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For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Heal'd not a passion or a pang
Entail'd on human hearts.
“Go, let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men;
Life's tragedy again.
Of pain anew to writhe; Stretch'd in disease's shapes ablıorr'd, Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe.
“Ev'n I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire; Test of all sunless agonies,
Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of death, Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of nature spreads my pall, The majesty of darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!
“This spirit shall return to Him
That gave its heavenly spark; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark !
By Him recall'd to breath,
And took the sting from Death!
“Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up
On nature's awful waste,
Of grief that man shall taste;
On earth's sepulchral clod, The dark’ning universe defy To quench his immortality
Or shake his trust in God!"
The Soldier's Dream. Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud
had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the
And thousands had sunk on the ground over
power'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die,
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the
slain; At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track; | 'Twas autumn,
and sunshine arose on the
way To the home of my fathers, that welcom'd me
I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft
young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I
swore, From my home and my weeping friends never
to part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobb’d aloud in her fulness of
Stay, stay with us, rest, thou art weary and
worn; And fain was their war-broken soldier to
stay: But sorrow return’d with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted
O'Connor's Child, or the Flower of
Love lies bleeding. Oh! once the harp of Innisfail
Was strung full high to notes of gladness; But yet it often told a tale
Of more prevailing sadness.
Sad was the note, and wild its fall;
As winds that moan at night forlorn Along the isles of Fion-Gall,
When, for O'Connors child to mourn, The harper told, how lone, how far From any mansion's twinkling star From any path of social men, Or voice, but from the fox's den, The lady in the desert dwelt; And yet no wrongs, no fear she felt; Say, why should dwell in place so wild O'Connor's pale and lovely child?
Yet she will tell you she is blest,
Sweet lady! she no more inspires
Green Erin's hearts with beauty's power, As, in the palace of her sires,
She bloomed a peerless flower.
The royal broche, the jewelled ring,
Like dews on lilies of the spring. Yet why, though fall’n her brother's kern Beneath de Bourgo's battle stern, While yet in Leinster unexplored Her friends survive the English sword; Why lingers she from Erin's host So far on Galways shipwrecked coast? Why wanders she a huntress wild, O'Connor's pale and lovely child?
A hero's bride! this desert bower
It ill befits thy gentle breeding: And wherefore dost thou love this flower
To call: — “My love lies bleeding.” “This purple flower my tears have nursed;
A hero's blood supplied its bloom: I loved it, for it was the first
That grew on Connocht Moran's tomb.
That led me to its wilds afar:
And fix'd on empty space, why burn
Her eyes with momentary wildness; And wherefore do they then return
To more than woman's mildness? Dishevell’d are her raven-locks;
On Connocht Moran's name she calls; And oft amidst the lonely rocks
She sings sweet madrigals.
“O'Connor's child, I was the bud
Of Erin's royal tree of glory.
The tissue of my story.
A death-scene rushes on my sight;
The bloody feud the fatal night, When, chafing Connocht Moran's scorn, They call'd my hero basely born And bade him choose a meaner bride Than from O'Connor's house of pride. Their tribe, they said, their high degree Was sung in Tara's psaltery; Witness their Eath's victorious brand, And Cathal of the bloody hand: Glory (they said) and power and honour Were in the mansion of O'Connor; But he, my loved one, bore in field A meaner crest upon his shield.”
Bright as the bow that spans the storm,
In Erin's yellow vesture clad, A son of light a lovely form,
He comes and makes her glad; Now on the grass-green turf he sits,
His tassel'd horn beside him laid; Now o'er the hills in chase he flits,
The hunter and the deer a shade! Sweet mourner! those are shadows vain That cross the twilight of her brain;
"Ah, brothers ! what did it avail
That fiercely and triumphantly Ye fought the English of the pale
And stemmed De Bourgo's chivalry? And what was it to love and me
That barons by our standard rode, Or peal-fires for your jubilee
Upon an hundred mountains glowed ? What though the lords of tower and dome, From Shannon to the North-sea-foam, Thought ye your iron hands of pride Could break the knot that love had tied ?
let the eagle change his plume, The leaf its hue, the flower its bloom; But ties around this heart were spun, That could not, would not, be undone!"
Their iron hands had dug the clay, And o'er his burial-turf they trod, And I beheld oh God! oh God! His life-blood oozing from the sod!”
"At bleating of the wild watch-fold
Thus sang my love . 'Oh, come with me: Our bark is on the lake, behold
Our steeds are fasten'd to the tree; Come far from Castle-Connor's clans
Come with thy belted forestere, And I, beside the lake of swans,
Shall hunt for thee the fallow-deer; And build thy hut, and bring thee home The wild-fowl and the honey-comb; And berries from the wood provide, And play my clarshech by thy side. Then come, my love!' How could I stay? Our nimble stag-hounds tracked the way, And I pursued, by moonless skies, The light of Connocht Moran's eyes.”
"Warm in his death-wounds sepulchred,
Alas! my warrior spirit brave, Nor mass, nor ulla-lulla heard
Lamenting soothe his grave. Dragged to their hated mansion back,
How long in thraldom's gasp I lay, I knew not, for my soul was black
And knew no chance of night or day. One night of horror round me grew; Or if I saw, or felt, or knew, 'Twas but when those grim visages, The angry brothers of my race, Glared on each eye-ball's aching throb, And check'd my bosom's power to sob; Or when my heart with pulses drear Beat like a death-watch to my ear.”
"And fast and far, before the star
Of day-spring rushed we through the glade, And saw at dawn the lofty bawn
Of Castle-Connor fade! Sweet was to us the hermitage
Of this unplough’d, untrodden shore;
For man's neglect we lored it more.
“But Heaven, at last, my soul's eclipse
Did with a vision bright inspire:
A prophetess's fire.
I heard the Saxon's trumpet sound
My guilty, trembling brothers round. Clad in the helm and shield they came; For now De Bourgo's sword and flame Had ravaged Ulster's boundaries, And lighted up the midnight-skies. That standard of O'Connor's sway Was in the turret where I lay; That standard, with so dire a look, As ghastly shone the moon and pale, I gave, that every bosom shook Beneath its iron mail.
"When all was hushed, at even-tide,
I heard the baying of their beagle, Be hushed, my Connocht Moran cried,
'Tis but the screaming of the eagle. Alas! 't was not the eyrie's sound,
Their bloody bands had track'd us out; Up listening starts our couchant hound
And, hark! again that nearer shout
Another's and another's;
Ah me! it was a brother's.
And go! (I cried) the combat seek,
Ye hearts that unappalled bore The anguish of a sister's shriek;
Go! and return no more! For sooner guilt the ordeal-brand
Shall grasp unhurt, than ye shall hold The banner with victorious hand, Beneath a sister's curse unroli'd. O stranger, by my country's loss! And by my love! and by the cross! I swear I never could have spoke The curse that serered nature's yoke, But that a spirit o'er me stood, And fired me with the wrathful mood; And frenzy to my heart was given To speak the malison of heaven."
"They would have cross'd themselves; all mute, Dire was the look, that o'er their backs
They would have pray'd to burst the spell; The angry parting brothers threw: But, at the stamping of my foot
But now, behold! like cataracts Each hand down pow'rless fell!
Came down the hills in view And go to Athunree! (I cried)
O'Connor's plumed partizans. High lift the banner of your pride!
Thrice ten Kilnagorvian clans But know, that where its sheet unrolls, Were marching to their doom: The weight of blood is on your souls.
A sudden storm their plumage tossed, Go, where the havoc of your kern
A flash of lightning o'er them crossed,
And all again was gloom.”
At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall;
His bow still hanging on our wall,
And took it down, and vowed to rove Where downward, when the sun shall fall, This desert place a huntress bold; The raven's wing shall be your pall!
Nor would I change my buried love And not a vassal shall unlace
For any heart of living mould. The vizar from your dying face!"
No! for I am a hero's child,
I'll hunt my quarry in the wild : "A bolt that overhung our dome,
And still may home this mansion make, Suspended till my curse was given,
Of all unheeded and unheeding, Soon as it pass'd these lips of foam
And cherish, for my warrior's sake Pealed in the blood-red heaven
The flower of love lies bleeding."
Bryan Walter Procter, als Dichter nur unter dem Namen Barry Cornwall bekannt, ward um 1790 in London geboren, widmete sich der Rechtswissenschaft und lebt als Advocat in seiner Vaterstadt. Seit dem Jahre 1815 trat er jedoch nie unter seinem eigenen Namen als Dichter auf und veröffentlichte bis jetzt: Dramatic Scenes; A Sicilian Story; Marcian Colonna; the Flood of Thessaly, Mirandola, viele kleinere Poesieen, Lieder u. A. m. Reiche Phantasie, Geist und seltene Herrschaft über Form und Sprache sind ihm eigen, aber sein Streben nach Natürlichkeit verleitet ihn oft gerade zum Gegentheil. Unter seinen Liedern ist viel überaus Gelungenes.
Here's a health to thee, Mary,
The drinkers are gone,
And I am alone,
| There are some who may shine o'er thee, Mary, And many as frank and free;
And a few as fair,
But the summer air