Imágenes de página


Da bfeacin se'n la sin bo seasta bfeic m'intin.

O, Heavens! if that long-wished for morning I spied,
As high as three kings I'd leap up in my pride;
With transport I'd laugh, and my shout should arise,
As the fires from each mountain blaz'd bright to the skies.

The Avenger should lead us right on to the foe, Our horns should sound out, and our trumpets should blow,

Ten thousand huzzas should ascend to high heaven, When our Prince was restored, and our fetters were riven.

O chieftains of Ulster, when will you come forth,
And send your strong cry on the winds of the north?
The wrongs of a king call aloud for your steel,
Red stars of the battle, O'Donnel, O'Neal !

Bright house of O'Connor, high offspring of kings, Up, up like the eagle, when heavenward he springs ! O, break ye once more from the Saxon's strong rule, Lost race of Mac Murchad, O'Byrne, and O'Toole !

Mononia* of Druids, green dwelling of song,
Where, where are thy minstrels, why sleep they so long?

* In Mononia, (Munster) Druidism appears to have flourished most, as we may conjecture, from the numerous remains of Druidical workmanship, and the names of places indicating that worship. The records of the province are the best kept of any in Ireland, and it has proverbially retained among the peasantry, a character for superior learning.-Blackwood's Magazine.

Does no bard live to wake, as they oft did before,

O, come from yon hills, like the waves to the shore, When the storm-girded headlands are mad with the roar! Ten thousand hurras shall ascend to high heaven, When our prince is restor'd, and our fetters are riven.


The names in this last song are those of the principal families in Ireland, many of whom, however, were decided enemies of the house of Stuart. cannot fail to observe the strange expectation which these writers entertained of the nature of the Pretender's designs. They call on him, not to come to re-instate himself on the throne of his fathers, but to aid them in doing vengeance on the "flint-hearted Saxon." Nothing, however, could be more natural. The Irish Jacobites, at least the Roman Catholics, were in the habit of claiming the Stuarts, as of the Milesian line, fondly deducing them from Fergus, and the Celts of Ireland. Who the Avenger is, whose arrival is prayed for in the last song, I am not sure; but circumstances, too tedious to be detailed, make me think, that the date of the song is 1708, when a general impression prevailed, that the field would be taken in favour of the Pretender, under a commander of more weight and authority than had come forward before. His name was kept a secret. Very little has been written on the history of the jacobites of Ireland, and yet, I think it would be an interesting subject. We have now arrived at a time when it could be done, without exciting any angry feelings.

Blackwood's Magazine.


As we are intimately acquainted with the author of this Ode, we must forbear commenting upon it. We therefore leave its merits to be determined by the judgment of our readers.-ED.

Say, who art thou, whose vivid eye,
Darting the vault of heav'n along,
Proclaims thee daughter of the sky,
Parent of poesy and song?
Of thee the ancient poets told,
That grac'd the happier age of gold,
Ere art had strung the unpractis'd lyre,-
Ere the soft voice of music stole
In melting sweetness on the soul,
And 'woke celestial fire.

But still to us thou art unknown,
Spite of the poet's well-sung lay;
Who can ascend thy fairy throne,

Or trace thy devious, hermit way?
A sylvan nymph thou oft dost rove
The dark-browd wood, the twilight grove,
Or, musing 'neath some aged tower,
Thou dost behold, in pause divine,
The heavenly constellations shine,

And mark eternal power.
Visions of high, ethereal bliss,

And madding inspirations glow,
Scenes of romantic happiness,

That never lingered here below;

And that pure ecstacy that finds
No kindred thrill in earth-born minds,
Attend thee to the poet's bower,
Where, on his couch of rushes laid,
He oft invokes thy secret aid,

And owns thy genial power.

A pensive lover thou art seen

Lone, lingering through some desert shade, Unmindful of the smiling green,

And all the magic of the mead.
Nature for thee no more hath charms,
Consign'd to passion's dread alarms,

The offspring of unwise desire;
The frantic glance, the absent thought,
The wistful look from passion caught,
Betray thy hidden fire.

Escap'd from Love's tyrannic sway,

With eagle glance I view thee rise, Explore the empire of the day,

And claim thy own, thy natal skies. With ardent flight thou dost intrude On old Creation's solitude,

Where space extends her boundless line;
Where other suns give life and light,
And other stars illume the night,
And other planets shine.

Oft dost thou stray where ocean's roar,
And all the horrors of the main
Tempestuous fulmined round that shore
Where first the Trojan chief felt pain.


More wild thy looks than his who braves
The savage strife of winds and waves,

While heaven is wrapped in awful gloom, Save where the rapid lightning beam, Darting its fearful, sudden gleam,

The scene of death illume.

Lured by Ambition's erring pride,
The aspiring youth thou dost invite
To regal favours yet untried,

And fancied treasures of delight:
Hope leads the way, and spreads her sail,
Secure while Fortune swells the gale,

And points to scenes of future power; Yet every bliss to hope allied, And every tribute paid to pride, Must dwindle in an hour!

The terrors of sublime Affright,

The sympathetic pang is thine :
Oh! nurse of pain and fond delight,
Be all thy mixed emotions mine!..
Yet far from ocean's desert waste,
To scenes more tranquil let us haste,

Where silence and the shades prevail;
Where science waits us, to bestow
More luxury than wealth can know,
Or language can reveal.

[ocr errors]

Remote from courts and regal sway, With thee, fair goddess, let me dwell; With thee enjoy the pensive lay,

And court the humble, rustic cell,

« AnteriorContinuar »