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My father died; I closed his eyes
Outside our cabin door;

The landlord and the sheriff too
Were there the day before!
And then my loving mother,
And sisters three also,

Were forced to go with broken hearts
From the Glen of Aherlow.

For three long months, in search of work,
I wandered far and near;

I went then to the poor-house,

For to see my mother dear;

The news I heard nigh broke my heart; But still, in all my woe,

I bless the friends who made their graves In the Glen of Aherlow.

Bereft of home and kith and kin,

With plenty all around,

I starved within my cabin,
And slept upon the ground;
But cruel as my lot was,

I ne'er did hardship know
'Till I joined the English army,
Far away from Aherlow.

"Rouse up there," says the corporal,
"You lazy Hirish hound;

Why don't you hear, you sleepy dog,
The call to arms' sound?"
Alas, I had been dreaming
Of days long, long ago;
I woke before Sebastopol,
And not in Aherlow.

I groped to find my musket-
How dark I thought the night!
O blessed God, it was not dark,
It was the broad daylight!

THE IRISH PEASANT GIRL.

She lived beside the Anner,

At the foot of Sliev-na-mon,

A gentle peasant girl,

With mild eyes like the dawn; Her lips were dewy rosebuds; Her teeth of pearls rare;

And a snow-drift 'neath a beechen bough Her neck and nut-brown hair.

How pleasant 'twas to meet her
On Sunday, when the bell
Was filling with its mellow tones
Lone wood and grassy dell!
And when at eve young maidens

Strayed the river bank along,
The widow's brown-haired daughter
Was loveliest of the throng.

O brave, brave Irish girls

We well may call you brave!Sure the least of all your perils

Is the stormy ocean wave, When ye leave your quiet valleys, And cross the Atlantic's foam, To hoard your hard-won earnings For the helpless ones at home.

"Write word to my dear mother

Say, we'll meet with God above; And tell my little brothers

I send them all my love; May the angels ever guard them, Is their dying sister's prayer"And folded in the letter

Was a braid of nut-brown hair.

Ah, cold, and well-nigh callous,
This weary heart has grown
For thy hapless fate, dear Ireland,
And for sorrows of my own;
Yet a tear my eye will moisten,
When by Anner side I stray,
For the lily of "the Mountain-foot"
That withered far away.

DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY.

of time!

Beside these grey old pillars, how perishing and

weak

the Greek,

The Roman's arch of triumph, and the temple of
And the gold domes of Byzantium, and the pointed
Gothic spires:

[Denis Florence Mac Carthy was born in These grey old pillar temples-these conquerors 1817. One of his finest and most spirit-stirring poems describes the glories of the Clan of Mac Caura, and Mr. Mac Carthy can claim descent from the great Irish sept, of which he is the poet. To the Nation in its early days Mr. Mac Carthy was a constant contributor, and some of his finest and best poems belong to that period. In 1850 the first collected edition of his works appeared, under the title Ballads, Poems, and Lyrics. In addition to the original pieces there were translations from most of the European languages, Mr. Mac Carthy, like Mangan, Lady Wilde, and several other Irish singers, being a student of For the proudest works of man, as certainly, but other literatures besides his own. In 1853 he slower,

All are gone, one by one, but the temples of our

sires!

The column, with its capital, is level with the dust, And the proud halls of the mighty, and the calm homes of the just;

gave further proof of both his poetic talents Pass like the grass at the sharp scythe of the mower! and linguistic attainments by publishing trans

mirth,

On the wing of the Spring comes the goddess of the Earth;

But for man, in this world, no spring-tide e'er re

turns

To the labours of his hands or the ashes of his urns!

lations of Calderon's dramas, a work which But the grass grows again, when, in majesty and received eulogies, not only from the judgment of his countrymen, but from the less partial estimates of English critics. In 1857 appeared a second collection of poems under the title Under-Glimpses and other Poems, and in the same year was also published the Bell-founder and other Poems. A prose work, Shelley's Early Life from Original Sources (1872), brought out some highly interesting facts in reference to the great English poet, especially as to that period of his youth when he for a while threw himself into the struggles of Ireland for the amelioration of her laws. "Waiting for the May" is one of Mr. Mac Carthy's The names of their founders have vanished in the best known and most admired lyrics.1 In the

Two favourites hath Time-the pyramids of Nile,
And the old mystic temples of our own dear isle;

As the breeze o'er the seas, where the halcyon has
its nest,

Thus Time o'er Egypt's tombs and the temples of the West!

gloom,

Centenary of Moore he was naturally chosen Like the dry branch in the fire or the body in the to take a leading part, and composed an ode

tomb;

which was fully worthy of the great occasion. But to-day, in the ray, their shadows still they

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The captives of Armorica, the cavaliers of Spain— The pillar towers of Ireland, how wondrously they Phoenican and Milesian, and the plundering Nor

stand

By the lakes and rushing rivers, through the valleys of our land!

In mystic file, through the isle, they lift their heads sublime,

This poem was erroneously attributed to James Clarence Mangan by Samuel Lover, and was so printed in a part of the early impression of vol. iii. of the Cabinet.

man peers

And the swordsmen of brave Brian, and the chiefs of later years.

How many different rites have these grey old temples known!

To the mind, what dreams are written in these chronicles of stone!

What terror and what error, what gleams of love And stately the mansions whose pinnacles glance

and truth,

Have flashed from these walls since the world was in its youth!

Here blazed the sacred fire, and when the sun was gone,

As a star from afar to the traveller it shone;

And the warm blood of the victim have these grey old temples drunk,

of the Monk.

Through the elms of Old England and vineyards of France;

Many have fallen, and many will fall

Good men and brave men have dwelt in them allBut as good and as brave men, in gladness and sorrow,

Have dwelt in the halls of the princely Mac Caura!

Montmorency, Medina, unheard was thy rank

And the death-song of the Druid, and the matin By the dark-eyed Iberian and light-hearted Frank, And your ancestors wandered, obscure and unknown,

Here was placed the holy chalice that held the sacred wine,

By the smooth Guadalquivir, and sunny Garonne— And the gold cross from the altar, and the relics Ere Venice had wedded the sea, or enrolled

from the shrine,

The name of a Doge in her proud "Book of Gold;"2

And the mitre shining brighter with its diamonds When her glory was all to come on like the morrow, There were chieftains and kings of the clan of Mac Caura!

than the East,

And the crozier of the Pontiff, and the vestments of the Priest!

Proud should thy heart beat, descendant of Heber, 3

Where blazed the sacred fire, rung out the vesper Lofty thy head as the shrines of the Guebre,

bell,

Where the fugitive found shelter, became the hermit's cell;

Like them are the halls of thy forefathers shattered,

Like theirs is the wealth of thy palaces scattered. And hope hung out its symbol to the innocent and Their fire is extinguished-your banner long good,

furled

For the Cross o'er the moss of the pointed summit But how proud were ye both in the dawn of the stood!

There may it stand for ever, while this symbol doth impart

To the mind one glorious vision, or one proud throb to the heart;

While the breast needeth rest may these grey old temples last,

Bright prophets of the future, as preachers of the past!

THE CLAN OF MAC CAURA.1

world!

And should both fade away, oh! what heart would not sorrow

O'er the towers of the Guebre-the name of Mac
Caura!

What a moment of glory to cherish and dream on,
When far o'er the sea came the ships of Heremon,
With Heber, and Ir, and the Spanish patricians,
To free Inis-Fail from the spells of magicians.
Oh! reason had these for their quaking and pallor,
For what magic can equal the strong sword of
valour?

Better than spells are the axe and the arrow, Oh bright are the names of the chieftains and When wielded or flung by the hand of Mac Caura!4

sages,

That shine like the stars through the darkness of From that hour a Mac Caura had reigned in his

ages,

Whose deeds are inscribed on the pages of story,
There for ever to live in the sunshine of glory-
Heroes of history, phantoms of fable,
Charlemagne's champions, and Arthur's Round
Table-

Oh! but they all a new lustre could borrow
From the glory that hangs round the name of Mac
Caura!

Thy waves, Manzanares, wash many a shrine,

pride

O'er Desmond's green valleys and rivers so wide. From thy waters, Lismore, to the torrents and rills

2 Montmorency and Medina are respectively at the head of the French and Spanish nobility.-The first⚫ Doge elected in Venice in 709. Voltaire considered the families whose names were inscribed in The Book of Gold at the founding of the city as entitled to the first place in European nobility.-Burke's Commoners.

3 The Mac Carthys trace their origin to Heber Fionn, the eldest son of Milesius, King of Spain, through Oilioll

And proud are the castles that frown o'er the Rhine, Olium, King of Munster, in the third century.— Shrines

1 Mac Carthy-Mac Cartha (the correct way of spelling the name in Roman characters)-is pronounced in Irish Mac Caura, the th or dotted t having in that language the soft sound of h.

of the Guebre, the Round Towers.

Heremon and Ir were also the sons of Milesius.-The people who were in possession of the country when the Milesians invaded it, were the Tuatha de Danaans, so called, says Keating, "from their skill in necromancy, of whom some were so famous as to be called gods."

That are leaping for ever down Brandon's brown In thy story's bright garden the one spot of bleakhills;

The billows of Bantry, the meadows of Bear,
The wilds of Evaugh, and the groves of Glancare-
From the Shannon's soft shores to the banks of
the Barrow-

All owned the proud sway of the princely Mac
Caura!

1

In the house of Miodchuart, by princes surrounded,

How noble his step when the trumpet was sounded, And his clansmen bore proudly his broad shield before him,

And hung it on high in that bright palace o'er him; On the left of the monarch the chieftain was seated, And happy was he whom his proud glances greeted;

ness

Through ages of valour the one hour of weakness! Thou, the heir of a thousand chiefs, sceptred and royal

Thou, to kneel to the Norman and swear to be loyal!

Oh! a long night of horror, and outrage, and sorrow,

Have we wept for thy treason, base Diarmid Mac Caura!

Oh! why, ere you thus to the foreigner pandered, Did you not bravely call round your Emerald standard,

The chiefs of your house of Lough Lene and Clan Awley,

O'Donogh, Mac Patrick, O'Driscoll, MacAwley, 'Mid monarchs and chiefs at the great Feis of O'Sullivan More from the towers of Dunkerron, Tara

Oh! none was to rival the princely Mac Caura!

And O'Mahon the chieftain of green Ardinterran? As the sling sends the stone, or the bent bow the arrow,

To the halls of the Red Branch, when conquest Every chief would have come at the call of Mac was o'er,

The champions their rich spoils of victory bore, 2
And the sword of the Briton, the shield of the
Dane,

Flashed bright as the sun on the walls of Eamhain-
There Dathy and Niall bore trophies of war,
From the peaks of the Alps and the waves of the
Loire: 3

But no knight ever bore from the hills of Ivaragh
The breast-plate or axe of a conquered Mac Caura!

In chasing the red-deer what step was the fleetest, In singing the love-song what voice was the sweetest

Caura!

Soon, soon, didst thou pay for that error in woe_4
Thy life to the Butler-thy crown to the foe-
Thy castles dismantled, and strewn on the sod-
And the homes of the weak, and the abbeys of God!
No more in thy halls is the wayfarer fed-
Nor the rich mead sent round, nor the soft heather
spread-

Nor the clairsech's sweet notes, now in mirth, now in sorrow

All, all have gone by, but the name of Mac Caura!

Mac Caura, the pride of thy house is gone by,

What breast was the foremost in courting the But its name cannot fade, and its fame cannot die—

danger-

What door was the widest to shelter the stranger-
In friendship the truest, in battle the bravest-
In revel the gayest, in council the gravest-
A hunter to-day, and a victor to-morrow?
Oh! who but a chief of the princely Mac Caura!

Though the Arigideen, with its silver waves,

shine

Around no green forests or castles of thineThough the shrines that you founded no incense

doth hallow,

Nor hymns float in peace down the echoing Allo5

But, oh! proud Mac Caura, what anguish to One treasure thou keepest-one hope for the

touch on

The one fatal stain of thy princely escutcheon

"

1 The house of Miodchuart was an apartment in the palace of Tara, where the provincial kings met for the despatch of public business, at the Feis (pronounced as one syllable), or parliament of Tara, which assembled then once in every three years: the ceremony alluded to is described in detail by Keating. See Petrie's "Tara.' 2 The house of the Red Branch was situated in the stately palace of Eamhain (or Emania), in Ulster; here the spoils taken from the foreign foe were hung up, and the chieftains who won them were called Knights of the Red Branch.

3 Dathy was killed at the Alps by lightning, and Niall (his uncle and predecessor) by an arrow fired from the opposite side of the river by one of his own generals as he sat in his tent on the banks of the Loire in France.

morrow

True hearts yet beat of the clan of Mac Caura!

THE SEASONS OF THE HEART.

The different hues that deck the earth All in our bosoms have their birth'Tis not in blue or sunny skies, 'Tis in the heart the Summer lies!

4 Diarmid Mac Carthy, King of Desmond, and Daniel O'Brien, King of Thomond, were the first of the Irish princes to swear fealty to Henry the Second.

The Arigdeen means the little silver stream, and

The earth is bright if that be glad,
Dark is the earth if that be sad;
And thus I feel each weary day—
'Tis Winter all when thou'rt away!

In vain, upon her emerald car,
Comes Spring, "the maiden from afar,"
And scatters o'er the woods and fields
The liberal gifts that nature yields;
In vain the buds begin to grow,
In vain the crocus gilds the snow;

I feel no joy though earth be gay—
'Tis Winter all when thou'rt away!

And when the Summer, like a bride,
Comes down to earth in blushing pride,
And from that union sweet are born
The fragrant flowers and waving corn,
I hear the hum of birds and bees,

I view the hills and streams and trees,
Yet vain the thousand charms of May--
'Tis Winter all when thou'rt away!

And when the Autumn crowns the year,
And ripened hangs the golden ear,
And luscious fruits of ruddy hue
The bending boughs are glancing through,
When yellow leaves from sheltered nooks
Come forth and try the mountain brooks-
Even then I feel, as there I stray,
'Tis Winter all when thou'rt away!

And when the Winter comes at length,
With swaggering gait and giant strength,
And with his strong arms in a trice
Binds up the streams in chains of ice,
What need I sigh for pleasures gone—
The twilight eve, the rosy dawn?
My heart is changed as much as they-
'Tis Winter all when thou'rt away!

Even now, when Summer lends the scene
Its brightest gold, its purest green—
Whene'er I climb the mountain's breast,
With softest moss and heath-flowers dressed-
When now I hear the breeze that stirs
The golden bells that deck the furze-

Alas! ye all are vain, I say—

'Tis Winter all when thou'rt away!

But when thou comest back once more-
Though dark clouds hang and loud winds roar,
And mists obscure the nearest hills,
And dark and turbid roll the rills-
Such pleasures then my breast shall know,
That Summer's sun shall round me glow;
Then quick return, dear maid, pray-
'Tis Winter all when thou'rt away!

Allo the echoing river. By these rivers and many others in the south of Ireland castles were erected and monasteries founded by the Mac Carthys.

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Yes! Joy to her whose path so long,

Slow journeying to her realm of rest. O'er many a rugged mountain's crest, He charmed with his enchanting songLike his own princess in the tale, When he who had her way beguiled Through many a bleak and desert wild,

Until she reached Cashmere's bright vale, Had ceased those notes to play and sing, To which her heart responsive swelled, She, looking up, in him beheld

Her minstrel-lover and her kingSo Erin now-her journey well-nigh o'erEnraptured sees her Minstrel-King in Moore.

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