FORGET not the field where they perish'd, All gone-and the bright hope we cherish'd Oh! could we from death but recover Ba: 'tis past-and, tho' blazon'd in story Which treads o'er the hearts of the free. Far dearer the grave or the prison, THEY MAY RAIL AT THIS LIFE. THEY may rail at this life-from the hour I began it, I found it a life full of kindness and bliss; And, until they can show me some happier planet, More social and bright, I'll content me with this. 1 In a metrical life of St. Senanus, which is taken from an old Kilkenny MS., and may be found among the Acta Sanctorum Hibernia, we are told of his flight to the island of Scattery, and his resolution not to admit any woman of the party; and that he refused to receive even a sister saint, St. Cannera, whom an angel had taken to the island for the express purpose of introducing her to him. The following was the ungracious answer of Senanus, according to his poetical biographer : Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen! But would you rise above earth, till akin To Immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it; Send round the cup-for oh, there's a spell in And though, perhaps - but breathe it to no one— Which in silence extracted its virtue forbiddenFill up — there's a fire in some hearts I could name, Which may work too its charm, though as lawless and hidden. So drink of the cup-for oh there's a spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality; Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen! Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. THE FORTUNE-TELLER. Down in the valley come meet me to-night, 4" How hath the oppressor ceased! the golden city ceased!" -Isaiah, xiv. 4. 5 Thy pomp is brought down to the grave..... and the worms cover thee."-Isaiah, xiv. 11. 6"Thou shalt no more be called the Lady of Kingdoms."Isaiah, xlvii. 5. But, for the world, let no one be nigh, Lest haply the stars should deceive me; Such secrets between you and me and the sky Should never go farther, believe me. If at that hour the heav'ns be not dim, My science shall call up before you A male apparition,—the image of him Whose destiny 'tis to adore you. And if to that phantom you'll be kind, Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight, He'll kneel, with a warmth of devotionAn ardour, of which such an innocent sprite You'd scarcely believe had a notion. What other thoughts and events may arise, As in destiny's book I've not seen them, Must only be left to the stars and your eyes To settle, ere morning, between them. OH, YE DEAD! Он, ye Dead! oh, ye Dead!' whom we know by the light you give From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like men who live, Why leave you thus your graves, Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed, To haunt this spot where all Those eyes that wept your fall, And the hearts that wail'd you, like your own, lie dead? It is true, it is true, we are shadows cold and wan; And the fair and the brave whom we lov'd on earth are gone; But still thus ev'n in death, So sweet the living breath 1 Paul Zealand mentions that there is a mountain in some part of Ireland, where the ghosts of persons who have died in foreign lands walk about and converse with those they meet, like living people. If asked why they do not return to their homes, they say they are obliged to go to Mount Hecla, and disappear immediately. 2 The particulars of the tradition respecting O'Donohue and his White Horse, may be found in Mr. Weld's Account of Killarney, or more fully detailed in Derrick's Letters. For many years after his death, the spirit of this hero is supposed to have been seen on the morning of May-day, gliding over the lake on his favourite Of the fields and the flow'rs in our youth we wander'd o'er, That ere, condemn'd, we go To freeze 'mid Hecla's snow, We would taste it awhile, and think we live once more! O'DONOHUE'S MISTRESS. Of all the fair months, that round the sun Of all the bright haunts, where daylight leaves Fair Lake, thou'rt dearest to me; Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore My love, my chief, to me. While, white as the sail some bark unfurls, When newly launch'd, thy long mane' curls, Fair Steed, as white and free; And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers, Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers, Around my love and thee. Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die, Most sweet that death will be, white horse, to the sound of sweet unearthly music, and preceded by groups of youths and maidens, who flung wreaths of delicate spring flowers in his path. Among other stories, connected with this Legend of the Lakes, it is said that there was a young and beautiful girl whose imagination was so impressed with the idea of this visionary chieftain, that she fancied herself in love with him, and at last, in a fit of insanity, on a May-morning threw herself into the lake. 3 The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come on windy day, crested with foam, " O'Donohue's white horses." |