That 'mid our hills, as wild and free
As one at home she seems,
And lets her voice accompany
The music of our streams;
Her mantle tangled in the brake,
Her shadow on the silent lake.
That when the cloud's rich purple fold
Lifts to the evening beam,
Beneath, on couch of pearl and gold,
Lies beauty in a dream.
For cloudland who? we bid thee say,
Through Ireland lies the nearest way.
And to our Royal Lady say,
That this, her green domain,
Is yearning for a sunny day-
So will she come again?
Then shall thy wires, with welcomes quiver,
Our "hundred thousand" few to give her.
But shalt thou tell how ruin treads
On yonder hearthstone cold?.
Of hungry mouths, and houseless heads?
Alas, the tale is old!
And should'st thou all such tales convey,
'Twould wear thy wires too soon away.
Of Erin's slothful hands, that waste
Rich gifts bestowed in vain ?
How party's bonds are o'er her cast-
How passion shakes the chain?
No-ill news flies apace, we trow,
Without such messenger as thou.
But whisper gently, as most fit,
To men of high degree,
That harp of tone most exquisite,
May yet mishandled be;
Alas! our part in Britain's song
Hath been the discord far too long.
Some say thy chain was not the first
That fastened us to her;
But thou hast made the word accurs'd
Sound kindly. We could bear
Another chain betwixt us wove,
Unfrayed and firm the links of love.
And love's true type thou surely art;
It hath its signs like thee-
The telegraph 'twixt heart and heart,
Life's electricity!
That, like thee, to the depths goes down,
That many waters cannot drown.
Like thee, through dark and tangled places,
Its way it can pursue
As delicate the touch that traces
Its errand swift and true;
But, unlike thee, behind it cast,
It leaves a brightness where it passed,
Not parted would our islands seem,
Could love's lost links be found :
The channel were a narrow stream
In one fair pleasure-ground,
Where either side for shade might thank
The trees on the opposing bank.
What lessons England's quickened sight
Might learn through such a chain!
And Erin's passion-lightnings write
A harmless message then;
And learn to strike the better part,
Not Britain's head, but Britain's heart.
Twins should they be, and closely joined,
That, like the Siamese,
With arms around each other twined,
Could only feel at ease;
Should feel that were that band cut through,
'Twould spill the life-blood of the two.
And England teach her sister weak
Her firm and stately tread,
And grateful Erin's fingers deck,
The grand, exalted head
With gems, the richest ever set
E'en in that glorious coronet.
When shall it be? When each torn half
Of Erin's self shall join
When love hath set its telegraph
'Twixt Wexford and the Boyne;
When God is felt, and error fled,
And prejudice is lying dead.
Then welcome, messenger of power!
If e'er that bright day break,
Sure we shall need thee every hour
Some friendly word to take.
Become, though lightning be thy dower,
An Iris for our sake-
Tell England how we long to prove,
The rainbow tints of peace and love.
THE WILD BEE OF LOUGH DERG.
I floated at noon, where the sunlight looks leaden,
On waves that encircle the desolate isle,
Where sin seeks, with penance, the conscience to deaden,
And Summer herself feels too guilty to smile.
I heard the monotonous beat of low surges,
That say a "Confiteor" ceaselessly o'er,
Like thought of the past, that reproachfully urges
The heart of the pilgrim who kneels on the shore.
I thought me, how often, when starlight has glisten'd,
And candles burnt low on the chapel-wall white,
Yon island's pale watchers have listen'd, and listen'd,
Till daylight looked wan on the wearisome night;
Have listen'd, if haply some word of forgiving
With the wail of the waters might tremblingly mix;
Have gazed, if some look of the loving and living
Might soften the brow of the cold crucifix.
But lo! on the wave which my shallop was crossing,
A star, that shot forth from its beautiful sphere,
A small golden flow'r of the greenwood-shade tossing
On wings of the wind, at the fall of the year!
High up over head flew a wild bee. Blithe hummer,
As lone in the air as my boat on the lake
O, beautiful guest of the blossoms of summer,
What buds are there here for thy flittings to shake?
Hast come from a home where the hill with the heather
Is rich as the sky with its purplest of light,
Where it, and the stars of the furzes together,
Drink honey and wine of the dew of the night?
Hast come from a chamber all ceil'd with vermilion,
The heart of a lily that lives by a stream,
Where primroses grow round a grassy pavilion,
And look at themselves in a life-lasting dream?
He is bound for some flower surpassing his lily,
He floats over Derg, though its waters be black,
To labour till evening, the starlit and stilly,
And then to his home to go wearily back.
But what if the bells which the wild bee is seeking
Lie, trampled and torn, in the deep mountain dell?
Or what if the tints which their tissues are freaking
Be fed from the fount of a poison-dew'd cell?
O, Faith of my country! that brightly and purely
Wert cradled and fed in the morning of time,
Till spreading thy wild wings, thou soughtest, securely,
The sweet-seeming buds of a sunnier clime;
Wilt thou die in those flow'rs the fair and deceiving-
Or wander on weary wings joyfully back?
Go sleep in the bud thou hast suffer'd for leaving,
And never more fly o'er the desolate track!
I know not, dark Derg! but, at even returning,
I saw a wild bee, with its golden-wing'd flame,
A self-moving cresset-light starrily burning
My heart hail'd the omen, and call'd it the same.
I followed it on, to its palaces pendent,
Where hush'd are its hummings the summer night through, Till moons, that hang o'er Meena Feargus resplendent,
Wax ghostly and wan, in the cold morning blue.
O, thus might the faith, that now over this dreary
And dream-haunted lake seeks the poisonous flower,
Come back in the light of its eventime weary,
To rest in the home of its earliest hour!
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