And, so, her lover went to France, To serve the foe of Ireland's foe; I'll come some day when south winds blow." How she should be a prince's bride, And Ireland's weary woes should end. But tyrants quenched her father's hearth, Is moaning madly to the wind, - O, long the way and hard the foe, He'll come when south-when south winds blow!" Smerwick. SONG. Thomas Davis. IS war-horse beats a distant bourne HIS Till comes the glad new year; He fights where native monarchs be, He strikes and cries, "My land, for thee!" O maiden of the moon-pale face And darkly lucid eye! For knights wave-washed round Smerwick's base Fair Spanish maidens sigh! The moss, till comes the glad new year, Alone may clothe the bough; Alone the raindrop deck the breer, It weeps, and so must thou! Aubrey de Vere. Tara. THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS. HE harp that once through Tara's halls THE The soul of music shed Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts, that once beat high for praise, No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells; The chord alone, that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks, Thomas Moore. KING MALACHY AND THE POET M'COISI. KING MALACHY, shorn of crown and renown, With nothing left but his mensal board, Hung in the troopless hall his sword, Cared his own horse in the stable, And daily sank deeper in joys of the table; In Tara's hall was room to spare, For few were the chiefs and courtiers there; And two of the three had followed Brian, Had the conqueror thought them worth his buyin'; The third, the poet M'Coisi, alone Stood true to the empty, discrowned throne. And many a tale the poet told Of the Well of Galloon that, like sudden sorrow, Turns the hair to gray to-morrow; Of the Well of Slieve-bloom, which, who profanes Of ships and armies seen in the air, And the wonders wrought by St. Patrick's prayer. A TIMOLEAGUE. BROAD one night in loneliness I strolled, Along the wave-worn beach my footpath lay; Struggling the while with sorrows yet untold, Yielding to cares that wore my strength away: On as I moved, my wayward musings ran O'er the strange turns that mark the fleeting life of man. The little stars shone sweetly in the sky; Not one faint murmur rose from sea or shore; The wind with silent wing went slowly by, As though some secret on its path it bore: All, all was calm, tree, flower, and shrub stood still, And the soft moonlight slept on valley and on hill. Sadly and slowly on my path of pain I wandered, idly brooding o'er my woes; Till full before me on the far-stretched plain, The ruined abbey's mouldering walls arose; Where far from crowds, from courts and courtly crimes, The sons of virtue dwelt, the boast of better times. I paused, I stood beneath the lofty door, Where once the friendless and the poor were fed; That hallowed entrance, that in days of yore Still opened wide to shield the wanderer's head,The saint, the pilgrim, and the book-learned sage, The knight, the travelling one, and the worn man of age. I sat me down in melancholy mood, My furrowed cheek was resting on my hand; The wreck of all that piety had planned: "And O," cried I, as from my breast the while Here other sounds and sights were heard and seen, How altered is the place from what it once hath been! "Here in soft strains the solemn mass was sung; Through these long aisles the brethren bent their way; |