"It drove her mad—yet not his death,— No-not his death alone;
For she had clung to hope, when all
Knew well that there was none;— No, boy! it was a sight she saw That froze her into stone!
"I am thy uncle, child,-why stare So frightfully aghast?—
The arras waves, but know'st thou not
"Tis nothing but the blast?
I too have had my fears like these,
But such vain fears are past.
"I'll show thee what thy mother saw,—
I feel 'twill ease my breast,
And this wild tempest-laden night
Suits with the purpose best.-
Come hither-thou hast often sought
To open this old chest.
"It has a secret spring; the touch
Is known to me alone;
Slowly the lid is raised, and now--
What see you that you groan
So heavily-That thing is but
A bare-ribb'd skeleton."
A sudden crash--the lid fell down-
Three strides he backwards gave,-
"Oh God! it is my brother's self
Returning from the grave!
His grasp of lead is on my throat-
Will no one help or save?"
That night they laid him on his bed,
In raving madness toss'd;
He gnash'd his teeth, and with wild oaths
Blasphemed the Holy Ghost;
And, ere the light of morning broke,
A sinner's soul was lost.
ANSWER me, burning stars of night,
Where is the spirit gone,
That pass'd the reach of human sight,
Even as a breeze hath flown?—
And the stars answer'd me- "We roll
In light and power on high;
But of the never-dying soul
Ask things that cannot die!"
O many-toned and chainless wind,
Thou art a wanderer free!
Tell me, if thou its place can find
Far over mount and sea?-
And the wind murmur'd in reply-
"The blue deep have I cross'd,
And met its bark and billows high,
But not what thou hast lost!"
Ye clouds, that gorgeously repose
Around the setting sun,
Answer! be ye a home for those
Whose earthly race has run?—
The bright clouds answered-" We depart,
We vanish from the sky:
Ask what is deathless in thy heart,
For that which cannot die!"
Speak, then, thou voice of God within,
Thou of the deep low tone!
Answer me through life's restless din,
Where is the spirit flown?—
And the voice answer'd-" Be thou still,
Enough to know is given;
Clouds, winds, and stars, their task fulfil,
Thine is to trust in Heaven!"
The Triumph of Malachi, King of Meath. 'MIDST forest deep of flashing spears,
The flag of Erin's flying;
Her cause, the one the tyrant fears,
The freeman dares to die in!
In garb of steel, each true-born son,
Her anthem bold repeating,
With martial stride moves blithely on,
Impatient for the meeting!
Till Erin saw her son enslaved―
While Tara's princes swayed her,
What tongue in vain her shelter craved?
But see what wrongs have made her!
The hand-the first to welcome in,
And feast and rest the stranger,
Now wakes him with the battle's din,
To meet the stern Avenger!
In shining lists no more appear
The sons of Erin vying;
Forbade to wield the glaive or spear,
Their knightly name is dying:
For Erin's daughters, fair in vain,
Their ardent breasts are glowing,-
The nuptial couch is now their bane,
For honour shame bestowing!
From end to end the country groans;
On every hand's oppression,-
Till death becomes the best of boons:
With wrongs, in thick succession,
Her princes fall!-her heroes fall!
Her misery's upbraided!
Her name a mock! and, worst of all,
The sacred cross degraded!
But man is man, howe'er you boast
To tame his noble nature! Though warp'd a while, is never lost Its framer-marking feature! The slave that's made by tyrant pride To grace the foul oppressor, Is found the freeman still to hide That's Freedom's sure redresser!
O day of pride!-O happy day
When Erin's king, deploring
His country's sorrows, braved the fray,
Her banner green restoring!
Then fled the Dane, while Erin's son,
New-burst from bonds inglorious,
Stood free the gory plain upon,
That saw his arms victorious.
Battle of Beal' an Duine.
THE Minstrel came once more to view
The eastern ridge of Ben-venue,
For, ere he parted, he would say,
Farewell to lovely Loch-Achray-
Where shall he find, in foreign land,
So lone a lake, so sweet a strand!—
There is no breeze upon the fern,
No ripple on the lake,
Upon her eyrie nods the erne,
The deer has sought the brake;
The small birds will not sing aloud,
The springing trout lies still,
So darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud,
That swathes, as with a purple shroud,
Benledi's distant hill.
Is it the thunder's solemn sound
That mutters deep and dread,
Or echoes from the groaning ground
The warrior's measured tread?
Is it the lightning's quivering glance
That on the thicket streams,
Or do they flash on spear and lance
The sun's retiring beams?
-I see the dagger-crest of Mar,
I see the Moray's silver star,
Wave o'er the crowd of Saxon war,
That up the lake comes winding far!
To hero boune for battle-strife,
Or bard of martial lay,
"Twere worth ten years of peaceful life,
One glance at their array!
Their light armed archers far and near
Surveyed the tangled ground,
Their centre ranks, with pike and spear,
A twilight forest frowned,
Their barbed horsemen, in the rear,
The stern battalia crowned.
No cymbal clashed, no clarion rang,
Still were the pipe and drum;
Save heavy tread and armour's clang,
The sullen march was dumb.
There breathed no wind their crests to shake,
Or wave their flags abroad;
Scarce the frail aspen seemed to quake,
That shadowed o'er their road.
Their vaward scouts no tidings bring,
Can rouse no lurking foe,
Nor spy a trace of living thing,
Save when they stirred the roe;
The host moves, like a deep sea-wave,
Where rise no rocks its pride to brave,
High-swelling, dark, and slow.
The lake is passed, and now they gain
A narrow and a broken plain,
Before the Trosachs' rugged jaws;
And here the horse and spearmen pause,
While to explore the dangerous glen,
Dive through the pass the archer-men.
At once there rose so wild a yell
Within that dark and narrow dell,
As all the fiends, from heaven that fell,
Had pealed the banner-cry of hell!
Forth from the pass in tumult driven,
Like chaff before the wind of heaven,
The archery appear:
For life! for life! their flight they ply-
And shriek, and shout, and battle-cry,
And plaids and bonnets waving high,
And broad-swords flashing to the sky,
Are maddening in their rear.
Onward they drive, in dreadful race,
Pursuers and pursued;
Before that tide of flight and chase,
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