 251]

 

There may be some found, in life's busy throng-,

Who will condemn that wild-drawn strain of thine;

But if thy notes are harsh, thy chords chime wrong—

            The fault, the error, gentle harp, be mine.—

For oh! how much unfit my hand, to guide

            Thy numbers bold, or fire thy warlike lays—

To sing those deeds of valour, glory, pride,

            Such as was sung by bards, in former days,

In their proud princes' and their heros' praise!

 

Oft will I ponder on thy magic power,

Which on my fancy such wild scenes have wrought;

And think how many a dull and weary hour

Thou wiled away, of vain and cheerless thought.

But now, sweet elfin harp! thy task is o'er—

            With deep regret I take my leave of thee;

And hang thee on the ilex bough once more,

            'Till better hand awake thy minstrelsy.

 

 

FINIS.

 

[p. 252]

 

(blank)

 

[p. 253]

 

NOTES TO CANTO FIRST.

 

Note 1, sanza iii. page 7.

                                     

            But ere the monarch drank, the page

            First tasted of the beverage;

            To shew innoxious was the juice

            Prepared for his royal use.

 

            In them days of feudal war and barbarity, kings always made their cup-bearers taste first of the wine presented them, lest it should contain poison: thus we read of Cyrus, when he was at the court of his grandfather, Astyages.  On presenting the cup of wine to him at the banquet, Astyages remarked that Cyrus did not taste of it; on which Cyrus excused himself, by saying that, as he saw it always made those that drank of it mad, he was afraid it would have the same effect on himself also.

 

[p. 254]

 

Note 2, sanza ix. page 16.

 

Passing the Devil’s Punch Bowl deep,

Hailed Mangerton, with mazy sweep.

 

            The Devil’s Punch Bowl is a circular lake, near the sum mit of Mangerton – so called by the peasantry, from its great depth and form; supposed to be the crater of an extinguished volcano.  Turk’s Cascade is formed by the waters of this lake; and near it is another, on the opposite mountain, called Poul na Coppol, which, in the English language, signifies the horse’s hole.

 

Note 3, stanza xi. page 20.

 

The wily stag had turned, to take

The waters of that dark blue lake.

 

            It always happens that the stag, to avoid the hounds and hunters, takes to the water, wherever it can find it: and it was a ruse so frequently made use of by the hunted hart, near the shores of the Lene, that the hunters had always ready, boats, on the different parts of the lake, to be prepared for a water chase, the instant he gave them the slip; -- nor is a staghunt less frequent there on the water than on the land.  Occasionally Lord Kenmare gives one, thus: The deer being started, on Glenaa mountain, or the Toomies, is hunted down to the wood, near the water’s edge, when, finding himself closely pressed by men and dogs, he collects, at one effort, his remaining strength – gives a desperate bound, and plunges into the lake, the hunters following in boats; ‘till fatigued and overpowered, he is seized – his antlers decked with arbutus boughs, and borne in triumph to the shore, a victim fit for a monarch’s table.

 

[p. 255]

 

Note 4, stanza xii. page 20.

 

Within a ruin’d Druid fane

Rhinda tied her bridle rein

To an aged oak-tree’s pendant bough,

Beneath which many a rite and vow

Was offered up, at morn’s first light,

By Druid priest, and Pagan knight!

 

            The Druids were certain learned Pagan priests, of the ancient Brintons and Gauls: they lived naked in the woods, feeding on berries and wild venison, and applying themselves to the study of philosophy.  They always celebrated their superstitious rites under the oak, which tree was considered sacred by them.  It is generally believed they came from Brittain to this country; yet we do not find them mentioned in the history of the island, until the arrival of the Picts, whose general, it is said, had one with him, whose knowledge in physic was so great, that he invented an antidote which defeated the effects of the poison used by the Britons in poisoning their arrows, when they first invaded the kingdom, which gained the Irish a complete victory over them.  Vide Comerford’s History, p. 20.

 

Note 5, stanza xiii. page 22.

 

And marble rocks, and caverns wide,

In gloomy grandeur, frown’d beside.

 

            The coast of Mucruss Lake is one of the most beautiful in the world, being decorated with a continued wood of arbutus, holly, chestnut, &c. &c.; and the shore being chiefly composed of lime-stone, is, in many places, worn, from the

 

[p. 256]

 

action of the water into caverns and deep recesses, supported by pillars which the water has not yet quite worn away – presenting to the eye a scene romantically beautiful and curious.

 

Note 6, stanza xiv. page 24.

 

The figure of a minstrel sage

Advanced – and bending low with age

 

            This description of a wandering minstrel is not entirely imaginary; for I have myself met an itinerant harper, in the lower part of the barony of Tyrawly, in the county of Mayo, whose appearance accorded with that given of Cathal, in stanza xiv. and xv. of this poem, except that he carred his harp, which was a Welsh one, on his back – not the small Irish lyre here mentioned.

 

Note 7, stanza xviii. page 30.

 

Where Druids, with the gentry, keep

Their revels here, when mortals sleep.

 

            The lower Irish, particularly the illiterate, always call the fairies the gentry or good people, whom they hold in great respect; and have a strong belief in all dark groves, ruined buildings, and those little mounds or green hillocks we so often meet with in the country parts of the island, which are nothing more than tumulusses, or ancient Irish graves, and are usually denominated forts, they verily believe are inhabited by the good people, and always shew as places not to be approached with impunity.

 

[p. 257]

 

Note 8, stanza xviii. page 30.

 

The elfin dart they’ve at her cast –

Or stay’d her, by a charmed blast.

 

            The elfin dart is a pebble, or sharp-pointed flint stone, which, they say, the little people throw at any person or beast whom they may fancy.  If it hits the object, it becomes their property.  A lady, on whose veracity I might rely, told me once, that as she was walking through a field, she heard something whiz  by her ear, like the swift motion of some hard substance, thrown from a distance, and falling a few yards from her.  On taking it up, she found it to be a piece of flint, which, on showing to some of the country people, they instantly pronounced to be a scythe, or elfin dart – begging of her never to part it, but keep it, as a talisman against their attacks in the future – saying it had the power of preserving from harm the person in whose possession it was; but she, of course, being too well informed to give credence to such nonsense, threw it away.

 

Note 9, stanza xviii. page 30.

 

The victim of a sleeping spell.

 

            Another general belief among the peasantry is, that any person found sleeping in the open air, or found dead, without any assignable cause, or taking a sudden pain when out of doors, has received a blast, or is under the influence of a spell from the fairies; and often, I fear, such unfortunate persons as have been found apparently famished to death, when travelling in extreme cold weather, or have met with any acci-

 

[p. 258]

 

dent when in the open air, have often fallen victims to this barbarous superstition – for it generally prevents any restorative means being tried for their benefit.

 

Note 10, stanza xx. page 35.

 

Cathal’ now unclasped the chain,

Which for many years had lain

Within his breast, and thereunto

A red heart, tied with ribbon blue.

 

            A small cushion, generally made of a piece of red cloth, and cut in the form of a heart, is worn suspended from a string round the necks of children, as a preservative against witchcraft: sometimes they contain a little salt and on old nail; sometimes a few dried herbs, such as shamrocks, fairy grass, &c. &c. but generally, in the lower part of the country of Mayo, they substitute a little of the clay of Saint Cummin’s grave, or a little of the gravel, brought from the shores of Loch Derg, or Saint Patrick’s purgatory, in an island in that lake, by the pilgrims who visit it.  I remember finding one of those little amulets once, and on opening it, found it to contain nothing but what appeared to be dried herbs and grass.

 

Note 12, stanza xxi. page 36.

 

Then, lady, since it is thy will,

That I should keep the red heart still,

I’ll give you, what the old ones say

Is full as good – Saint Cummin’s clay!

 

            Cummin Fion, or the fair, according to Ware, was a native

 

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of Tyrconnell, and descended from the princes of that country; he received his education in the celebrated monastery of “Hy, or Icollumkill,” where he became eminent for piety and learning.  Returning to Ireland, he landed at a small creek, forming the western extremity of the bay of Rathfran – a place since rendered remarkable by the French landing there under Humbert, in 1798.  Here Cummin founded the cell or monastery of Kilcummin; the walls of which, after a lapse of twelve centuries, are still standing entire; he also founded several other cells in different parts of the kingdom, and became celebrated among the Irish people for his sanctity.

            The controversy respecting the time of celebrating the Easter festival, distracted the Irish church at this period – one part adopting the Roman rite – the other following tradition, and the custom of the Asiatic churches.  Cummin, as may appear from his epistle to Segeanus, Abbot of “Hy,” after much consideration, and in union with Ailbe Kiaran, &c. decided in favour of the Roman rite: his example prevailed with the dissenting Irish churches, who all conformed to his decision.  The memory of this pious man is held in the greatest veneration by the peasantry of the surrounding country, who celebrate his festival, on the 11th of November – coming in vast numbers on that day, to perform what they call a station of penace round a well, dedicated to the saint adjoining the church-yard of Kilcummin.  His grave is also pointed out by the country people in the burial ground, at the head of which was placed a square stone slab, inscribed with the ancient Irish contracted characters.  This relic of antiquity, hitherto undecyphered, has been lately removed by a Roman Catholic clergyman.

 

[p. 260]

 

       Numerous traditions are still current among the neighbouring peasantry, respecting Kilcummins – the marvelous, as usual, occupying a prominent place: they affect to point out in the adjoining bay a rock, into which, it is said, the ship in which Cummin, made his voyage was transformed; and assert, that the cell or monastery (which is not large) never can be filled; and that if a female enters it, a death will ensue in her family within the year.  To the stone slab already mentioned they attribute the power that if turned, in revenge or retaliation, especially by one of the name of Mahon, or, as they spell their name in the Irish tongue, Maughan, against any individual, the most dreadful misfortunes and punishments awaited the unfortunate victim; also, they possess the power of raising the clay of the saint’s grave on the anniversary of his festival – a privilege granted to them by the saint, for the kindness shewn to him, on his coming to Ireland, by their ancestors.  A small portion of this clay the peasantry always carry about their persons, as they faithfully believe that it is a preservative against sudden death, witchcraft, &c. &c.

      

       Note 13, stanza xxv. page 42.

      

       Warrior prince of Heber’s line,

       Every joy on earth be thine!

       For none more generous or brave

       

       E’er sailed upon Killarney’s wave.

      

       O’Donoghue, the hero of this Poem, was a Melisian, claiming descent from Heber Fionn, the eldest son of Melisius, king of Spain.  He was one of those petty princes, whose greatness consisted more in their warlike actions, and the number and strength of their sept, than in the extent of their terri-

      

[p. 261]

      

tory.  His did not extend beyond the mountains which enclose the Lakes of Killarney.  He was a very great warrior, and had several engagements with the Danes: his castle, in the isle of Ross, was besieged by them; but, owing to his bravery, and that of his followers, could never be taken.

            Nor was he less distinguished for his valour than for his munificence and hospitality – the latter of which was so unbounded, that it is said an ox was killed every day, along with sheep and poultry innumerable, for the consumption of his household, and the vast number of followers and strangers he always entertained.  He was skilled in all the learning of the times, particularly in that of the Druids, and was well versed in magic, which the Druids introduced into the kingdom; for Ware tells us that Pliny considered the Druids of the Gauls magicians; and with what superstition they gathered the herb by them called Salaga, with their right had – and another, called Samolin, with the left, against the diseases of their swine and oxen.  Tradition says, he could transform himself into any shape he pleased; and that, through the devil’s assistance, he conquered his enemies; and that his satanic majesty supplied him with unbounded wealth, and granted him every thing he wished for – but that he sold him his soul, for such vain and transitory glory.  He lived a long time on earth, without being subjected to those decays of nature incident to the human body – but ever retained the vigour and bloom of youth, though the lapse of numerous years might have ranked him with the oldest in the island.  It is likewise related, that he made his exit from this world, by plunging into the lake, but that he re-appeared again, when a year and a day had elapsed, rising from the depths of the lake, on a snow white charger –

 

[p. 262]

 

arrayed in all the splendour of majesty, the waters parting before him, and the rays of his glory illuminating every place he visited – for he never appears until after sun-set; and there is generally a lapse of two or three years between every visit he pays to his terrestrial dominions.  The peasantry believe that his coming always portends a plentiful year; and some go so far as to say, that they have not only seen, but conversed with him, not knowing him at the time; -- they did so until the opening of the lake, at his approach; and his disappearance into his subaqueous dominions convinced them who he was.

 

[p. 263]

 

NOTES TO CANTO SECOND.

 

Note 1, stanza i. page 47.

 

From the humble cot to the banquet hall,

Young Dermod’s joke was known to all;

And much his company had been

Sought to enliven festive scene.

 

            In days of yore every king kept his fool, or merry-andrew – nay, even nobles also, to amuse them by their buffoonery; and it is recorded of some, who used to consult them on business of importance and emergency – placing as much reliance on their wild and ambiguous answers, as if they were oracles.

            The Irish still retain a predilection for those poor but happy beings; never refusing them (or indeed any description of mendicant) the shelter of their lowly dwelling, or a portion of their humble fare; but there is still a personage whom the lower Irish hold in great estimation, and pay as much deference to as if he was being of superior order, who claiming no affinity to the character of a fool or simpleton, but generally possessing more craft than wit, they dignify by the name of Fhar-grawn, which, in English, signifies a merry-andrew.  When a marriage takes place, this person, generally accompanied by a party of peasant youths, comes, dressed in straw,

 

[p. 264]

 

with their faces blackened; and having danced, and performed their antics, receive their meed of the good cheer provided for the bridal.

            Also, when a death happens, he is sent for to amuse those who assemble at the wake, as it is commonly called.  He there causes, by his drollery, and pantomimic actions and gestures, roars of laughter – turning what should be a scene of solemnity and mourning, into a place of merriment and levity.

 

Note 2, stanza ii. page 49.

 

One of Saint Aman’s pupils, thou?

 

            Innisfallen’s abbey, of which scarce a vestige is to be seen now, was once a very rich house of Benedictines, and one of the oldest religious foundations in the kingdom, being founded by Tinian, or as some antiquaries write, Finian, son of Alild, king of Munster, at the instigation of Saint Brandon; it was a very great seminary for youth, and also deemed such a secure sanctuary, that the princes and nobles of the country deposited their treasures and valuable effects in it, for the greater security, in times of trouble: yet, nothwithstanding, we read of it being plundered, in 1180, by Maolduin, son of Daniel Donoghue, one of the petty princes of the country, aided by the M’Arthys; and many of its clergy were slain in its cemetery.

 

Note 3, stanza iii. page 51.

 

You know him? astonished Dermod said.

Well, replied the hunter – for his blade

Has often drunk my kindred’s blood,

By mount, by glen, by fell and flood!

 

            Straggling parties of Danes and Norwegians often landed

 

[p. 265]

 

on different parts of the Irish coast, for the purpose of plunder; and often, when they found the place undefended, they used to remain, and build villages.  One of those invading parties having landed at Dingle Bay, advanced as far into the country as the Lakes of Killarney.  O’Donoghue gave them battle – defeating them, according to the tradition of the country, with great slaughter; but some of them having retreated to their shipping, sailed round to other parts of the island, where they took in a reinforcement of their countrymen; and being joined by some of the disaffected peasantry, marched again to the lakes, and besieged his castle, in the Isle of Ross, from whence again the monarch drove them, with immense loss on their side.  Their chief, or prince, whom I here have called Vosco, having fallen beneath his hand, near Ventry, the Ostmen entered into a truce with O’Donoghue, promising, if he did not poose their settling on the coast, they would never encroach on his territory in the future.  To this proposal he acceded; but in a short time after, some nobles, who envied him his great wealth, and well-earned glory – and, perhaps, actuated by a feeling of revenge, for his still continuing to exact tribute, or as it was called, black meal, from the neighbouring chiefs, who, according to the laws of Gossipred, were not only obliged to entertain him and his followers, whenever he took it into his head to pay them a visit; but also to grant him such subsidies as he required; which custom Ware mentions in his historical relations of Ireland – along with that of coigne and livery, (which was that of all the inhabitants being obliged to supply the military force of the kingdom with victuals, money, and horses,) was the means of ruining Ireland; for it made beggars and idlers of the natives, they not caring

           

[p. 266]

 

to cultivate the ground, or labour for the use of others.  These nobles promising to assist the Ostmen in the recovery of their lost fame and fortune, induced them to break the truce with O’Donoghue, which they did; and, commanded by the son of their prince, they again besieged O’Donoghue’s castle; but he, being well prepared for them, beat them off, as usual.  It was in this last engagement that he left Hengist, the son of Vosco, (imaginary names) dead, as he supposed, on the banks of the Flesk.  Following up his victory, O’Donoghue pursued his enemies to the sea side, where all those who were fortunate enough to escape the vengeance of his sword, put to sea, in fishermen’s boats.  After this defeat of the Danes and Norwegians, tradition says, that they never attempted to settle in that part of the island after, so much was the hero of the lakes, as O’Donoghue was called, dreaded by them.

 

Note 4, stanza iv. page 53.

 

Knows every mountain, pass, and ford –

And wields, with ease, great Oscar’s sword!

 

            It is not likely that this sword, generally used by O’Donoghue, was really the one so much celebrated in one of the poems of Ossian, as being wielded with such great and destructive success by the mighty Oscar; but as tradition is ever blended with the fabulous and wonderful, it is probable, on account of the havoc committed in battle by O’Donoghue, that the Irish, who are always fond of the marvelous, might have assigned the above title to it.

 

[p. 267]

 

Note 5, stanza v. page 55.

 

And oft’ the peasants pause, to hear

Such music floating on the air –

So like it is to that wild glee,

Oft’ sung at midnight by Ban-shie.

 

            The Irish have their Ban-shies as well as the Scotch; they are said often to announce to particular families the death or marriage of any of its members; -- if the former, it is done by a low moaning wail or cry – if the latter, by a song, caroled in a lively manner.  She is represented as a very little woman, clad in a blue or red mantle, with her hair streaming about her shoulders.

 

Note 6, stanza v. page 55.

 

And echo slumbers in her cave!

 

            The echoes of Killarney are remarkably loud and distinct, particularly those near that immense perpendicular rock of marble, called the Eagle’s Nest; and the peasantry dwelling near the lakes are at no loss to account for the wonderful reverberation of sounds there – attributing it to supernatural agency.

 

Note 7, stanza x. page 63.

 

The Prison Isle! – may blackest night,

He added, hide thee from my sight –

Thou dreaded place of grief – of pains –

Of captive, groaning in his chains!

Oh! how thy shores and shades I hate –

So dark, and wildly desolate!

 

            The Prison Island, or, as it was called, O’Donoghue’s Pri-

 

[p. 268]

 

son, is a small island lying mid-way between Cherry Isle and that of Innisfallen. A rock is shewn in it, to which, it is said, O’Donoghue used occasionally chain a rebellious subject, leaving the victim, without food or raiment, exposed – until the severity of the weather put a period to his existence.

 

Note 8, stanza xii. page 67.

 

Mark you yon lone shade!

The stripling to the Ostman said,

Where rises that pile of rocks – the hold

Of Fin M’Uil, a chieftain bold!

 

            Numerous and wonderful are the stories told of this gigantic chieftain.  Some will have him to be the same as the great Fionn MacCumhal, who, along with his giant associates, it is said, build the Giant’s Causeway, in country of Antrim; and were called by the Scandanavians the Son’s of Frost: but whether he be the same, or the savage and gigantic chief spoken of by O’Kelly, in his Killarney, wherein he says:

Once in that vale an Irish chieftain sway’d,

Called Fin M’Uil, great monarch of the shade;

Whose tow’ring height, terrific, once as bold,

Caught every eye still anxious to behold.

            There was another Fionn MacCumhal, from whom the militia, or standing force of the kingdom, took its name – being called in the Irish tongue Fiana Eirion: he was their general, and a man of distinguished bravery, and good conduct.  Vide Comerford’s Ireland, p. 219.

 

Note 9, stanza xxvi. page 87.

 

Hence, offspring of the perjured Dane!

 

            The Danes and Norwegians were merciless invaders; they

 

[p. 269]

 

never united their forces – but always continued scattered over the island, in independent companies, alternately plundering and murdering the natives – so that if one party happened to be defeated, another instantly sprung up, to revenge their cause: nor did they ever make a truce, but for the pleasure of breaking it again, when an opportunity offered.  Vide Comerford.

 

Note 10, stanza xxxi. page 98.

 

For every prayer he fervent said,

A thought of sin and sorrow fled,

Until the tears, which trickling fell,

Confest the warrior infidel

Had turned him from that gloomy way,

O’er which Gospel sun had ne’er shed ray,

And which long he had unhappy trod,

To serve now the ever living God!

 

            The sudden conversion here of Hengist to Christianity is not less remarkable than that of Aongus, King of Munster, who had been a most obstinate pagan; but on hearing of Saint Patrick being arrived in the kingdom, went to meet him, and invited him to his palace at Cashel, where he received instructions in the Christian faith, and was baptised.  It is also recorded of Aongus, that while he stood at the fount, Saint Patrick, striking his Episcopal staff on the ground, the bottom of which had a spike of iron, struck it through the foot of the king; but, notwithstanding the violence of the pain, Aongus would not stir till the ceremony was over.  The same is also related of Eogan, the son of Niall, king of Ulster. Vide Comerford, p. 66.

 

[p. 270]

 

NOTES TO CANTO THIRD.

 

Note 1, stanza ii. page 101.

 

Few there

Loved to see Glin’s orphan heir,

As he was called, frequent the board

Of him, who oft’ had stain’d his sword

In the best blood of his brave clan,

And scourged his kin with brand and ban!

 

            The families of O’Donoghue More and O’Donoghue of Glin were very nearly related – being both descended from Ces, the brother of Nadfraoch, as also, all the tribes of the O”mahonys, in the counties of Cork and Kerry.  Nor was it a very uncommon thing, in them days of uncivilization and clanship, for the nearest relations, and often the same members of a family, to turn the bitterest and most inveterate enemies – particularly where a monarchy was in question, or any property was attainable by their death.  Such was the case with Criotmhan, king of Leinster, and all Ireland – who is said to have been a prince of great learning and accomplishments; but his sister, Mung-Fion, with a prospect to obtain the crown for her son, administered poison to him in wine; and the better to induce him to drink of it, first drank

 

[p. 271]

 

of the draught herself – which killed them both.  Vide Comerford, page 59. – Also, Laoghaire Lorck, king of all Ireland, was killed by his own brother, in the following manner: he feigned himself dead, and the king coming to see him, threw himself on his brother’s body in he extremity of his grief; upon which the other ran a poignard, which he had concealed for the purpose, into the king’s body – who instantly expired.  The law of inheritance was very little respected in them days – the strongest party always keeping possession of that which they had gained by treachery and the sword; yet tis not often that those rebellious subjects have succeeded in their attempts to depose the rightful monarch; and dreadful were the punishments inflicted on them, when taken, by the victorious party.  It appears that chaining to a rock in the Prison Isle, as has already been mentioned, was the usual mode, in O’Donoghue’s time, of punishing traitors of chiefs who had rebelled against him; others were punished by a mulet, or fine – others branded in the forehead – and those who fled were declared under ban, and their property confiscated.  Vide Comerford, Ware, &c. &c.

 

Note 2, stanza xviii. page 124.

 

Them slumb’ring bard dream’d that he sung

The battle lay, and music rung

Still in his ears; --he, starting, ‘woke –

His chain of silence round him broke;

Pealed loud the chorus wild, and then

Bent o’er his harp, and slept agen.

 

            Often the memory, in sleep, recurs with such force and perspicuity to whatever has employed the thoughts before

 

[p. 272]

 

slumber, that people have been often known to divulge secrets which, during their waking hours, the tortures of the Inquisition could not, perhaps, have extracted from them: and many instances have occurred, of persons rising  in their sleep, and performing again the same actions that had employed their animal faculties during the day.  How frequently, in sleep, has though conjured up the strangest and wildest visions, which, operating on weak minds, have been often mistaken for real and manifest appearances, and supernatural revelations.  A story is told of Mozart, that he dreamed once the devil challenged him to a competition in music, which he accepted. Mozart played first, which his satanic majesty said was very well performed; and then sat down to the instrument himself, and played a piece so exquisitely beautiful, that Mozart acnowledged himself completely outdone.  So strongly was this vision stamped on his memory, that, on awaking, he instantly repaired to the piano-forte, and attempted the same himself, which he found impossible to equal; -- but he composed a piece of music, as near it as possible, to which he gave the name of The Devil’s Sonata, which is considered by some as one of his finest compositions.

 

[p. 273]

 

NOTES TO CANTO FOURTH.

 

Note 1, stanza vii. page 134.

 

That like the rain-tree’s dropping shower.

 

            The water With of Jamaica (says Dr. Sloane) is a vine growing on dry hills in the woods, where no water is to be met with: its trunk, if cut in pieces of two or three yards in length, and held by either end to the mouth, affords such a plentiful limpid, sweet, innocent, and refreshing draught, as to give new life to the thirsty traveler, or hunter.  Also, there grows in China a tree, the Bejuco, which twines round other trees with its head or nib hanging downwards.  This nib travelers cut, and presently a spout of water runs from it as clear as crystal, and enough to satisfy the thirst of six or eight men.  Vide Navarette’s Account of China, p. 355.

            Likewise, there is another tree growing in one of the South Sea Islands, from the leaves of which drop water clear and innocent, which forms a deep pool round it.

 

Note 2, stanza xii. page 143.

 

In Mucruss vale a feast to keep.

 

            Imagination cannot form a more delightful scene of romantic beauty than the peninsula of Mucruss presents to the eye; it

 

                                                            [p. 274]

 

contains, within itself, a perfect region of enchantment – its groves, and beautiful little sequestered valleys – the continual interchanges of lawn, and thicket, bower and brake – its white rocks, often conjured up by the simple and superstitious peasant, who, roaming in the twilight gloom of evening, would oft

Mistake

Them for those giant spirits of the lake

Who there, ‘tis said, take their nightly stand,

As sentinels, to guard their native strand.

Its dart and numerous caverns – its little rocky bays, which indent the northern side – and lastly, its lake, shadowed by the immense height, and bare rocky side of Turk, which flings over it such and air of gloom and grandeur, render it a spot fit only for the haunt of Spencer’s Fairy Queen, and the unearthly visions of Ariosto.

 

Note 3, stanza xiv. page 145.

 

How the Tuatha de Danas fell!

 

            The Tuatha de Danans were descended from the Nemedians, and said to be great necromancers; they were defeated and drivan out of the island, after keeping possession of it, according to Comerford, one hundred and ninety-seven years, by the Milesians.

 

Note 4, stanza xiv. page 145.

 

And how, beside the rivulet,

In Allan’s vale, great Oscar met

His fate.

 

            Many are the traditions concerning the hill of Allan – tra-

 

[p. 275]

 

ditions which bear a remarkable conformity to the descriptions given by M’Pherson.  On the south declivity of the hill is a natural cave, in which they say the body of Oscar was laid, after he was killed, and over which his faithful dog Bran watched and wept.  A few feet from the cave is the well, sacred to the manes of Oscar, and still much frequented by pilgrims.  To the west of the same side is his tomb – marked by one gray stone; and in the vale of Allan, through which runs the rivulet of Durthola, near which the battle was fought in which the hero lost his life, the peasantry pretend to shew stones still deeply stained with blood, which they say dropped from his wounds.

 

Note 5, stanza xiv. page 145.

 

And how Turgesius died –

Thrown, fetter’d, into Loch Annin’s tide.

 

            Turgesius, the Norwegian, being elected monarch by the Danes, upon the death of Nial, king of Ireland, built a magnificent palace near that of Tara, in Meath.  Being at an entertainment given by Maolseachlum, the king of the country, there, he is said to have fallen in love with that monarch’s daughter, a princess of great beauty, who sat at table.  Turgesius demanded her of her father – promising him she should be his favourite mistress. The king of Meath, not daring to incense him by a refusal, well knowing he would take her by force, whether he liked it or not, agreed to send her to his palace, accompanied by fifteen of the most celebrated beauties that his small territories afforded – begging of Turgesius not to mention it, as it would perhaps prevent him hereafter disposing of her in marriage suitable to her quality.  The Nor-

 

[p. 276]

 

wegian joyfully agreed to this; and on the evening the princess was to arrive, being heated with wine, he discovered his intrigue to fifteen of his principal officers – promising to bestow on each of them a lady of consummate beauty.  When the princess and her ladies arrived, they were conducted before him.  Turgesius arose to receive them; and on approaching the princess, the supposed ladies – who were fifteen of the most beautiful and resolute youths in the country, drew from under their cloaks short swords, and,  laying hold of him, threatened him with instant death, if he called for assistance, which so terrified him, that he submitted, and they immediately bound him with cords; then, destroying all they met, they entered the apartments of his officers, who were unarmed, and put them to death.  By this time the king of Meath arrived at the palace, with a chosen body of troops; and on receiving a signal from his friends within, forced his way into it, and completed the tragedy, by putting all the Danes to the sword; and, after upbraiding Turgesius with his many and excessive cruelties on the Irish, he ordered him to be loaded with irons, and carried before him to his palace, in Meath, where he kept him some time closely confined, until he had conquered all the Danes and Norwegians in the kingdom, and finally expelled them from it, which, when he had done, he caused Turgesius to be thrown into Loch Annin, bound as he was, where her perished, in the sight of vast crowds of people.  Vide Comerford, p. 128.

 

[p. 277]

 

NOTES TO CANTO FIFTH.

 

Note 1, stanza iv. page 155.

 

Where elves and spirits of the air,

They, say, on Hollow-e’en repair!

 

            Hallow-e’en, or All Saints Eve, in now as little thought of in Ireland as any other eve in the year; yet, in some of the country parts of the kingdom, the inhabitants make some attempt at keeping up the old custom of celebrating it, by giving little social parties, when the young people amuse themselves burning nuts, diving for apples, &c. &c.  Yet we read, that in days long gone by, its anniversary was kept up with all the pomp, solemnity, and superstition, incident to them times of ignorance, superstition and credulity; and that the book of fate was consulted through the means of witches, wizards, &c. when

Every tree, shrub, bush and briar,

Took the foul form of goblin dire;

And river, fountain, stream, and well,

Consulted were, as oracle –

And herbs were pull’d, and spells were said,

Among the lone dwelling of the dead;

And voices strange were heard in air,

From saints invoked, and spirits, there –

And phantoms fair or dreadful came,

In vision real, or midnight dream.

                        Oral Tales.

 

[p. 278]

 

Note 2, stanza vii. page 159.

 

Great Odin, prince of all the West,

Who in the depths of chaos rest,

Arise!

 

            Odin, king of the Scandinavians, is said to have possessed the gift of prophecy from his mother, who was accounted a witch; he was a very great warrior, and extended his dominions greatly by the means of conquest.  Some writers aver that he came over to Ireland, and after subjugating it returned again to his own country.  It is also recorded that he predicted his descendants would possess the island, which was partly verified by the Danes and Norwegians being masters of it for so long a period as they were: -- in all probability, they were the first to assign supernatural power and agency to him in the island.

 

Note 3, stanza xii. page 166.

 

His old and faithful wolf-dog, Sru –

The fiercest of his canine crew.

 

            The race of wolf-dogs are long since become extinct in Ireland; they have been always mentioned by historians, as possessing great strength, large proportion, and elegant shape.

 

Note 4, stanza xii. page 167.

 

And while he gave, at the utmost ward,

The watch-word to his faithful guard.

 

            Ross Castle was a place of some strength, if we can credit the accounts handed down to posterity of many sieges it has stood – It is still almost perfect, part of it being con-

 

[p. 279]

verted into a barrack: a narrow gut, scarcely navigable for boats, separates it from the shore, over which there is a bridge for the conveniency of the castle in the days of O’Donoghue, when the Danes were eternally making inroads on his territory.  There were picketed kerns, as they were denominated, being foot soldiers, armed with daggers or skeyns, round the island, and also in different passes of the mountains, and in the open plain, who were to give notice of the approach of the enemy – which was done by a shrill cry, in which they pronounced the words Fara, Fara, which, according to Sir James Ware’s account, was the war cry of the ancient Irish.  These little out-posts I have termed, perhaps not inapplicable, wards.

 

Note 5, stanza xix. Page 176.

 

Oh, taste it not! – there is a spell

Spoken o’er it by the prince of hell –

Thy faith from the true God to sever,

And bind thy soul to him for ever!

 

            I have here deviated from the current tradition of the country, which says he sold his soul to the devil for the vanities of this world – a tradition which I deemed very inconsistent with the character given him magnanimity and clemency; besides, there is something so very dreadful in the idea of any human being been so wicked, that the heart revolts at the mere mention of it, so that by giving a new turn to the legend of the lakes, I have painted its hero in less horrific colours, without despoiling tradition of the marvelous, wild, or terrible.

 

[p. 280]

 

Note 6, stanza xxxi. page 192.

 

The morning dawn’d – the woodcock crew.

 

            The woodcock, or, as Geraldus Cambrensis calls it, the wood pheasant, vide Ware, p. 20, has been always considered by the lower Irish with a degree of superstitious veneration and respect.  Even to this day, the common barn-door cock, they believe, has the power of banishing all evil spirits by his crowing.  As a scarecrow has the effect of frightening away the fowls of the air from a field of corn, so it is believed a cock can eject goblins’ foul and midnight phantasy from the humble dwelling of the native Hibernian.

            There are three things, they say, the devil cannot take the shape of – a cock, a lamb, and a dove; also, the following is the divination they give of cock-crowing: if he should crow before sunset, and an even number of times, it augurs good news, or a change in the family to whom he belongs, for the better; if the number of times be odd, it portends evil.  Also, the cock is sometimes the peasant’s barometer: -- if he should crow at or before twelve in the forenoon, and the day be wet, it will brighten up, and be a fair day after.  I have frequently seen the lower Irish bless themselves, and sign the form of the cross on their foreheads, when a cock crew; and also, when they saw a candle lighted, or a funeral approach them, which I suppose to be done as a preservative against any impending evil.

 

[p. 281]

 

NOTES TO CANTO SIXTH.

 

Note 1, stanza ix. page 205.

 

Which binds thy brave immortal soul

Where midnight planets glitt’ring roll;

Or in that dark immensity,

Regions of eternity –

Where neither sun or stars illume

The vast, illimitable gloom!

 

            Let it not be supposed here I mean any allusion to the purgatory of Romanists; for, in the dark ages of which I write, their notions of a future state were as vague and undefined as that of the Druids themselves, from whom, it is supposed, the native Irish have imbibed a great deal of their superstitions and wild visionary notions, which, like heir-looms in a family, have been transmitted from one generation to another, nothing diminished in wonder or folly.

 

Note 2, stanza xiv. page 212.

 

Acknowledged by the isles around,

And in full assembly crowned.

 

            The following was the ceremony observed in inaugurating the kings of the family of O’Donnel; but whether it was in the same manner the other petty kings of the island were

 

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crowned, history does not say: -- The king sat upon the summit of a hill, surrounded by the principal nobility and gentry of his country; and one of the chief of them, advancing towards him, presented him with a straight white rod, saying, receive, O King! the command of they own country, and distribute justice impartially among thy subjects.

            The rod being straight and white, recommended to the king uprightness in judgment, and also intimated to him that he should rule with clean and unspotted hands – never staining them with the blood of his people.  Vide Comerford, p. 217.

 

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NOTES TO CANTO SEVENTH.

 

Note 1, stanza i. page 226.

 

And wended down the raven glen,

Which she was ne’er to pass agen.

 

            Scarce a glen, brake, rock, dell or cavern, in the isles, or to be found on the mainland shores of the lakes, but is dignified by some name, either appropriate to its local situation, near or on it; yet, frequently, the person who may accompany strangers as guides, name them according to his fancy – never failing to give to each its respective concomitant of the marvelous and romantic.

 

Note 2, stanza vii. page 235.

 

And bear thee to

Where prince or slave dare not pursue.

 

            Abbeys, in the first era of christianity in Ireland, were held so sacred, that no person taking shelter within their walls dare to be sought for in them; even murderers, by availing themselves of this privilege, and claiming the protection of the superiors, often escaped the punishment due to their crime.

 

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Note 3, stanza xi. Page 241.

 

Or yet, perhaps – he paused, to list’ –

An islander his way hath missed;

Beguiled through dingle, vale and swamp,

By will-o’-the-wisp’s alluring lamp!

 

            The ignus fatuus, or ground meteor, so often seen in the summer season in swampy places, church-yards, bogs, &c. &c. occasioned by vicious or gross exhalation being often kindled by refracting currents of air, is universally believed by the peasantry to be one of the fairies commonly called will-o’-the-wisp, who carries a lanthorn or a light bundle of straw, as the word wisp implies, to lead the traveler astray, for the purpose of destroying him.  The only method they have of defeating the designs of this mischievous elf is, by turning their jacket, cap, cloak or hat, according to the pleasure or convenience of the person so bewildered, when instantly the light vanishes, and the infatuation is at an end.  Fishermen have the same belief; -- if they think they are going out of the right direction, they immediately reverse some part of their dress, when they instantly become sensible of where they are, and then steer in the right course.

 

Note 4, stanza xvi. Page 247.

 

He cannot break his oath, until

I free him from it – such my will.

 

            We find in history many instances where subjects were frequently absolved from their allegiance by the Roman Pontiffs, and likewise their inferior clergy exercised the same privilege to their flocks.

 

THE END.

 

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ERRATA.

Canto I.        Stanza vii.        page 11, for blight, read blithe.

                                                page 13, for do, read do.

Canto II.     Stanza xv.          page 71, for cyprus, read cypress.

                      Stanza xvi.       page 73, for headlong, read headland.

Canto III.    Stanza vii.         page 108, for bland, read blanch’d.

                      Stanza ix.          page 111, for blight, read blithe.

                      Stanza xvi        page 121, for do, read do.

Canto IV.    Stanza i.             page 127, for bland, read blanch’d.

Canto V.     Stanza ii.            page 150, for elfs, read elves.