That wild autumnal morning! - well
Can haunted thought remember
How came in gusts o'er Corrin-fell
The roar of dark September,
When I through that same woodland path
To endless exile hasted,
Where many an hour my lavish youth
The gold of evening wasted
O for one day of that glad time!
-Say, reckless heart, how is it
There's still so many a cliff to climb,
And well-known nook to visit?
The Filea's spring is gurgling near,
And may I not, delaying,
One moment watch the glittering sand
Beneath its crystal playing?
No!"Onward!" cried the mighty breeze, "From all thy heart rejoices!"
And loud my childhood's ancient trees
Then lifted up their voices,
As though they felt and mourned the loss
(With heads bowed down and hoary)
Of him who, seated at their feet,
First sang their summer glory.
Too like the fair beloved group
From whose embrace I wended,
In vain the pine-trees' shapely troop
Their graceful arms extended;
And vainly fast as sisters' tears
The pallid birch was weeping,
While woke, like cousins' sad blue eyes,
The winkle's flower from sleeping.
I thought,-ye only friends
The heart can trust in leaving,
Untroubled by the primal curse,
The dread of your deceiving.
I shall not see at least your fall,
And so, when wronged and wounded,
Still feel secure of peace at last,
By you, old friends! surrounded.
And since in nature's scenes, the grand
Or beautiful or tender,
He who invests them with a light
That sanctifies their splendor,
Finding no one abiding-place;
Be his the deep reliance
That he for holier worlds received
The bard's immortal science.
Green Funcheon-side! your sounding woods Heaved wide as tossing ocean
When my last glance that autumn morn
Turned from their billowy motion,
Turned where the willow's tresses streamed
Above the river stooping,
Dark as your own bright lady's-hair
Magnificently drooping.
Ah, in that wild tumultuous hour
When heaven with earth seemed warring, And swept the tempest's demon-power,
The landscape's lustre marring, One gentle spirit (haply then.
Of Funcheon's beauty thinking), A fading girl, like a tired child,
On Death's calm breast was sinking.
They 've made her grave far, far from all
The haunts she prized so dearly;
O, place no marble o'er its turf,
For there shall flourish yearly
Such flowers as in her Bible's leaves
She loved to fold and cherish, Pansies and early primroses,
That, as they blossom, perish.
Rave on, loud winds, from tranquil rest
Ye nevermore shall stir her;
And ye, fair woods, now vanishing
From memory's darkened mirror,
Farewell; what meeter time for thought,
The lost and loved recalling,
Than in this solemn evening hour
When autumn-leaves are falling!
Galway.
O'CONNOR'S CHILD;
OR, THE FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING.
ONCE the harp of Innisfail
Was strung full high to notes of gladness;
But yet it often told a tale
Of more prevailing sadness.
Sad was the note, and wild its fall,
As winds that moan at night forlorn
Along the isles of Fion-Gael,
When for O'Connor's child to mourn,
The harper told, how lone, how far
From any mansion's twinkling star,
From any path of social men,
Or voice, but from the fox's den,
The lady in the desert dwelt,
And yet no wrongs, no fear she felt:
Say, why should dwell in place so wild
The lovely pale O'Connor's child ?
Sweet lady! she no more inspires
Green Erin's heart with beauty's power,
As in the palace of her sires
She bloomed a peerless flower.
Gone from her hand and bosom, gone,
The regal broche, the jewelled ring,
That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone
Like dews on lilies of the spring.
Yet why, though fallen her brother's kerne,
Beneath De Bourgo's battle stern,
While yet in Leinster unexplored,
Her friends survive the English sword,
Why lingers she from Erin's host,
So far on Galway's shipwrecked coast;
Why wanders she a huntress wild, -
The lovely pale O'Connor's child?
And fixed on empty space, why burn
Her eyes with momentary wildness;
And wherefore do they then return
To more than woman's mildness?
Dishevelled are her raven locks,
On Connocht Moran's name she calls,
And oft amidst the lonely rocks
She sings sweet madrigals.
Placed in the foxglove and the moss,
Behold a parted warrior's cross!
That is the spot where, evermore,
The lady, at her shieling door,
Enjoys that in communion sweet
The living and the dead can meet:
For lo! to lovelorn fantasy
The hero of her heart is nigh.
Bright as the bow that spans the storm,
In Erin's yellow vesture clad,
A son of light, a lovely form,
He comes and makes her glad :
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