Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy Part 32

1800-1829.

Yet! 'twas on that barren strand Sing his praise throughout the world!

Yet, 'twas on that barren strand, O'er a cowed and broken band, That his solitary hand Freedom's flag unfurled.

Yet! 'twas there in Freedom's cause, Freedom from unequal laws, Freedom for each creed and cla.s.s, For humanity's whole ma.s.s, That his voice outrang;-- And the nation at a bound, Stirred by the inspiring sound, To his side up-sprang.

Then the mighty work began, Then the war of thirty years-- Peaceful war, when words were spears, And religion led the van.

When O'Connell's voice of power, Day by day and hour by hour, Raining down its iron shower, Laid oppression low, Till at length the war was o'er, And Napoleon's conqueror, Yielded to a mightier foe.

1829.

Into the senate swept the mighty chief, Like some great ocean wave across the bar Of intercepting rock, whose jagged reef But frets the victor whom it cannot mar.

Into the senate his triumphal car Rushed like a conqueror's through the broken gates Of some fallen city, whose defenders are Powerful no longer to resist the fates, But yield at last to him whom wondering Fame awaits.

And as "sweet foreign Spenser" might have sung, Yoked to the car two wing'ed steeds were seen, With eyes of fire and flas.h.i.+ng hoofs outflung, As if Apollo's coursers they had been.

These were quick Thought and Eloquence, I ween, Bounding together with impetuous speed, While overhead there waved a flag of green, Which seemed to urge still more each flying steed, Until they reached the goal the hero had decreed.

There at his feet a captive wretch lay bound, Hideous, deformed, of baleful countenance, Whom as his blood-shot eye-b.a.l.l.s glared around, As if to kill with their malignant glance, I knew to be the fiend Intolerance.

But now no longer had he power to slay, For Freedom touched him with Ithuriel's lance, His horrid form revealing by its ray, And showed how foul a fiend the world could once obey.

Then followed after him a numerous train, Each bearing trophies of the field he won: Some the white wand, and some the civic chain, Its golden letters glistening in the sun; Some--for the reign of justice had begun-- The ermine robes that soon would be the prize Of spotless lives that all pollution shun, And some in mitred pomp, with upturned eyes, And grateful hearts invoked a blessing from the skies.

1843-1847.

A glorious triumph! a deathless deed!-- Shall the hero rest and his work half done?

Is it enough to enfranchise a creed, When a nation's freedom may yet be won?

Is it enough to hang on the wall The broken links of the Catholic chain, When now one mighty struggle for ALL May quicken the life in the land again?--

May quicken the life, for the land lay dead; No central fire was a heart in its breast,-- No throbbing veins, with the life-blood red, Ran out like rivers to east or west: Its soul was gone, and had left it clay-- Dull clay to grow but the gra.s.s and the root; But harvests for Men, ah! where were they?-- And where was the tree for Liberty's fruit?

Never till then, in victory's hour, Had a conqueror felt a joy so sweet, As when the wand of his well-won power O'Connell laid at his country's feet.

"No! not for me, nor for mine alone,"

The generous victor cried, "Have I fought, But to see my Eire again on her throne; Ah, that was my dream and my guiding thought.

To see my Eire again on her throne, Her tresses with lilies and shamrocks twined, Her severed sons to a nation grown, Her hostile hues in one flag combined; Her wisest gathered in grave debate, Her bravest armed to resist the foe: To see my country 'glorious and great,'-- To see her 'free,'--to fight I go!"

And forth he went to the peaceful fight, And the millions rose at his words of fire, As the lightning's leap from the depth of the night, And circle some mighty minster's spire: Ah, ill had it fared with the hapless land, If the power that had roused could not restrain?

If the bolts were not grasped in a glowing hand To be hurled in peals of thunder again?

And thus the people followed his path, As if drawn on by a magic spell,-- By the royal hill and the haunted rath, By the hallowed spring and the holy well, By all the shrines that to Erin are dear, Round which her love like the ivy clings,-- Still folding in leaves that never grow sere The cell of the saint and the home of kings.

And a soul of sweetness came into the land: Once more was the harp of Erin strung; Once more on the notes from some master hand The listening land in its rapture hung.

Once more with the golden glory of words Were the youthful orator's lips inspired, Till he touched the heart to its tenderest chords, And quickened the pulse which his voice had fired.

And others divinely dowered to teach-- High souls of honour, pure hearts of fire, So startled the world with their rhythmic speech, That it seemed attuned to some unseen lyre.

But the kingliest voice G.o.d ever gave man Words sweeter still spoke than poet hath sung,-- For a nation's wail through the numbers ran, And the soul of the Celt exhaled on his tongue.

And again the foe had been forced to yield; But the hero at last waxed feeble and old, Yet he scattered the seed in a fruitful field, To wave in good time as a harvest of gold.

Then seeking the feet of G.o.d's High Priest, He slept by the soft Ligurian Sea, Leaving a light, like the Star in the East, To lead the land that will yet be free.

1875.

A hundred years their various course have run, Since Erin's arms received her n.o.blest son, And years unnumbered must in turn depart Ere Erin fails to fold him to her heart.

He is our boast, our glory, and our pride, For us he lived, fought, suffered, dared, and died; Struck off the shackles from each fettered limb, And all we have of best we owe to him.

If some cathedral, exquisitely fair, Lifts its tall turrets through the wondering air, Though art or skill its separate offering brings, 'Tis from O'Connell's heart the structure springs.

If through this city on these festive days, Halls, streets, and squares are bright with civic blaze Of glittering chains, white wands, and flowing gowns, The red-robed senates of a hundred towns, Whatever rank each special spot may claim, 'Tis from O'Connell's hand their charters came.

If in the rising hopes of recent years A mighty sound reverberates on our ears, And myriad voices in one cry unite For restoration of a ravished right, 'Tis the great echo of that thunder blast, On Tara pealed or mightier Mullaghmast, If arts and letters are more widely spread, A Nile o'erflowing from its fertile bed, Spreading the rich alluvium whence are given Harvests for earth and amaranth flowers for heaven; If Science still, in not unholy walls, Sets its high chair, and dares unchartered halls, And still ascending, ever heavenward soars, While capped Exclusion slowly opes it doors, It is his breath that speeds the spreading tide, It is his hand the long-locked door throws wide.

Where'er we turn the same effect we find-- O'Connell's voice still speaks his country's mind.

Therefore we gather to his birthday feast Prelate and peer, the people and the priest; Therefore we come, in one united band, To hail in him the hero of the land, To bless his memory, and with loud acclaim To all the winds, on all the wings of fame Waft to the listening world the great O'Connell's name.

MOORE.

MAY 28TH, 1879.

Joy to Ierne, joy, This day a deathless crown is won, Her child of song, her glorious son, Her minstrel boy Attains his century of fame, Completes his time-allotted zone, And proudly with the world's acclaim Ascends the lyric throne.

Yes, joy to her whose path so long, Slow journeying to her realm of rest O'er many a rugged mountain's crest, He charmed with his enchanting song: Like his own princess in the tale, When he who had her way beguiled Through many a bleak and desert wild Until she reached Cashmere's bright vale Had ceased those notes to play and sing To which her heart responsive swelled, She looking up, in him beheld Her minstrel lover and her king;-- So Erin now, her journey well-nigh o'er, Enraptured sees her minstrel king in Moore.

And round that throne whose light to-day O'er all the world is cast, In words though weak, in hues though faint, Congenial fancy rise and paint The spirits of the past Who here their homage pay-- Those who his youthful muse inspired, Those who his early genius fired To emulate their lay: And as in some phantasmal gla.s.s Let the immortal spirits pa.s.s, Let each renew the inspiring strain, And fire the poet's soul again.

First there comes from cla.s.sic Greece, Beaming love and breathing peace, With her pure, sweet smiling face, The glory of the Aeolian race, Beauteous Sappho, violet-crowned, Shedding joy and rapture round: In her hand a harp she bears, Parent of celestial airs, Love leaps trembling from each wire, Every chord a string of fire:-- How the poet's heart doth beat, How his lips the notes repeat, Till in rapture borne along, The Sapphic lute, the lyrist's song, Blend in one delicious strain, Never to divide again.

And beside the Aeolian queen Great Alcaeus' form is seen: He takes up in voice more strong The dying cadence of the song, And on loud resounding strings Hurls his wrath on tyrant kings:-- Like to incandescent coal On the poet's kindred soul Fall these words of living flame, Till their songs become the same,-- The same hate of slavery's night, The same love of freedom's light, Scorning aught that stops its way, Come the black cloud whence it may, Lift alike the inspir'ed song, And the liquid notes prolong.

Carolling a livelier measure Comes the Teian bard of pleasure, Round his brow where joy reposes Radiant love enwreaths his roses, Rapture in his verse is ringing, Soft persuasion in his singing:-- 'Twas the same melodious ditty Moved Polycrates to pity, Made that tyrant heart surrender Captive to a tone so tender: To the younger bard inclining, Round his brow the roses twining, First the wreath in red wine steeping, He his cithern to his keeping Yields, its glorious fate foreseeing, From her chains a nation freeing, Fetters new around it flinging In the flowers of his own singing.

But who is this that from the misty cloud Of immemorial years, Wrapped in the vesture of his vaporous shroud With solemn steps appears?

His head with oak-leaves and with ivy crowned Lets fall its silken snow, While the white billows of his beard unbound Athwart his bosom flow: Who is this venerable form Whose hands, prelusive of the storm Across his harp-strings play-- That harp which, trembling in his hand, Impatient waits its lord's command To pour the impa.s.sioned lay?

Who is it comes with reverential hail To greet the bard who sang his country best 'Tis Ossian--primal poet of the Gael-- The Homer of the West.

He sings the heroic tales of old When Ireland yet was free, Of many a fight and foray bold, And raid beyond the sea.

Of all the famous deeds of Fin, And all the wiles of Mave, Now thunders 'mid the battle's din, Now sobs beside the wave.

That wave empurpled by the sword The hero used too well, When great Cuchullin held the ford, And fair Ferdiah fell.

And now his prophet eye is cast As o'er a boundless plain; He sees the future as the past, And blends them in his strain.

The Red-Branch Knights their flags unfold When danger's front appears, The sunburst breaks through clouds of gold To glorify their spears.

But, ah! a darker hour drew nigh, The hour of Erin's woe, When she, though destined not to die, Lay prostrate 'neath the foe.

When broke were all the arms she bore, And bravely bore in vain, Till even her harp could sound no more Beneath the victor's chain.

Ah! dire constraint, ah! cruel wrong, To fetter thus its chord, But well they knew that Ireland's song Was keener than her sword.