Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy (great novels txt) 📕

Irish ground for Ireland's weal?

"Love the dear land in which you live,
Live in the land you ought to love; Take root, and let your branches give
Fruits to the soil they wave above; No matter what your foreign name,
No matter what your sires have done, No matter whence or when you came,
The land shall claim you as a son!"

As in the azure fields on high, When Spring lights up the April sky, The thick battalioned dusky clouds Fly o'er the plain like routed crowds Before the sun's resistless might! Where all was dark, now all is bright; The very clouds have turned to light, And with the conquering beams unite!

Thus o'er the face of John MacJohn A thousand varying shades have gone; Jealousy, anger, rage, disdain, Sweep o'er his brow-a dusky train; But nature, like the beam of spring, Chaseth the crowd on sunny wing; Joy warms his heart, hope lights his eye, And the dark passions routed fly!

The hands are clasped-the hound is freed, Gone is MacJohn with wife and steed, He meets his spearsmen some few miles, And turns their scowling frowns to smiles: At morn the crowded march begins Of steeds and cattle for the glynnes; Well for poor Erin's wrongs and griefs, If thus would join her severed chiefs!


77. A beautiful inlet, about six miles west of Donegal.

78. Lough Eask is about two miles from Donegal. Inglis describes it as being as pretty a lake, on a small scale, as can well be imagined.

79. The sands of Rosapenna are described as being composed of "hills and dales, and undulating swells, smooth, solitary, and desolate, reflecting the sun from their polished surface," &c.

80. "Clan Dalaigh" is a name frequently given by Irish writers to the Clan O'Donnell.

81. The "Fairy Gun" is an orifice in a cliff near Bundoran (four miles S.W. of Ballyshannon), into which the sea rushes with a noise like that of artillery, and from which mist, and a chanting sound, issue in stormy weather.

82. The waterfall at Ballyshannon.

83. The O'Donnells are descended from Conal Golban, son of Niall of the Nine Hostages.

84. Cushendall is very prettily situated on the eastern coast of the county Antrim. This, with all the territory known as the "Glynnes" (so called from the intersection of its surface by many rocky dells), from Glenarm to Ballycastle, was at this time in the possession of the MacDonnells, a clan of Scotch descent. The principal castle of the MacDonnells was at Glenarm.

85. The Rock of Doune, in Kilmacrenan, where the O'Donnells were inaugurated.

86. The Hebrides.

87. Carrick-a-rede (Carraig-a-Ramhad)-the Rock in the Road lies off the coast, between Ballycastle and Portrush; a chasm sixty feet in breadth, and very deep, separates it from the coast.

88. The waterfall of Assaroe, at Ballyshannon.

89. St. Columba, who was an O'Donnell.

90. "This bird (the Gannet) flys through the ship's sails, piercing them with his beak."-O'Flaherty's "H-Iar Connaught," p. 12, published by the Irish Archaeological Society.

91. She was the wife of Oisin, the bard, who is said to have lived and sung for some time at Cushendall, and to have been buried at Donegal.

92. The Rock of Clough-i-Stookan lies on the shore between Glenarm and Cushendall; it has some resemblance to a gigantic human figure.-"The winds whistle through its crevices like the wailing of mariners in distress."-Hall's "Ireland," vol. iii., p. 133.

93. "The Gray Man's Path" (Casan an fir Leith) is a deep and remarkable chasm, dividing the promontory of Fairhead (or Benmore) in two.


THE BELL-FOUNDER.


PART I.-LABOUR AND HOPE.

In that land where the heaven-tinted pencil giveth shape to the
splendour of dreams, Near Florence, the fairest of cities, and Arno, the sweetest of streams, 'Neath those hills[94] whence the race of the Geraldine wandered in ages
long since, For ever to rule over Desmond and Erin as martyr and prince, Lived Paolo, the young Campanaro,[95] the pride of his own little vale- Hope changed the hot breath of his furnace as into a sea-wafted gale; Peace, the child of Employment, was with him, with prattle so soothing
and sweet, And Love, while revealing the future, strewed the sweet roses under his
feet.

Ah! little they know of true happiness, they whom satiety fills, Who, flung on the rich breast of luxury, eat of the rankness that kills. Ah! little they know of the blessedness toil-purchased slumber enjoys, Who, stretched on the hard rack of indolence, taste of the sleep that
destroys, Nothing to hope for, or labour for; nothing to sigh for, or gain; Nothing to light in its vividness, lightning-like, bosom and brain; Nothing to break life's monotony, rippling it o'er with its breath: Nothing but dulness and lethargy, weariness, sorrow, and death!

But blessed that child of humanity, happiest man among men, Who, with hammer, or chisel, or pencil, with rudder, or ploughshare, or
pen, Laboureth ever and ever with hope through the morning of life, Winning home and its darling divinities-love-worshipped children and
wife, Round swings the hammer of industry, quickly the sharp chisel rings, And the heart of the toiler has throbbings that stir not the bosom of
kings; He the true ruler and conqueror, he the true king of his race, Who nerveth his arm for life's combat, and looks the strong world in the
face.

And such was young Paolo! The morning, ere yet the faint starlight had
gone, To the loud-ringing workshop beheld him move joyfully light-footed on. In the glare and the roar of the furnace he toiled till the evening star
burned, And then back again through that valley, as glad but more weary
returned. One moment at morning he lingers by that cottage that stands by the
stream, Many moments at evening he tarries by that casement that woos the moon's
beam; For the light of his life and his labours, like a lamp from that
casement shines In the heart-lighted face that looks out from that purple-clad trellis
of vines.

Francesca! sweet, innocent maiden! 'tis not that thy young cheek is
fair, Or thy sun-lighted eyes glance like stars through the curls of thy
wind-woven hair; 'Tis not for thy rich lips of coral, or even thy white breast of snow, That my song shall recall thee, Francesca! but more for the good heart
below. Goodness is beauty's best portion, a dower that no time can reduce, A wand of enchantment and happiness, brightening and strengthening with
use. One the long-sigh'd-for nectar that earthliness bitterly tinctures and
taints: One the fading mirage of the fancy, and one the elysium it paints.

Long ago, when thy father would kiss thee, the tears in his old eyes
would start, For thy face-like a dream of his boyhood-renewed the fresh youth of
his heart; He is gone; but thy mother remaineth, and kneeleth each night-time and
morn, And blesses the Mother of Blessings for the hour her Francesca was born. There are proud stately dwellings in Florence, and mothers and maidens
are there, And bright eyes as bright as Francesca's, and fair cheeks as brilliantly
fair; And hearts, too, as warm and as innocent, there where the rich paintings
gleam, But what proud mother blesses her daughter like the mother by Arno's
sweet stream?

It was not alone when that mother grew aged and feeble to hear, That thy voice like the whisper of angels still fell on the old woman's
ear, Or even that thy face, when the darkness of time overshadowed her sight, Shone calm through the blank of her mind, like the moon in the midst of
the night. But thine was the duty, Francesca, and the love-lightened labour was
thine, To treasure the white-curling wool and the warm-flowing milk of the
kine, And the fruits, and the clusters of purple, and the flock's tender
yearly increase, That she might have rest in life's evening, and go to her Father in
peace.

Francesca and Paolo are plighted, and they wait but a few happy days, Ere they walk forth together in trustfulness out on Life's wonderful
ways; Ere, clasping the hands of each other, they move through the stillness
and noise, Dividing the cares of existence, but doubling its hopes and its joys. Sweet days of betrothment, which brighten so slowly to love's burning
noon, Like the days of the spring which grow longer, the nearer the fulness of
June, Though ye move to the noon and the summer of Love with a slow-moving
wing, Ye are lit with the light of the morning, and decked with the blossoms
of spring.

The days of betrothment are over, for now when the evening star shines, Two faces look joyfully out from that purple-clad trellis of vines; The light-hearted laughter is doubled, two voices steal forth on the
air, And blend in the light notes of song, or the sweet solemn cadence of
prayer. At morning when Paolo departeth, 'tis out of that sweet cottage door, At evening he comes to that casement, but passes that casement no more; And the old feeble mother at night-time, when saying, "The Lord's will
be done," While blessing the name of a daughter, now blendeth the name of a son.


PART II.-TRIUMPH AND REWARD.

In the furnace the dry branches crackle, the crucible shines as with
gold, As they carry the hot flaming metal in haste from the fire to the mould; Loud roars the bellows, and louder the flames as they shrieking escape, And loud is the song of the workmen who watch o'er the fast-filling
shape; To and fro in the red-glaring chamber the proud master anxiously moves, And the quick and the skilful he praiseth, and the dull and the laggard
reproves; And the heart in his bosom expandeth, as the thick bubbling metal up
swells, For like to the birth of his children he watcheth the birth of the
bells.

Peace had guarded the door of young Paolo, success on his industry
smiled, And the dark wing of Time had passed quicker than grief from the face of
a child; Broader lands lay around that sweet cottage, younger footsteps tripped
lightly around, And the sweet silent stillness was broken by the hum of a still sweeter
sound. At evening when homeward returning how many dear hands must he press, Where of old at that vine-covered wicket he lingered but one to caress; And that dearest one is still with him, to counsel, to strengthen, and
calm, And to pour over Life's needful wounds the healing of Love's blessed
balm.

But age will come on with its winter, though happiness hideth its snows; And if youth has its duty of labour, the birthright of age is repose: And thus from that love-sweetened toil, which the heavens had so
prospered and blest, The old Campanaro will go to that vine-covered cottage to rest; But Paolo