Lit from Truth's altar; but the false and mean

Transfix'd with rays like bayonets, cower'd and curs'd.
A noble man-in two words, not in one,

And England bankrupt for the difference!
Yet England knew him, and a richer wreath
Had crown'd, in proof, the statue of his fame,
Were they, from all who could not reach so high,
The best and not the impudentest few,
Upon the platform. As the record is,
NAPIER ennobles ENGLAND. Be it so.

Sleep, thou war-shatter'd frame! Brave spirit, rise
From the yet warlike Earth to a grander world,
And clothe thyself in God's eternal peace!

W. ALLINGHAM.

[This cave, now tenantless and overgrown, its doorway draperied with wild roses, is situated in an almost inaccessible part of the steep wood of Kilcara, which, with its beautiful indigenous trees, overhangs the river Feale, not far from Abbeyfeale, in the county Kerry. The story of Dominick, so wild and deeply suggestive, was related in this wood to the author some years ago.]

The cuckoo speaketh* loud and clear in sweet Kilcara wood,
With joyous heart she speaketh out in the full solitude,
While all unheeded at her side, enchained by wondering fear,
The gubbethawn† mid shaded leaves in silence sitteth near.

The robin flitteth here and there with gladsome holy note,
While high and lone the cloistered thrush swelleth her regal throat;
Through all the steep wood is a sound of restless twittering things,
Though the still leaves with kisses lure to rest the busy wings.

Far out the hills lie silent, as if lost in dreams unknown,
Now sinking softly nearer earth, now sweeping upward lone;
Their brows are lying heavenward, but their life is all a trance,
While a busy life low at their feet mirrors heaven's countenance.

Oh, Feale! how surely, earnestly, she seeks the unseen deep,
Past the proud gloom of Purtenard, soft sighing as in sleep,
Now under wild Kilcara wood, with shadowed bosom creeping,
And now down sweet Duagh's wide vale, in open joyance sweeping.

How bright the living waters flow among the dream-lock'd hills!
How cheeringly their airy voice the slumbering valley fills!

Rough is that way o'er which they stray, heaven-lit in crystal gladness,
While here, where wide and smooth they glide, their depths are filled with
sadness.

Oh, deeply sink those waters pure beneath Kilcara wood!
They seem to pause and deepen down on some sad tale to brood;
My thoughts flow with them, gathering in upon the tender wave,
For o'er this spot, though we see it not, is Dominick's empty cave.
High up within the steep wild wood lies hid that lonely home,
There did he dwell, that robber bold, where never foot did come,
Therein stole Spring, with spirit breath to warm the iced boughs,
And Autumn bare, with her still air, so pure on passionate brows.

This word, so peculiarly expressive of the cuckoo's note, the author has from the poor about Kilcara; only they would call it spakes."

66

This word comes from the same source as the above—being the Irish name for the little bird that follows the cuckoo.

Such were his only visitors, thus did they come and go,

But of their speech with him so lone, I cannot guess nor know;
Unchidden carrolled the gay birds, nor shrank before his eye,
And the tiny flowers about his bed, unblamed did bloom and die.

Yet while the meek flowers with mild glee looked up into his face,
And the poor with deep impassioned love kept safe his lurking place,
Fearfully rang throughout the land the robber's evil fame,
And gentle tongues, in quiet halls, with shuddering spoke his name.

He had seen the rich men travelling past in greatness and in pride,
He had seen the poor, wrestling with want, grow death pale at his side;
In dark he walked, nor looked to God for patience and for cure,
But rushed forth mad on those who had, and robb'd them for the poor.

They have sought him long and wearily the Kerry woods amid;
In every cabin have they asked where Dominick lieth hid,
But they may seek him wearily and long both night and day,
Before they find, in hedge or hut, one tongue that will betray!

How carelessly sits Dominick beneath the evening red,
Among the ferns and bloomy flowers-with a price upon his head !
A silvery birchen bough above him rocketh 'neath the sky,
And a robin rocketh 'mid its leaves, and singeth tenderly.

Alone he sits, but never a thought of care or fear will have

He trusteth to the steep rough wood and to his hidden cave;

He sits in sun and cleans from blood both sword and dagger bright,
And smiles to himself with a proud glad smile as they catch the western light.

There as he sits, a stealthy eye and foot the woodpaths find.
What matters it? They will pass as erst, and leave him safe behind.
So had they passed, but a sudden gleam hath struck that passing eye,
And, searching deep the wood's soft sleep, it is raised intent on high.
Yes; there he sitteth full in sight, with his rugged hero-brow,
Upon whose heat the shadows sweet drop cool from bird and bough,
His brightening sword beams glad on its lord, upguiding straight the while
Death's steadfast bolt to his very heart, with its silent traitor-smile!
Forth bursts that bolt, and all the wood seems stricken into death,
So breathless is the sudden hush, above, around, beneath;
Then softly song by song awoke, till all was as before,
But Dominick lay, still as the clay, and never wakened more.

Fast o'er the wild flowers-fast, oh! fast-the noble heart flows forth:

It gushes out, and sinks, sinks down fast in the drinking earth,

A noble heart? Yes, yes, though rough and ruined in its mould,
It sinnèd not in ruthlessness, nor selfish thirst for gold.

And still in sweet Kilcara wood is Dominick's lonely cave,
Not to be gained by any but a footstep eager-brave;

And when earth groweth full of flowers, God hangeth in the sight,
Before that dark cave's desolate door, a veil of roses white.

They spring from clay, and every spray windeth in earthly bands,
Yet fair they are, as if let down from heaven by angel hands,
As pitying sad as thoughts that fill the Christian's radiant ark,
At sight of brother heart without lone heaving in the dark.

But hark! the cuckoo speaks again, and wakes me with clear tone,
A dove that tells of Eden-joy, and will not mourn it gone;
She follows Spring's swift-flying wings, and visits our cold years,
To waken up our sleeping hope, and start us from our tears!

Glad, homeless dove, that cannot find rest for thy joyful foot,
Which will not brook a withering world where life and joy are mute;
When thou dost speak of heavenly peace that is "not dead but sleeps,”
Shall souls redeemed thy ardours hear, nor answer from their deeps?

Rejoicing bird, thy prophet voice hath won my heart within,
I see the new heavens and new earth unshaded by our sin,

That is the dream that stills those hills-the smile upon that wave,
And the tender light of those roses white that hide poor Dominick's cave!

IV.

THE FALSE ONE.

The summer stars were burning on the sea,
The moon was soft upon the purple lea,
When oh, my love, I sat alone with thee.

My happiness had made my manhood weak-
I felt thy sweet breath blowing on my cheek;
My heart was full of love—I could not speak.

Thy kisses fell like showers on my brow;
The hand I clasped was soft as mountain snow;
My heart, oh, break fond heart, is colder now.

The rain is weeping on the homeless hills;
The streams are wild around the silent mills—
All things are desolate; my bosom fills

With longings wild and sorrowful!—Oh, vain
I strive to clasp her starlike form again—
False false is burnt upon my weary brain.

Oh, give me rest, the stars above have rest ;
The warm earth slumbers on the ocean's breast-
My bosom gives no echo to their rest.

Fierce as a tempest battling in a glen ;
Cold as the rushes shivering on the fen;

So fierce so cold are all my thoughts within.

False-false-my heart is whirling blind and strong,
Like a star-shivered planet. Oh, how long
Must I endure the throbbing of this wrong!

V.

SPARTACUS.

Above me rose the arches of the Hall

Before me stood a bronze. In clear relief

Rose that bold figure in the gaze of all;

Each muscle braced with might that could not sleep.

The head thrown back, and full of ire and life;

The frame instinct, and burning for the strife;

The strength of those proud hands; the hatred deep,

Seated like thunders on thy Roman brow,

And the wild forward glance that haunts my spirit now.

J. S.

But that foul thing-what is it that I see?

A chain! Oh, deep, unutterable wrong!
Could that heart beat, and beat in slavery?

Never! Those links are rent!—and hark, a song
Comes on my brain, like surgings of a stream,
Heard through the shaggy pines, when evening's gleam
Slants down the forest. How that anthem strong
Thrills through the heart, from echoing times of old-
The lay of Spartacus-the gladiator bold!

A lay of freedom! See'st thou not, oh man!

That smile triumphal and that gathering scorn;
That short, firm sword-the seven-hilled city's ban-
Right to his tyrant's heart its path hath torn?
Learn'st thou no lesson? Men are equal.
Honour the fact; defend the truth you know;

Arise and prophesy, 'till freedom's morn

Break beautiful upon the mountain height,

Go,

And earth's warm bosom burst in flowers to hail its light!

A lay of freedom! Oh, ye slaves that now

Cramp the broad mind to fashion, form, and rite, Sweep an unfettered hand across your brow;

Rise like a falcon to the living light;

Free the undying thought from licensed lies,
Till like a river bursting from its ice,

And whirling error to its native night,

Brimming with freedom, through a golden land
It rolls, loud, bright, and broad, impetuously grand!

"These flowers of memory we bring,

That by thy footfall, child of God! Heaven's own Forget-me-not' may spring, To tell where angel-footsteps trod."

The Seraphim the new-born's cot

Then strewed with flowers of azure pale;

And whispering, "Forget me not,"

Each sped some younger life to hail.

Fair, fair the infant seraph grew,
And holier from day to day;

So gentle, so benign, so true

She was not meant on earth to stay.

She past us on her pilgrimage,

In her young hand sweet flowers she bore; Ah! never childhood, youth, or age,

Forgot the smile that seraph wore.

And as she went she scattered round

Those azure flowers upon the sod;
God's own Forget-me-not is found

Where'er her gentle footsteps trod.
We marked on her sweet, serious brow
The cross of holy fear and love;
And yet we strove to keep below
Her who was chosen for above!

Fondly we prayed her yet to stay

Awhile, earth's fullest joys to share;

But she would upward look, and say,

"Come thou with me-my home is there.”

Thus, sweetly smiling to the last,

A denizen of worlds to come,

Scatt'ring bright flowers, the pilgrim past
Away, to her own Heaven-home.

Where bends the emerald arch of

In radiant iris-hues of glory;

Where the redeemed never cease

peace,

The praise of Hallelujah! Holy!

Where the pellucid, crystal sea

Reflects the loved ones of the world;

And floats the flood of memory,

The seraph stands with wings unfurled.

She watches for the holy hour

When sleep enchains the thoughts of sin;

And mortal vision hath no power

To mar the spotless seraphim.

Then from that sea and iris' dyes,

Gathering more flowers and brighter beams,

The seraph angel hither flies,

To bless her loved ones in their dreams.

Through leafy trees the mourner's eye

Still sees, at dawn, from yonder sod,

That blue Forget-me-nots on high,

Mark where her angel-footsteps trod.

MARA.