Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy Part 18

What boots it, with an iron hand To tear a chieftain from his land, And dim that sweetest light that lies In a fond wife's adoring eyes?

"If thus I madly teach my clan, What can I hope from beast or man?

Fidelity a crime is found, Or else why chain this faithful hound?

Obedience, too, a crime must be, Or else this steed were roaming free; And woman's love the worst of sins, Or Anne were queen of Antrim's Glynnes!

"If, when I reach my home to-night, I see the yellow moonbeam's light Gleam through the broken gate and wall Of my strong fort of Donegal; If I behold my kinsmen slain, My barns devoid of golden grain, How can I curse the pirate crew For doing what this hour I do?

"Well, in Columba's blessed name, This day shall be a day of fame,-- A day when Con in victory's hour Gave up the untasted sweets of power; Gave up the fairest dame on earth, The n.o.blest steed that e'er wore girth, The n.o.blest hound of Irish breed, And all to do a generous deed."

He turned and loosed MacDonnell's hand, And led him where his steed doth stand; He placed the bride of peerless charms Within his longing, outstretched arms; He freed the hound from chain and band, Which, leaping, licked his master's hand; And thus, while wonder held the crowd, The generous chieftain spoke aloud:--

"MacJohn, I heard in wrathful hour That thou in Antrim's glynnes possessed The fairest pearl, the sweetest flower That ever bloomed on Erin's breast.

I burned to think such prize should fall To any Scotch or Saxon man, But find that Nature makes us all The children of one world-spread clan.

"Within thy arms thou now dost hold A treasure of more worth and cost Than all the thrones and crowns of gold That valour ever won or lost; Thine is that outward perfect form, Thine, too, the subtler inner life, The love that doth that bright shape warm: Take back, MacJohn, thy peerless wife!"

"They praised thy steed. With wrath and grief I felt my heart within me bleed, That any but an Irish chief Should press the back of such a steed; I might to yonder smiling land The n.o.ble beast reluctant lead; But, no!--he'd miss thy guiding hand-- Take back, MacJohn, thy n.o.ble steed.

"The praises of thy matchless hound, Burned in my breast like acrid wine; I swore no chief on Irish ground Should own a n.o.bler hound than mine; 'Twas rashly sworn, and must not be, He'd pine to hear the well-known sound, With which thou call'st him to thy knee, Take back, MacJohn, thy matchless hound.

"MacJohn, I stretch to yours and you This hand beneath G.o.d's blessed sun, And for the wrong that I might do Forgive the wrong that I have done; To-morrow all that we have ta'en Shall doubly, trebly be restored: The cattle to the gra.s.sy plain, The goblets to the oaken board.

"My people from our richest meads Shall drive the best our broad lands hold For every steed a hundred steeds, For every steer a hundred-fold; For every scarlet cloak of state A hundred cloaks all stiff with gold; And may we be with hearts elate Still older friends as we grow old.

"Thou'st bravely won an Irish bride-- An Irish bride of grace and worth-- Oh! let the Irish nature glide Into thy heart from this hour forth; An Irish home thy sword has won, A new-found mother blessed the strife; Oh! be that mother's fondest son, And love the land that gives you life!

"Betwixt the Isles and Antrim's coast, The Scotch and Irish waters blend; But who shall tell, with idle boast, Where one begins and one doth end?

Ah! when shall that glad moment gleam, When all our hearts such spell shall feel?

And blend in one broad Irish stream, On Irish ground for Ireland's weal?

"Love the dear land in which you live, Live in the land you ought to love; Take root, and let your branches give Fruits to the soil they wave above; No matter what your foreign name, No matter what your sires have done, No matter whence or when you came, The land shall claim you as a son!"

As in the azure fields on high, When Spring lights up the April sky, The thick battalioned dusky clouds Fly o'er the plain like routed crowds Before the sun's resistless might!

Where all was dark, now all is bright; The very clouds have turned to light, And with the conquering beams unite!

Thus o'er the face of John MacJohn A thousand varying shades have gone; Jealousy, anger, rage, disdain, Sweep o'er his brow--a dusky train; But nature, like the beam of spring, Chaseth the crowd on sunny wing; Joy warms his heart, hope lights his eye, And the dark pa.s.sions routed fly!

The hands are clasped--the hound is freed, Gone is MacJohn with wife and steed, He meets his spearsmen some few miles, And turns their scowling frowns to smiles: At morn the crowded march begins Of steeds and cattle for the glynnes; Well for poor Erin's wrongs and griefs, If thus would join her severed chiefs!

77. A beautiful inlet, about six miles west of Donegal.

78. Lough Eask is about two miles from Donegal. Inglis describes it as being as pretty a lake, on a small scale, as can well be imagined.

79. The sands of Rosapenna are described as being composed of "hills and dales, and undulating swells, smooth, solitary, and desolate, reflecting the sun from their polished surface," &c.

80. "Clan Dalaigh" is a name frequently given by Irish writers to the Clan O'Donnell.

81. The "Fairy Gun" is an orifice in a cliff near Bundoran (four miles S.W. of Ballyshannon), into which the sea rushes with a noise like that of artillery, and from which mist, and a chanting sound, issue in stormy weather.

82. The waterfall at Ballyshannon.

83. The O'Donnells are descended from Conal Golban, son of Niall of the Nine Hostages.

84. Cushendall is very prettily situated on the eastern coast of the county Antrim. This, with all the territory known as the "Glynnes" (so called from the intersection of its surface by many rocky dells), from Glenarm to Ballycastle, was at this time in the possession of the MacDonnells, a clan of Scotch descent. The princ.i.p.al castle of the MacDonnells was at Glenarm.

85. The Rock of Doune, in Kilmacrenan, where the O'Donnells were inaugurated.

86. The Hebrides.

87. Carrick-a-rede (Carraig-a-Ramhad)--the Rock in the Road lies off the coast, between Ballycastle and Portrush; a chasm sixty feet in breadth, and very deep, separates it from the coast.

88. The waterfall of a.s.saroe, at Ballyshannon.

89. St. Columba, who was an O'Donnell.

90. "This bird (the Gannet) flys through the s.h.i.+p's sails, piercing them with his beak."--O'Flaherty's "H-Iar Connaught," p. 12, published by the Irish Archaeological Society.

91. She was the wife of Oisin, the bard, who is said to have lived and sung for some time at Cushendall, and to have been buried at Donegal.

92. The Rock of Clough-i-Stookan lies on the sh.o.r.e between Glenarm and Cushendall; it has some resemblance to a gigantic human figure.--"The winds whistle through its crevices like the wailing of mariners in distress."--Hall's "Ireland," vol. iii., p. 133.

93. "The Gray Man's Path" (Casan an fir Leith) is a deep and remarkable chasm, dividing the promontory of Fairhead (or Benmore) in two.

THE BELL-FOUNDER.

PART I.--LABOUR AND HOPE.

In that land where the heaven-tinted pencil giveth shape to the splendour of dreams, Near Florence, the fairest of cities, and Arno, the sweetest of streams, 'Neath those hills[94] whence the race of the Geraldine wandered in ages long since, For ever to rule over Desmond and Erin as martyr and prince, Lived Paolo, the young Campanaro,[95] the pride of his own little vale-- Hope changed the hot breath of his furnace as into a sea-wafted gale; Peace, the child of Employment, was with him, with prattle so soothing and sweet, And Love, while revealing the future, strewed the sweet roses under his feet.

Ah! little they know of true happiness, they whom satiety fills, Who, flung on the rich breast of luxury, eat of the rankness that kills.

Ah! little they know of the blessedness toil-purchased slumber enjoys, Who, stretched on the hard rack of indolence, taste of the sleep that destroys, Nothing to hope for, or labour for; nothing to sigh for, or gain; Nothing to light in its vividness, lightning-like, bosom and brain; Nothing to break life's monotony, rippling it o'er with its breath: Nothing but dulness and lethargy, weariness, sorrow, and death!

But blessed that child of humanity, happiest man among men, Who, with hammer, or chisel, or pencil, with rudder, or ploughshare, or pen, Laboureth ever and ever with hope through the morning of life, Winning home and its darling divinities--love-wors.h.i.+pped children and wife, Round swings the hammer of industry, quickly the sharp chisel rings, And the heart of the toiler has throbbings that stir not the bosom of kings; He the true ruler and conqueror, he the true king of his race, Who nerveth his arm for life's combat, and looks the strong world in the face.

And such was young Paolo! The morning, ere yet the faint starlight had gone, To the loud-ringing workshop beheld him move joyfully light-footed on.

In the glare and the roar of the furnace he toiled till the evening star burned, And then back again through that valley, as glad but more weary returned.

One moment at morning he lingers by that cottage that stands by the stream, Many moments at evening he tarries by that cas.e.m.e.nt that woos the moon's beam; For the light of his life and his labours, like a lamp from that cas.e.m.e.nt s.h.i.+nes In the heart-lighted face that looks out from that purple-clad trellis of vines.

Francesca! sweet, innocent maiden! 'tis not that thy young cheek is fair, Or thy sun-lighted eyes glance like stars through the curls of thy wind-woven hair; 'Tis not for thy rich lips of coral, or even thy white breast of snow, That my song shall recall thee, Francesca! but more for the good heart below.

Goodness is beauty's best portion, a dower that no time can reduce, A wand of enchantment and happiness, brightening and strengthening with use.

One the long-sigh'd-for nectar that earthliness bitterly tinctures and taints: One the fading mirage of the fancy, and one the elysium it paints.

Long ago, when thy father would kiss thee, the tears in his old eyes would start, For thy face--like a dream of his boyhood--renewed the fresh youth of his heart; He is gone; but thy mother remaineth, and kneeleth each night-time and morn, And blesses the Mother of Blessings for the hour her Francesca was born.

There are proud stately dwellings in Florence, and mothers and maidens are there, And bright eyes as bright as Francesca's, and fair cheeks as brilliantly fair; And hearts, too, as warm and as innocent, there where the rich paintings gleam, But what proud mother blesses her daughter like the mother by Arno's sweet stream?