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Now descending low and sweet
To our feet,
Till the odours of the grass
All that Erin's memory guards
In her heart
Deeds of heroes, songs of bards,
Brian's glories re-appear,
Glory to Moore, eternal be the glory
That here we crown and consecrate to-day, Glory to Moore, for he has sung our story
In strains whose sweetness ne'er can pass away.
Glory to Moore, for he has sighed our sorrow In such a wail of melody divine,
That even from grief a passing joy we borrow, And linger long o'er each lamenting line.
Glory to Moore, that in his songs of gladness
Which neither change nor time can e'er destroy, Though mingled oft with some faint sigh of sad
He sings his country's rapture and its joy. What wit like his flings out electric flashes
That make the numbers sparkle as they runWit that revives dull history's Dead-sea ashes, And makes the ripe fruit glisten in the sun?
What fancy full of loveliness and lightness
Has spread like his as at some dazzling feast, The fruits and flowers, the beauty and the bright
And all the golden glories of the East?
[Martin Haverty was born in Galway, in November, 1809. He studied in France; made the acquaintance of Campbell the poet, in Algiers, in 1834; wrote Letters from Rome in 1840; Wanderings in Spain in 1843; An Account of the Aran Isles, when the ethnological section of the British Association visited Ireland in 1857; and undertook the task of writing the History of Ireland at a time when an extraordinary impulse was given to
Perpetual blooms his bower of summer roses,
No winter comes to turn his green leaves sere, Beside his song-stream where the swan reposes The bulbul sings as by the Bendemeer.
But back returning from his flight with Peris, Above his native fields he sings his best, Like to the lark whose rapture never wearies, When poised in air he singeth o'er his nest.
And so we rank him with the great departed, The kings of song who rule us from their urns, The souls inspired, the natures noble hearted, And place him proudly by the side of Burns.
And as not only by the Calton Mountain,
Is Scotland's bard remembered and revered, But wheresoe'er, like some o'erflowing fountain Its hardy race a prosperous path has cleared, There, 'mid the roar of newly-rising cities,
His glorious name is heard on every tongue, There, to the music of immortal ditties,
His lays of love, his patriot songs are sung.
So not alone beside that Bay of beauty
That guards the portals of his native town, Where, like two watchful sentinels on duty, Howth and Killiney from their heights look down,―
But wheresoe'er the exiled race hath drifted,
By what far sea, what mighty stream beside, There shall to-day the poet's name be lifted,
And Moore proclaimed its glory and its pride. There shall his name be held in fond memento,
There shall his songs resound for evermore, Whether beside the golden Sacramento,
Or where Niagara's thunder shakes the shore;For all that's bright indeed must fade and perish,
And all that's sweet when sweetest not endure, Before the world shall cease to love and cherish The wit and song, the name and fame of MOORE.
the study of Irish history and antiquities by the labours of Petrie, Todd, O'Donovan, O'Curry, Gilbert, Wilde, Ferguson, Reeves, Meehan, O'Callaghan, and others, many of whom have since passed away, and the friendship of all of whom our author was fortunate enough to enjoy.
During a great part of his life he was connected with the daily press; succeeded Charles Mackay in 1845 as assistant editor of the
Morning Chronicle; was subsequently Irish | the house of Sir Patrick Barnwell, who was correspondent to the Daily News, in succession married to another of his sisters, and who to Daniel Owen Madden; and for a great lived about seven miles from Dublin. Thither many years was on the editorial staff of the the earl followed her. He was courteously Dublin Freeman's Journal. In 1864 he was received by Sir Patrick, and seems to have appointed assistant librarian of the King's had many friends among the English. One Inns Library, Dublin, an office which he con- of these, a gentleman named William Warren, tinues to hold. acted as his confidant; and at a party at Barnwell's house the earl engaged the rest of the company in conversation while Warren rode off with the lady behind him, accompanied by two servants, and carried her safely to the residence of a friend at Drumcondra, near Dublin. Here O'Neill soon followed, and the Protestant Bishop of Meath, Thomas Jones, a Lancashire man, was easily induced to come and unite them in marriage the same evening. This elopement and marriage, which took place on the 3d of August, 1591, were made the subject of violent accusations against O'Neill. Sir Henry Bagnal was furious. 'I cannot but accurse myselfe and fortune,' he wrote to the lord-treasurer, 'that my bloude, which in my father and myselfe hath often been spilled in repressinge this rebellious race, should nowe be mingled with so traiterous a stocke and kindred.' He charged the earl with having another wife living; but this point was cleared up, as O'Neill showed that this lady, who was his first wife, the daughter of Sir Brian MacFelim O'Neill, had been divorced previous to his marriage with the daughter of O'Donnell. Altogether, the government would appear to have viewed the conduct of O'Neill in this matter rather leniently; but Bagnal was henceforth his most implacable foe, and the circumstance was not without its influence on succeeding events.
[It is added, in a note, that the lady whose romantic marriage is here mentioned died in 1596, some years before the last scene of deadly strife between her brother and her husband.]
Mr. Haverty's History of Ireland, from which we quote, deserves the credit of being, as a rule, impartial—a eulogy, as we know, not too often deserved by Irish histories. The style is unambitious, clear, and terse.]
THE ELOPEMENT OF HUGH O'NEILL.
We have already made some mention of the marshal, Sir Henry Bagnal. This man hated the Irish with a rancour which bad men are known to feel towards those whom they have mortally injured. He had shed a great deal of their blood, obtained a great deal of their lands, and was the sworn enemy of the whole race. Sir Henry had a sister who was young and exceedingly beautiful. The wife of the Earl of Tyrone, daughter of Sir Hugh MacManus O'Donnell, had died, and the heart of the Irish chieftain was captivated by the beautiful English girl. His love was reciprocated, and he became in due form a suitor for her hand, but all his efforts to gain her brother's consent to their marriage were in vain. The story, indeed, is one which might seem to have been borrowed from some old romance, if we did not find it circumstantially detailed in the matter-of-fact documents of the State Paper Office. The Irish prince and the English maiden mutually plighted their vows, and O'Neill presented to the lady a gold chain worth £100; but the inexorable Sir Henry removed his sister from Newry to
CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE.
BORN 1829 - DIED 1868.
[Charles Graham Halpine was born in Old- | polis in search of literary work. Having becastle, Meath, in 1829. His father, the Rev. come associated with the Young Ireland moveNicholas J. Halpine, was an active journalist, ment, he found that the United States would being for a time editor of the Dublin Evening be a more congenial, and under the circumMail. Young Halpine graduated in Trinity stances perhaps a safer abode. He there obCollege, and then went to the English metro-tained abundant employment, and was a wel
come contributor on most of the leading journals. He wrote for a time on the Boston Post, then became editor of a short-lived periodical entitled the Carpet Bag; and, in New York, contributed to the three leading journals—the Herald, the Times, and the Tribune.
When the civil war broke out he identified himself heart and soul with the Northern cause. Joining the army as lieutenant in the famous 69th Regiment, under Colonel Corcoran, he was promoted to be adjutant-general on the staff of General David Hunter, and afterwards of Major-general Halleck. He drew up the order by which the former commander enrolled the first regiment of negro soldiers, and was in consequence included in a proclamation of outlawry by the Southern authorities, which directed the immediate execution of his general and himself in case of capture. He retired, owing to ill health, from the army, and received due acknowledgment of his services by being raised by successive steps to the rank of brigadiergeneral. Halpine also took an active part in politics as one of the leaders of the Democratic party, and he honourably distinguished himself by his efforts to purge that body of the corruptions which had been fostered by Tammany Hall. His death was sudden and sad. A sufferer from sleeplessness, he had been for some time in the habit of taking soporifics, and he died on the night of August 3, 1868, from an overdose of chloroform.
The greater part of Halpine's poems appeared in the ephemeral pages of journalism, and were written for the hour. The verses by which he became best known were those written under the nom de plume of "Private Miles O'Reilly." A collected edition of his principal poems has been published in a handsome volume by Messrs. Harper Brothers, New York, under the editorship of Mr. R. B. Roosevelt.]
A VESPER HYMN.
The evening bells of Sabbath fill
The dusky silence of the night,
Such hours of peace as these requite
When thus, with souls refreshed and bright, Forgiveness of our sins we seek !
Oh! help us, Jesus, to conform
Our spirits, thoughts, and lives to thine! Beyond this earthly strife and storm,
Oh! make Thy star of Love to shine!
As Peter did, may safe resign
Thy Godhood-whence all glory flows-
The sons of a rebellious race! Who can, unmoved, unweeping, trace Thy meek obedience to His will,
Whose sole appointed means of grace Thou didst, even to the Cross, fulfil!
Our wayward footsteps wander wide,
And, journeying through a pathless maze, We turn to our neglected Guide!
Lead back, oh Lord! thy wandering sheep-
Oh, guide us gently to thy fold! Instruct us all Thy laws to keep,
And unto Thine our lives to mould! For we are weak, and faith grows cold— Nor ever sleep the Tempter's powers;
Thou art our only stay and hold— Through Thee alone can heaven be ours!
A darker shade, a denser gloom
Descends on all the folded flowers, While, silent as the voiceless tomb,
Above them roll the midnight hours: To-morrow's dawn, and their perfume Again will fill their glowing bowers
Lord, after death so bid us bloom, Where no frost chills, no tempest lowers!
NOT A STAR FROM THE FLAG SHALL FADE.
Och! a rare ould flag was the flag we bore, 'Twas a bully ould flag, an' nice;
It had sthripes in plenty, an' shtars galore'Twas the broth of a purty device.
Faix, we carried it South, an' we carried it far, An' around it our bivouacs made;
An' we swore by the shamrock that never a shtar
Ay, this was the oath, I tell you thrue,
The fight it grows thick, an' our boys they fall,
But to yield it we never dhream.
'Twas the deep, hot oath, I tell you thrue, That lay close to the hearts of our Boys in Blue.
Shure, the fight it was won, afther many a year,
They died by the bullet-disease had power,
Then they said their pathers and aves
An', like Irishmen, died-did our Boys in
But now they tell us some shtars are gone,
That the shtars we fought for, the states we won,
May their sowls in the dioul's hot kitchen glow Who sing such a lyin' shtrain;
By the dead in their graves, it shall not be soThey shall have what they died to gain!
All the shtars in our flag shall still shine
through The grass growing soft o'er our Dead in Blue !
A VERITABLE MYTH, TOUCHING THE CONSTELLATION OF O'RYAN, IGNORANTLY AND FALSELY SPELLED ORION.
O'Ryan was a man of might
Whin Ireland was a nation, But poachin' was his heart's delight And constant occupation. He had an ould militia gun,
And sartin sure his aim was; He gave the keepers many a run, And wouldn't mind the game laws.
St. Pathrick wanst was passin' by
And, as the saint felt wake and dhry,
"O'Ryan," says the saint, "avick! To praich at Thurles I'm goin', So let me have a rasher quick, And a dhrop of Innishowen."
No rasher will I cook for you
While betther is to spare, sir,
And there's a rattlin' hare, sir."
And says he, "Good luck attind you, And, when you're in your winding-sheet, It's up to heaven I'll sind you."
O'Ryan gave his pipe a whiff-
There's any kind of sportin'?"
Two Bears, a Bull, and Cancer""Bedad," says Mick, "the huntin's rare; St. Pathrick, I'm your man, sir."
So, to conclude my song aright,
For fear I'd tire your patience,
Till Mars grows jealous raally, But, faith, he fears the Irish knack Of handling the shillaly.
Oh, heed him not, if rhymer prate
Or with a hoarse and broken flow It rushes, murmuring, to its fateThat ocean which, or soon or late,
Receives the wreck of all we know,
Oh, heed him not. The spirit bowed
But if to say in simple praise
That I will ne'er forget you, friends, Though at the earth's remotest ends I pass my long unsolaced days;
That, when the evening shade descends, And high and bright the fagots blaze, My faithful heart your forms shall raise, While memory the curtain rends That time would drop o'er earlier daysIf this content you, 'tis sincere, Though vouched by neither oath nor tear.
JOHN FRANCIS O'DONNELL.
BORN 1837-DIED 1874.
[John Francis O'Donnell was born in Limerick in 1837. He was but fourteen years of age when he began to write verses, the vehicle for the offspring of his boyish pen being the Kilkenny Journal. After he had held some engagements on the provincial Irish presshaving been among other things sub-editor of the Tipperary Examiner—he drifted to London; and, in 1860, we find him editing an Irish weekly called the Universal News. In 1861 he returned for a short time to Dublin, to fill a vacancy in the Nation. He was once again in London in the following year. It would be impossible to enumerate all the periodicals to which he contributed both prose and verse. He had a very ready and an extremely versatile pen. Among Irish journals he was a frequent contributor to the Nation and to the Irish People during its short existHe also wrote in the Lamp;-a novel, entitled Agents and Evictions, originally appeared in that journal, and a lengthy poem well worthy of notice, entitled "The Christian Martyr." He wrote in the Boston Pilot and the Dublin Review; and for a while he was editor of the Tablet. His verses were always In what far past-in what abysm of time, welcome to Charles Dickens, who was a helpful admirer of the poet; and a large number of his poems were published in Chambers's Journal. In 1871 he published Memories of the Irish Franciscans-a volume | of verse suggested by the well-known and able work of the Rev. C. P. Meehan on the Franciscans. After years of literary drudgery, Mr. O'Donnell received an official appointment through the assistance of Lord O'Hagan; but he enjoyed his fortune for only a few months, and died in the May of 1874. He is buried in the Roman Catholic portion of Kensal Green Cemetery, London. It is a subject of great regret that his poems lie scattered over numberless periodicals, and under various noms de plume.]
Have I beheld that self-same look before?
A garment made a figure on a floor,
And worked their restless phantasms on a ceil;
But where? I half remember, as a dream,
A minute gone. She lingered here, and then Passed, with face backward turned, through yonder door;
The free fold of her garments' damask grain
Fashioned a hieroglyph upon the floor,
Down the long passages, I heard her feet
Moving a crepitating music slow-
A harp through which the evening breezes blow.
And Indian trifles; a Mahratta blade
Whose ivory hilt sustained a cirque of towers,
On Vishnu's shrine at harvest full moon laid.
The stained wood and the white walls of the
Wavered, retreated, trembled, and was lost
Just as she glided by the cypress chair;
And, over bust and shoulders, cool and fair,
Have I forgotten-is this flash of light,
Which makes the brain and pulse together start,
Worlds, where I mayhap have left a heart-
Who shall unriddle it? Return, sweet wife,
And with thy presence sanctify this pain;
Lest, in the hour when night is on the wane,