Gougaune Barra, the Lake.
HERE is a green island in lone Gougaune Barra, Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow ;
In deep-valleyed Desmond a thousand wild fountains Come down to that lake from their home in the moun
There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken willow
Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow;
As, like some gay child, that sad monitor scorning,
It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning.
And its zone of dark hills, — O, to see them all bright
When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning, And the waters rush down, mid the thunder's deep
Like clans from their hills at the voice of the battle;
And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming,
And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are screaming!
O, where is the dwelling, in valley or highland,
So meet for a bard as this lone little island?
How oft when the summer sun rested on Clara,
And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera,
Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by
And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion, And thought of thy bards, when assembling together,
In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depth of thy heather;
They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter,
And waked their last song by the rush of thy water.
High sons of the lyre, O, how proud was the feeling,
To think while alone through that solitude stealing,
Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number,
I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber,
And mingled once more with the voice of those fountains
The songs even Echo forgot on her mountains;
And gleaned each gray legend that darkly was sleeping
Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty were
creeping!
James Joseph Callanan.
NOT beauty which men gaze on with a smile,
Not grace that wins, no charm of form or hue,
Dwelt with that scene. Sternly upon my view,
And slowly, as the shrouding clouds awhile
Disclosed the beetling crag and lonely isle,
From their dim lake the ghostly mountains grew,
Lit by one slanting ray. An eagle flew
From out the gloomy gulf of the defile,
Like some sad spirit from Hades. To the shore
Dark waters rolled, slow heaving, with dull moan;
The foam-flakes hanging from each livid stone
Like froth on deathful lips: pale mosses o'er
The shattered cell crept, as an orphan lone
Clasps his cold mother's breast when life is gone.
Sir Aubrey de Vere.
ODE TO THE HILL OF HOWTH.
OW sweet from proud Ben-Edir's height,
To see the ocean roll in light;
And fleets swift-bounding in the gale,
With warriors clothed in shining mail!
Fair hill, on thee great Finn of old
Was wont his counsels sage to hold;
On thee rich bowls the Fenians crowned,
And passed the foaming beverage round.
"T was thine within a sea-washed cave
To hide and shelter Duivne brave,
When, snared by Grace's charms divine,
He bore her o'er the raging brine
Fair hill, thy slopes are ever seen
Bedecked with flowers or robed in green;
Thy nut-groves rustle o'er the deep,
And forests crown thy cliff-girt steep.
High from thy russet peaks 't is sweet
To see the embattled war-ships meet;
To hear the crash, the shout, the roar
Of cannon, through the caverned shore.
Most beauteous hill, around whose head
Ten thousand sea-birds' pinions spread,
May joy thy lord's true bosom thrill,
Chief of the Fenians' happy hill!
William Hamilton Drummond.
WEET Innisfallen, fare thee well,
May calm and sunshine long be thine!
How fair thou art let others tell,
To feel how fair shall long be mine.
Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell
In memory's dream that sunny smile Which o'er thee on that evening fell, When first I saw thy fairy isle.
'T was light, indeed, too blest for one,
Who had to turn to paths of care,
Through crowded haunts again to run,
And leave thee bright and silent there;
No more unto thy shores to come,
But, on the world's rude ocean tost,
Dream of thee sometimes, as a home
Of sunshine he had seen and lost.
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