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THE VALLEY LAY SMILING BEFORE ME.
THE PILLAR TOWERS OF IRELAND.
The valley lay smiling before me
THE pillar towers of Ireland, how wondrously they stand Where lately I left her behind;
By the lakes and rushing rivers through the valleys of our land; Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me In mystic file, through the isle, they lift their heads sublime,
That saddened the joy of my mind. These gray old pillar temples, these conquerors of time!
Beside these gray old pillarsc, how perishing and weak
The Roman's arch of triumph, and the temple of the Greek, No lamp from the battlements burned.
And the gold domes of Byzantium, and the pointed Gothic spires !
All are gone, one by one, but the temples of our sires!
The column, with its capital, is level with the dust,
And the proud halls of the mighty and the calm homes of the Ah, would it were death, and death only!
just; And there hung the lute that could soften
For the proudest works of man, as certainly, but slower,
Pass like the grass at the sharp scythe of the mower!
But the grass grows again when in majesty and mirth,
On the wing of the spring comes the Goddess of the Earth; There was a time, falsest of women!
But for man in this world no spring-tide e'er returns When Breffni's good sword would have To the labors of his hands or the ashes of his urns!
sought That man, through a million of foemen, Who dared but to wrong thee in thought!
Two favorites hath Time—the pyramids of Nile, While now-oh, degenerate daughter
And the old mystic temples of our own dear isle; Of Erin, how fallen is thy fame!
As the breeze o'er the seas, where the halcyon has its nest, And through ages of bondage and slaughter Thus Time o'er Egypt's tombs and the temples of the West! Our country shall bleed for thy shame.
The names of their founders have vanished in the gloom, Already the curse is upon her,
Like the dry branch in the fire or the body in the tomb; And strangers her valleys profane;
But to-day, in the ray, their shadows still they castThey come to divide—to dishonor,
These temples of forgotten Gods—these relics of the past! And tyrants they long wil remain. But onward! the green banner rearing, Around these walls have wandered the Briton and the Dane Go, flash every sword to the hilt;
The captives of Armorica, the cavaliers of SpainOn our side is virtue and Erin,
Phænician and Melesian, and the plundering Norman PeersOn theirs is the Saxon and guilt.
And the swordsmen of brave Brian, and the chiefs of later years!
THE FOUR-LEAVED SHAMROCK.-Continued.
ORANGE AND GREEN.
The night was falling dreary in merry Bandon town,
When, in his cottage, weary, an Orangeman lay down. Like Noah's faithful dove.
The summer sun in splendor had set upon the vale,
And shouts of: “No surrender! And Hope should launch her blessed bark
arose upon the gale. On Sorrow's dark’ning sea, And Mis’ry's children have an Ark,
Beside the waters laving the feet of aged trees, And saved from sinking be.
The Orange banner waving, flew boldly in the breeze Oh! thus I'd play the enchanter's part;
In mighty chorus meeting, a hundred voices joined,
And fife and drum were beating the Buttle of the Boyne,
Ha! tow'rd his cottage hieing, what form is speeding now,
Hide-hide me, worthy stranger, though green my color be,
And in the day of danger may Heaven remember thee!
“In yonder vale contending alone against that crew, “COME sit by the fire, Mike Mahoney,
My life and limbs defending, an Orangeman I slew. And draw up your chair by the blaze,
Hark! hear that fearful warning, there's death in every tone It's a foine place ye have, altogether,"
Oh, save my life till morning, and Heaven prolong your own!" Said Micky, takin' his aise.
The Orange heart was melted in pity to the Green;
He heard the tale, and felt it his very soul within. “An' it's not so bad, Mister Mahoney
“Dread not that angry warning though death be in its tone (Pace to the soul of poor Pat!)
I'll save your life till morning, or I will lose my own.”
Now 'round his lowly dwelling the angry torrent press’d,
A hundred voices swelling, the Orangeman addressed “ Wid the pig an' the nate little shanty, “ Arise-arise, and follow the chase along the plain!
The praty-patch-sure, and it's ripe In yonder stony hollow your only son is slain!”
With rising shouts they gather upon the track amain,
And leave the childless father aghast with sudden pain. “Git out wid ye, Micky Mahoney,"
He seeks the righted stranger, in covert where he lay
“ Arise!” he said, “all danger is gone and past away! Said the widdy, twitchin' her chair. “Git out, whin ye axed me to inter? "
“I had a son-one only, one loved as my life, Cried Mick, boldly stroking her hair.
Thy hand has left me lonely, in that accursed strife.
I pledged my word to save thee until the storm should cease. “ Would ye lave a man sad and distressful,
I kept the pledge I gave thee-arise, and go in peace!
Full twenty summers after, to silver turned his beard; “Now, Mick," said the widdy, " 'tain't dacint, And yet the sound of laughter from him was never heard.
Wid the stone not yit on Pat's head.” “Axin' pardon,” said Mick, “but Pat's since- The night was falling dreary in merry Wexford town, less!
When in his cabin, weary, a peasant laid him down. Your smilin' would waken the dead!" And many a voice was singing along the summer vale,
And Wexford town was ringing with shouts of: “Granus
Uile.” “Oh, Mickey, don't, don't be on feelin'! Ah, whirra! me heart is so sore!
Beside the waters, laving the feet of aged trees, “ There, there, swatest Mollie, stop wailin',”
The green flag, gaily waving, was spread against the breeze An' Micky wint down on the floor.
In mighty chorus meeting, loud voices filled the town,
And fife and drum were beating, Down, Orangeman, lie down! Come, be my own darlint, me Mollie,
An'lave off the grievin'. Come, whist! Hark! 'mid the stirring clangor that woke the echoes there, An' before the sad widdy could hinder,
Loud voices, high in anger, rise on the evening air. She was smilin', an' poutin', an’ kissed ! Like billows of the ocean, he sees them hurry on
And 'mid the wild commotion, an Orangeman alone. An' Micky moved into the shanty,
“My hair,” he said, “is hoary, and feeble is my hand, Wid the widdy, an' praties, an' pig,
And I could tell a story would shame your cruel band. Said he: “ Pace to the soul of poor
Full twenty years and over have changed my heart and brow, When he passed round the jug at the jig.
And I am grown a lover of peace and concord now. Said the widdy, a tear on her lashes:
• It was not thus I greeted your brother of the Green ; Ah, Micky's the broth of a b’hy;
When, fainting and defeated, I freely took him in. While me heart is a-breakin' for Patrick I pledged my word to save him from vengeance rushing on, Me body is thrillin' wid joy!”
I kept the pledge I gave him, though he had killed my son.”
ORANGE AND GREEN.-Continued.
WHAT WILL YOU DO, LOVE? That aged peasant heard him, and knew him as he stood,
What will you do, love, when I am going, Remembrance kindly stirr’d him, and tender gratitude.
With white sail flowing, With gushing tears of pleasure, he pierced the listening train
To seas beyond ? “I'm here to pay the measure of kindness back again!
What will you do, love, when waves divide us, Upon his bosom falling, that old man's tears came down;
And friends inay chide us, Deep memory recalling the cot and fatal town.
For being fond ? “ The hand that would offend thee, my being first shall end; Though waves divide us, and friends be chidl'm living to defend thee, my savior and my friend!”
In faith abiding,
I'll still be true.
And I'll pray for thee on stormy ocean, They raised him on their shoulders and chaired him through
In deep devotionthe street.
That's what I'll do! As he had saved that stranger from peril scowling dim,
What would you do, love, if distant tidings, So in his day of danger did Heav'n remember him.
Thy fond confidings By joyous crowds attended, the worthy pair were seen.
Should think other eyes,
Were as bright as thine? “FROM the high sunny headlands of Bere in the west, Oh, name it not, though guilt and shame To the bowers that by Shannon's blue waters are blest,
Were on thy name, I am master unquestion’d and absolute ”—said
I'd still be true; The lord of broad Munster-King Donald the Red
But that heart of thine, should another share “ And now that my sceptre's no longer the sword,
it, In the wealthiest vale my dominions afford,
I could not bear itI will build me a temple of praise to that Power
What would I do? Who buckler'd my breast in the battle's dread hour." He spoke-it was done—and with pomp such as glows What would you do, when home returning, Round a sunrise in summer that Abbey arose.
With hopes high burning, There sculpture, her miracles lavish'd around,
With wealth for youUntil stone spoke a worship diviner than sound.
If my bark, that bounded o’er foreign foam,
Should be lost near home-
Ah, what would you do? As a thousand Cistercians incessantly raised
So thou wert spared, I'd bless the morrow,
In want and sorrow,
That left me you;
And I'd welcome thee from the wasting billow, And, in time, when the wearied O'Brien laid down
My heart thy pillow!
That's what I'd do.
OH, Avondhu, I wish I were
As once upon that mountain bare, In the days of my musings, I wander'd alone,
Where thy young waters laugh and shine To this Fane that had flourish'd ere Norman was known; On the wild breast of Meenganine. And its dread desolation was saddening to see,
I wish I were by Cleada's hill, For its towers were an emblem, () Erin, of thee!
Or by Glenruachra's rushy rill; All was glory in ruins-below and above
But no! I never more shall view
Those scenes I loved by Avondhu.
Farewell, ye soft and purple streaks
Of evening on the beauteous Reeks; While pillar and pinnacle moulder'd around
Farewell, ye mists, that loved to ride There, the choir's richest fretwork in dust overthrown,
On Cahirbearna's stormy side. With corbel and chapiter cumber'd the ground.”
Farewell, November's moaning breeze, O'er the porphyry shrine of the Founder all riven,
Wild minstrel of the dying trees; No lamps glimmer'd now but the cressets of heaven
Clara! a fond farewell to you,
No more we meet by Avoidhu.
No more—but thou, O glorious hill,
Lift to the moon thy forehead still; With a deeper emotion the spirit would thrill,
Flow on, flow on, thou dark swift river, In beholding wherever the winter and rain
Upon thy free wild course forever. Swept the dust from the relies it cover'd--that still
Exult, young hearts, in lifetime's spring, Some hand had religiously glean'd them again.
And taste the joys pure love can bring; Then I turn'd from the scene, as I mournfully said
But wanderer, go, they're not for you “God's rest to the soul of King Donald the Red.”
Farewell, farewell, sweet Arondhu.
LARRY'S ON THE FORCE.
A SHAMROCK FROM THE IRISH SHORE. WELL, Katie, and is this yersilf? And where was you this 0, Postman! speed thy tardy gait
whoile ? And ain't ye dhrissed! You are the wan to illusthrate the For thee I watch, for thee I wait,
Go quicker round from door to door; stoile! But never moind thim matthers now—there's toime enough for
Like many a weary wanderer more. thim;
Thou bringest news of bale and blissAnd Larry—that's me b’y-I want to shpake to you av him.
Some life begun, some life well o'er. Sure, Larry bates thim all for luck!—'tis he will make his way,
He stops-he rings !-0 Heaven! what's this?
A shamrock from the Irish shore!
Dear emblem of my native land,
By fresh fond words kept fresh and green; There's not a proivate gintleman that boords in all the row The pressure of an unfelt handWho houlds himself loike Larry does, or makes as foine a show,
The kisses of a lip unseen; Thim eyes av his, the way they shoine, his coat and butthons A throb from my dead mother's hearttoo
My father's smile revived once moreHe bates them kerrige dhroivers that be on the avenue! Oh, youth! oh, love! oh, hope thou art,
Sweet Shamrock from the Irish shore! He shtips that proud and shtately-loike, you'd think he owned the town,
Enchanter, with thy wand of power, And houlds his shtick convanient to be tappin' some wan down- Thou mak’st the past be present still: Aich blissed day, I watch to see him comin' up the shtrate, The emerald lawn—the lime-leaved bowerFor, by the greatest bit av luck, our house is on his bate.
The circling shore—the sunlit hill; The little b’ys is feared av him, for Larry's moighty shtrict,
The grass, in winter's wintriest hours, And many's the little blagyard he's arristed, I expict;
By dewy daisies dimpled o'er, The beggyars gets acrass the shtrate—you ought to see thim Half hiding, 'neath their trembling flowers,
The Shamrock of the Irish shore! flyAnd organ-groindhers scatthers whin they see him comin' by.
And thus, where'er my footsteps strayed, I know that Larry's bound to roise, he'll get a sergeant's post, By queenly Florence, kingly Rome And afther that a captincy widhin a year at most,
By Padua's long and lone arcadeAnd av he goes in politics he has the head to throive
By Ischia's fires and Adria's foam-
By Spezzia's fatal waves that kissed
The Shamrock of the Irish shore!
I saw the palm-tree stand aloof, The ugly shcamp! I alwas said, just as I'm tellin' you,
Irresolute 'twixt the sand and sea;
I saw upon the trellised roof
A giant-llowered and glorious tree
I saw the tall magnolia soar;
But there, even there, I longed for thee, On! now my dear friends, I'm going to relate,
Poor Shamrock of the Irish shore! If you pay attention, you've not long to wait;
Now on the ramparts of Boulogne, My father lived in a place called Graymote,
As lately by the lonely Rance, He'd a sow, and a cow, and a fine billy goat.
At evening as I watched the sun, This goat, sure, he had a queer, curious way,
I look! I dream! Can this be France ? He'd go out each morning and stop out all day;
Not Albion's cliffs, how near they be, When he'd come home at night, like a bull he would roar,
He seems to love to linger o'er; Till my father got up for to open the door.
But gilds, by a remoter sea,
The Shamrock on the Irish shore!
I'm with him in that wholesome climeAnd without saying a word, shure the dirty ould gommagh, That fruitful soil, that verdurous sodHe druv his two horns in my poor father's stomach.
Have still a simple faith in God.
Hearts that in pleasure and in pain, Says me mother to me, “ Jamsey.” “Yis, ma’am,” says I. Where hearts unstained by vulgar crime Take the goat to the market, and sell him, now try;
The more they're trod rebound the more, The words she scarce spoke, when the goat gave a jump,
Like thee, when wet with Heaven's own rain, And struck me mother, oh, gorra! such a murthering thump.
O Shamrock of the Irish shore! Then all in the house bate a hasty retrate,
Memorial of my native land, And the goat bucked away at the divil's own rate;
True emblem of my land and raceHe spied my father's coat hanging up, gave a bawl,
Thy sinall and tender leaves expand, Made a charge on the “ frize," and druv his head in the wall.
But only in thy native place. Some time afther they went to look for the goat,
Thou needest for thyself and seed They searched all around, till they came to the coat;
Soft dews around, kind sunshine o'er; But all of the goat that was left the next day,
Transplanted, thou'rt the merest weed, Was only the shtump of his tail, and it bucking away.
O Shamrock of the Irish shore!
They roamed a long and weary way,
Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease, When now, at close of one stormy day,
They see a proud castle among the trees. " To-night,” said the youth, “ we'll shelter
there, The wind blows cold, the hour is late!” So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air, And the porter bowed as they passed the
gate. “Now welcome, lady!” exclaimed the youth, “This castle is thine, and these dark woods
all." She believed him crazed, but his words were
truth, For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall. And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves
What William, the stranger, wooed and wed; And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves,
Shines pure as it did in the lowly shed.
Come back to Erin, Oh Kathleen Mavourneen," Their music so grand, thrills my heart o'er and o'er, The world knows no sweeter, no grander, or purer Sweet songs, than the loved ones of Erin asthore. How well I remember those days long ago, Ere I left my loved country to roam; All the boys, and the girls, they would gather at eve, On the old village green by my home. How their sweet voices rang, as the old songs they sang, Oh I long for to live those days o'er; But their mem'ries I'll hold, till the day that I die, With the sweet songs of Erin asthore.
“ Come back to Erin, Oh Kathleen Mavourneen," Their music so grand, thrills my heart o'er and o'er, The world knows no sweeter, no grander, or purer Sweet songs, than the loved ones of Erin asthore.