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THE GERALDINES.

211

And, though Kildare tower haughtily, there's ruin at the root,

Else why, since Edward fell to earth, had such a tree no fruit ?

True Geraldines, brave Geraldines! As torrents mould the earth

You channeled deep old Ireland's heart by constancy and worth.

When Ginkle 'leagured Limerick, the Irish soldiers gazed

To see if in the setting sun dead Desmond's banner blazed!

And still it is the peasants' hope upon the Cuirreach's

66

mere,

"They live, who'll see ten thousand men with good Lord Edward here".

So let them dream till brighter days, when, not by Edward's shade,

But by some leader true as he, their lines shall be arrayed !

Those Geraldines, those Geraldines! Rain wears away the rock,

And time may wear away the tribe that stood the battle's shock;

But, ever sure, while one is left of all that honoured

race

In front of Ireland's chivalry is that Fitzgerald's place!

And though the last were dead and gone, how many a field and town,

From Thomas Court to Abbeyfeale, would cherish their renown;

And men would say of valour's rise, or ancient power's

decline,

"Twill never soar, it never shone, as did the Geral

dine!"

The Geraldines, the Geraldines! And are there any

fears

Within the sons of conquerors for full a thousand years?

Can treason spring from out a soil bedewed with martyr's blood?

Or has that grown a purling brook, which long rushed down a flood?—

By Desmond swept with sword and fire, by clan and keep laid low,

By Silken Thomas and his kin, by sainted Edward, no! The forms of centuries rise up, and in the Irish line Command their son to take the post that fits the Geraldine!

THE SPANISH CHAMPION,

MRS. HEMANS.

THE warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire,

And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire:

"I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train;

I pledge my faith;-my liege, my lord, oh! break my father's chain !"

"Rise! rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day:

Mount thy good steed, and thou and I will meet him on his way."

Then lightly rode that loyal son, and bounded on his

steed;

And urged, as if with lance in hand, his charger's foamy speed.

THE SPANISH CHAMPION.

213

And lo! from far, as on they pressed, they saw a glittering band,

With one that 'mid them stately rode, like a leader in the land:

"Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he,

The father whom thy grateful heart hath yearned so long to see.

""

His proud breast heaved, his dark eye flashed, his cheeks' hue came and went;

He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there dismounting bent:

A lowly knee to earth he bent-his father's hand he took ;

What was there in its touch, that all his fiery spirit shook?

That hand was cold! a frozen thing!-it dropped from his like lead!

He looked up to the face above-the face was of the dead!

A plume waved o'er that noble brow-the brow was fixed and white!

He met at length his father's eyes-but in them was no sight!

Up from the ground he sprang, and gazed; but who can paint that gaze ?

They hushed their very hearts who saw its horror and

amaze:

They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood;

For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his cheek the blood.

"Father!" at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then

Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men :

He thought on all his glorious hopes, on all his high

renown;

Then flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down;

And covering with his steel-gloved hand his darkly mournful brow,

"No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for now;

My king is false! my hope betrayed! my father— oh! the worth,

The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth!"

Up from the ground he sprang once more, and seized the monarch's rein,

Amid the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train;

And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led,

And sternly set them face to face-the king before the dead!

"Came I not here, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss ?

Be still! and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this ?

The look, the voice, the heart I sought-give answer, where are they?

If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, put life in this cold clay!

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON.

215

"Into those glassy eyes put light:-be still, keep down thine ire ;

Bid those cold lips a blessing speak-this earth is not my sire!

Give me back him for whom I fought, for whom my blood was shed!

Thou canst not—and a king ?-his dust be mountains on thy head!"

He loosed the rein-his slack hand fell;-upon the silent face

He cast one long, deep, mournful glance, and fled from that sad place.

His after-fate no more was heard amid the martial

train;

His banner led the spears no more among the hills of Spain !

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON.

LORD BYRON.

ALAS! it is a fearful thing

To see the human soul take wing

In any shape, in any mood!

I've seen it rushing forth in blood,
I've seen it on the breaking ocean

Strive with a swoll'n convulsive motion;
I've seen the sick and ghastly bed
Of sin, delirious with its dread;
But these were horrors,-this was woe
Unmixed with such-but sure and slow.

He faded, and so calm and meek,
So softly worn, so sweetly weak,

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