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Oh! where is the dwelling in valley or highland,
O'er the heart, and the harp, that are sleeping for ever. Now, to establish the author's title to the merit of exquisite simplicity: we have only to regret that the producer of such sweet simplicity as the following ballad contains, has not given us many, many more such invaluable examples of this divine peculiarity. THE NIGHT WAS STILL.
With modest air she drooped her head,
Her cheek of beauty veiling;
I mark'd her strife of feeling;
“Oh, speak my doom, dear maid," I cried, Its waves in light were sleeping,
“ By yon bright Heaven above thee ; With Mary on the beach I stray'd ; She gently raised her eyes and sighed, The stars beam'd joy above me:
* Too well yon know I love thee." prest her hand and said, "sweet maid,
* Oh tell me do you love me?"
It is not alone in “The Recluse of Inchidony” that a resemblance to Byron may be traced : he evinces a kindred spirit to that of the great author of "Childe Harold,” in almost all his poetical writings, though his melancholy was not as deep, or so much steeped in despair as that of the former. Our readers who remember, and there are few who have read “The Siege of Corinth” who will not remember, that beautiful passage commencing, “ 'Tis midnight on the mountains brown,” will not fail to observe a striking siinilarity to it in the lines beluw; a
resemblance, albeit, which none can for a moment suppose to wear the most remote appearance of plagiarism, which never can be attributed to Callanan, whose ideas are as fresh as the water in “ The thousand wild fountains" which he tells us empty themselves into the lake of “Gougane Barra." MOONLIGHT.
But then will feel
Upon him steal 'Tis sweet at hush of night
Their silent sweet reproaches ? By the calm moon to wander,
Oh! that my soul all free, And view those isles of light
From bonds of earth might sever ; That float so far beyond her
Oh! that those isles might be
Fler resting place for ever.
On whose calm breast
And when in secret sighs
The lonely heart is pining. Oh! that my soul all free
If we but view those skies
While sud we gaze
On their mild rays,
They seem like seraphs smiling, When all those glorious spheres
To jogs above, The watch of Heaven are keeping,
With looks of love, And dews, like Angels' tears,
The weary spirit wilingi
Oh! that my soul all free
From bonds of earth could sever;
Oh ! that those isles might be On virtue's bound encroaches,
Her resting place for ever. An Irishman who is tolerably well acquainted with the character of his countrymen, cavnot but observe in the dirge of “O'Sullivan Bear,” a most intensely graphic picture of that strong denunciatory power (to use a inild word) for which the Irish have ever been famous, whenever burning injustice roused their passions. The ballad has sufficient attractions to render its presence here desirable. The son upon Ivera
Had he died calmly, No longer shines brightly;
I would not deplore him, The voice of her music
Or if the wild strife No longer is sprightly;
Of the sea-war closed o'er him; No more to her maidens
But with ropes round his white limbs The light dance is dear,
Through ocean to trail him, Since the death of our darling
Like a fish after slaughter! O'Sullivan Bear.
"Tis therefore I wail him. Scully! thou false one,
Long may the curse You basely betray'd him ;
Of his people pursue them;
Scully that sold hiin
One glimpse of Hearen's lighi
May they see never: You left him ;--you sold him ;
May the hearth-stone of hell May Heaven requite thee !
Be their best bed for ever! Scully ! may all kinds
In the hole which the vile hands Of evil attend thee;
Of soldiers had made thee, On thy dark road of life
Unhonoured, unshrouded May po kind one befriend thee;
And headless they laid thee; May fevers long burn thee,
No sigh to regret thee, And agues long freeze thee;
No eye to rain o'er thee, May the strong hand of God
No dirge to lament thce, In his red anger seize thee.
No friend to deplore thee.
Down her white neck her auburn tresses fall:
Dear Lead of my darling
A curse, blessed ocean, How gory and pale,
Is on thy green water, These aged eyes see thee
From the haven of Cork High spiked on their gaol ;
To Irera of slaughter, That cheek in the summer sun
Since the billows were dyed Ne'er shall grow warm,
With the red wounds of fear, Nor that eye e'er catch light:
Of Muiertach Oge, But the flash of the storm.
Our O'Sullivan Bear. It would appear that among the Irish peasantry, a custom prevailed at dances, and merry makings, in which a young man admiring one of the fair dancers, rose and, offering his glass to the object of his admiration, requested her to drink to him. After a considerable number of refusals, the offer was sometimes accepted, and considered a favourable omen : allusion is made by Callanan to this custom in a choice piece of enthusiastic poetry, which affords another convincing proof of the great and transcendant genius, which could so intimately identify itself with all the minute peculiarities of Irish life. The song bears the name of “ The girl I love," and runs thus :
The girl I love is comely, straight, and tall ;
Then, my dear, may I drink a fond deep health to thee! What indeed has Callanan written, which does not bear the impress of elegance, elevated imagination, copious diction, and magical affinity with the very nature of our scenery, and the exact character of our people ? Our very hills and valleys, the former with their towering peaks and shadowy hues, in which a dreamy and delicious gloom constitutes a mysterious charm; the latter with their verdant and extensive meads, or heatly wastes which seem as though they were never trodden by human footsteps, appear through the diaphonous medium of this beautiful poetry, in such a way, as we have often ob
The barrel is full: but its heart we soon shall see ;
served the leaves of an umbrageous tree, overhanging a pellucid stream, reflected on a calm evening in its tranquil waters. The Irishman who reads the poetry of Callanan, must necessarily lay down the volume a more patriotic man; he must also of necessity feel himself incited to increased exertions for the furtherance of his country's good.
The thoughts contained in these lines which we now insert, we might almost fancy to hear escaping from the lips of some poor criminal, in unpremeditated discourse with himself: so natural are the reflections, and so apparently unstudied is the entire soliloquy
How hard is my fortune
And vain my repining; The strong rope of fate
For this young neck is twining: My strength is departed,
My cheeks sunk and sallow; While I lauguish in chains
In the gaol of Clonmala.* No boy of the village
Was ever yet milder; I'd play with a child
And my sport would be wilder ; I'd dance without tirirg
From morning till even, And the goal-ball I'd strike
To the lightning of Heaven.
At my bed foot decaying
My burl.bat is lying;
My goal-ball is flying;
Neglected may fallow;
In the gaol of Clunmala.
At hoine will be keeping
The held will be sweeping;
The evening they'll hallow,
Shall be cold in Clonmala.
* Clonmala, ie, the solitude of deceit, the Irish name of Clonmel.
• Patron,- Irish Patruin,-a festive gathering of the people on tented ground.
We will wind up our comments on Callanan, with giring our readers an example of his powers as a translator, and also an instance in the poem itself (whieh was written in Irish.) of the forcible expression, masculine flow of thought, and dramatic character of some of the old Irish manuscripts.
THE LAMENT OF OʻGNIVÉ.
And the mighty of nations is mighty no more!
Like a bark on the ocean, long shattered and tost,
• Innisfail - the Island of destiny, one of the names of Irelaod.
Bright shades of our sires ! from your home in the skies
To lead you to freedom, or teach you to die! Francis Davis, commonly called the Belfast man, the last of those whom we have selected for notice, has decidedly very many claims on our admiration.
Though he may not possess that deep spirit of meditation which belonged to Griffin and Callanan, and though some may consider that he has not that profound knowledge of, taste for, and capacity to treat in all the fulness of sustained narrative, the "grey old legends," and historical land marks of Ireland, in the former of which they have shewn themselves such masters, and in the latter of which they have evinced such extraordinary instances of excelling talent, the indomitable spirit which he shews, the melodious nature of his verse, the felicitous turn of his ideas, and the rich, transcendentally rich fancy which sparkles so brilliantly through his every lay, adequately compensate us for any deficiency which may render him unequal to the others in particular attributes. 'Not that we would infer that bis peculiar beauties are such as to place him on an equality with
Gollamh-A name of Milesius the Spanish progenitor of the Irish O's and Mac's.
Nial-of the Nine Hostages, the heroic Monarch of Ireland, in the fourth century, and ancestor of the O'Neil family.
1 Con Cead Catha-Con of the Hundred Fights, monarch of the Island in the second century; although the fighter of a hundred battles, he was not the victor of a hundred fields; his valorous rival, Owen, King of Munster, compelled him to a division of the Kingdom.
i Brehons--The hereditary Judges of the Irish Septs.