So, Robie, mak' yoursel' at home, A land that glories in its youth, A AUBREY DE VERE. UBREY THOMAS DE VERE was born January 10, 1814, the third son of Sir Aubrey de Vere, Bart., at the old family home of "Curragh Chase," near the interesting village of Adare, some twenty miles south-west of the city of Limerick, Ireland. The father was born at the same place, August 28, 1788, and died there July 28, 1846. While both father and son have led the lives of quiet country gentlemen, few names have been better known in the highest literary and political circles of Great Britain. They both have enjoyed the warm friendship of Sir Walter Scott, Lockhart, Wordsworth, Lord Tennyson, Sir Henry Taylor, Landor, Cardinals Cullen and Newman, R. C. Trench, W. E. Gladstone, the Brownings, Whewell, Lord Salisbury-and scores of others might also be mentioned. The father was a schoolmate of Byron and Sir Robert Peel, at Harrow. Wordsworth "pronounced the sonnets of Sir Aubrey de Vere to be the most perfect of our age." The son graduated at Trinity College, Dublin. The Baronet lived and died an Anglican, but Lady de Vere, Sir Vere de Vere, an elder brother, and Aubrey, "went over to Rome"-the latter in 1851. This fact is regretted by Sir Henry Taylor, but in the most kindly spirit. He says in his "Autobiography" (vol. 2, p. 75): "His conversion was a loss to us, no doubt, but the friendship had been interwoven with almost every thread of —— life, and for ten or twelve years with many threads of mine; and whatever was lost to it, enough was left to give vitality to twenty friendships of a less tenacious texture." He adds that his friend "had found peace and happiness in that Church"-"his soul was satisfied"-and "we ought to rejoice." In a letter very recently, Mr. de Vere, in alluding to this as one of a "few dates" in his "uneventful life," says: "I became a Catholic in 1851 (a blessing for which I have felt more grateful every successive year.)" He never entered any profession. A considerable portion of his time has been spent in traveling, but chiefly in reading and writing, in the "cool sequestered vale" of Curragh Chase. While he speaks of his life as "uneventful," each one of his many publications has been a notable event in the literary history of the last forty-seven years. He has published the following poetical works: "The Waldenses; or the Fall of Rora: a lyrical tale," 1842; "The Search after Proserpine, Recollections of Greece, and Other Poems," 1843: "Poems, Miscellaneons and Sacred," 1853; May Carols," 1857 and 1881; "The Sisters; Inisfail, and Other Poems," 1861; "The Infant Bridal, and Other Poems," a selection from his poetry, 1864; "Irish Odes and Other Poems," 1869; The Legends of St. Patrick," 1872; "Alexander the Great, a Dramatic Poem," 1874; "St. Thomas of Canterbury, a Dramatic Poem," 1876; Legends of the Saxon Saints," 1879; "The Foray of Queen Meave, and other Legends of Ireland's Heroic Age," 1882; and "Legends and Records of the Church and the Empire," 1887. His prose works are as follows: "English Misrule and Irish Misdeeds," 1848; " Picturesque Sketches of Greece and Turkey," 2 vols., 1850; "Ireland's Church Property and the Right Use of It," 1867; "Pleas for Secularization," 1867; "The Church Establishment of Ireland," 1867; "The Church Settlement of Ireland, or Hibernia Pacanda," 1868; "Constitutional and Unconstitutional Political Action," 1881; "Essays, Chiefly on Poetry," 1887; and Essays: Literary and Critical,” 1889. While Mr. de Vere is now well along in his 76th year, he is still a prolific writer, both of poetry and prose, and there are plenty of indications that his works are increasing in popularity both at home and abroad. The writer of these lines had the rare pleasure, by kind invitation, of spending some hours at Curragh Chase, in July, 1888, but unfortunately for us, neither of the brothers was at home. Sir Stephen (author of "Translations from Horace") was to arrive on the following day, while Mr. Aubrey had gone down to London, on his way to the south of England. This is a magnificent old estate an ideal home for a poet and lover of nature. It contains some two thousand acres of field and forest, "upland, glade and glen." The grand old mansion stands upon a moderate elevation, overlooking a most beautiful little lake. Across the lake, upon a high crag is planted a large pillar in the form of an Irish cross, around the base of which are inscribed the names of those of the family who have passed away. A belt of timber surrounds the whole tract. How much of this had been planted one could hardly determine-the arrangement was so natural and so beautiful; but I have seldom seen such grand old elms, oaks, lindens and beeches, and they were almost everywhere interspersed with evergreens and thickets of shrubbery. The beeches-both the common and the red varieties-grow in wonderful perfection, with wide-spreading limbs, forming perfect pyramids to the height of 60 to 80 feet. When we were there they were so loaded with nuts that the lower branches often rested upon the ground. I did not wonder that the poet is proud of his trees. There are drives leading to all parts of the estate, rustic bridges, and beautiful walks, "With seats beneath the shade, For talking age and wispering lovers made." The hall of the mansion contains several pieces of fine statuary, among which were a copy of Michel Angelo's "Moses," and a bust of Sir Henry Taylor, author of " Philip Van Artevelde," and the life-long friend of the de Veres'. The most of I our time, however, was spent in the library, which must contain some thousands of volumes. picked up one at random. It had been presented to Sir Aubrey de Vere by the author, Sir Walter Scott, with his compliments written upon a fly leaf. There were many of theses presentation copies, "autographed" by the authors, no doubt first editions, and now of almost priceless value. But one feature which interested me very greatly was the unique copies of the works of the father, Sir Aubrey de Vere, and his two sons, Sir Stephen and the subject of this notice. The original manuscript, and a printed copy of each separate work, had been bound together in a single volume. I could not see them all in my limited time, but this impressed me as a most interesting feature of this. fine old library. In past times many of the most notable men and women of the United Kingdom have crossed the threshold and been hospitably entertained at Curragh Chase. It is to be hoped that Aubrey de Vere will yet cause them to " live again,” in an Autobiography, which this gifted man is so competent to write. Mr. de Vere's poetry would seem to be entering upon a period of wider appreciation than it has heretofore enjoyed. His "Legends of St. Patrick" has been added, as No. 175, to the Messrs. Cassells' National Library" (London and New York,) though it is a copyright work at home. In paper these volumes, comprising the very best works of past and present times, sell for the trifle of 10 cents, and in cloth for 25 cents. The experience of these publishers curiously shows, (as in the instances of the writings of Mr. Coventry Patmore and others,) that in these exceedingly cheap and popular styles the sales not only run up to scores of thousands of copies, but that the demand for the expensive editions is thereby increased. His later works, as well as the new editions of those of former years, are now announced in New York very speedily after their appearance in London, giving him the opportunity, so gratifying to literary men and women of Great Britain, of securing an audience in the United States. C. A. ODE TO THE DAFFODIL. O LOVE-STAR of the unbeloved March, Forth flows beneath a low, dim-lighted arch The wind that beats sharp crag and barren hill, And keeps unfilmed the lately torpid rill! II. A week or e'er Thou com'st thy soul is round us everywhere; And many an auspice, many an omen, Whispers, scarce noted, thou art coming. Huge, cloudlike trees grow dense with sprays and buds, And cast a shaplier gloom o'er freshening grass, And through the fringe of ragged woods More shrouded sunbeams pass. The driving rack out-braving; The hedge swells large by ditch and dike; A shadow-lined engraving. III. Herald and harbinger! with thee Of her solemnities sublime A sacristan whose gusty taper Flashes through earliest morning vapor, Thou ring'st dark nocturns and dim prime. Birds that have yet no heart for song And, warm at last, where hollies throng, With silk the osier plumes her tendrils thin: lake wrinkle; And buds on leafless boughs begin Against grey skies to twinkle. IV. To thee belongs A pathos drowned in later scents and songs! On Winter's verge encroaches; Meet little save reproaches! Thou com'st when blossoms blighted, From suppliants oft deceived and spited More anger draw than pity! Thee the old shepherd, on the bleak hill-side, Far distant eyeing leans upon his staff Till from his cheek the wind-brushed tear is dried: When first it lies, close-huddled from the cold, Between the sheltering rock And gorse-bush slowly overcrept with gold. V. Thou laugh'st, bold outcast bright as brave, Hating the dainty and the fine As sings the blackbird thou dost shine! Thou com'st while yet on mountain lawns high up Lurks the last snow; while by the berried breer As yet the black spring in its craggy cup No music makes or charms no listening ear: Thou com'st while from the oak stock or red beech Dead Autumn scoffs young Spring with splenetic speech; While in her vidual chastity the Year With frozen memories of the sacred past Her doors and heart makes fast, And loves no flower save those that deck the bier: With golden surf is curdled o'er; Thou com'st while, meteor-like 'mid fens, the weed ing glare; Weeks ere by river brims, new furred, the reed Leans its green javelin level in the air. VI. Child of the strong and strenuous East! That rises but to bid thy lamp begone:- Writ large on woods and lawns to-day that Law To hero-haunted shades of dark Persephonè. steady: To-day the Spring is crowned a queen; but thou Take my song's blessing, and depart, SONG-LOVE LAID DOWN HIS LOVE laid down his golden head On his mother's knee; "The world runs round so fast," he said, "None has time for me." Thought, a sage unhonored, turned From the on-rushing crew; Song her starry legend spurned; Art her glass down threw. Roll on, blind world, upon thy track For that is gone which comes not back |