But a soothing angel hovered By that darkly-writhing main, Oh, the sweetness and the brightness In the ripeness of its sheen, O'er the glistening glancing green; Where the little shamrock shaded Stem and leaf from human sight, Of a chastened autumn night; Wooed the daisies, With a heaven in their tone; On the mountains All in ruddied silver shone. How I leaped upon those mountains! Till my very spirit revelled Through a galaxy of joy: In their fearful foamy dance, What frenzied words I spoke! As around me Waved the tawny autumn's pride, 'Mid the pleasures, Yea, the treasures Of my native Lagan side! There are very few of the present day, who have more right to our consideration as poets of fancy, than the subject of our present comments. There is a richness about him which seems almost interminable: a charming command of the most delicious images, combined with a marvellous power of presenting them in the most attractive form. Davis indeed would be the very man, we should now be inclined to consider competent to take up our old traditions, and to do them the justice they deserve: his brilliant fancy is just suited to a description of the fairy dance,the wily tricks of the Leprechaun, or the fantastic pranks of the Phooka. Would that words of ours could induce him to carry out an undertaking so suited to his genius: he would be well rewarded for it, in reflecting upon what he would have done for his country, whose history would thus receive new life, and, whose children would thus be furnished with new incentives to national exertion. We cannot refrain from giving another example of this species of poetry in corroboration of our views.— THE FAIRY SERENADE. AWAKE thee! awake thee my pretty fairy See, the sky is blue and the grass is green, And the blue sky weeps On his gorgeous golden throne: And the spider spreads And the young moon tips Slieveban; But as faint the while As a mortal's smile, Or the glance of a dying fawn. Oh, the gay green bower, Ere the sky puts its star bloom on! And I'll show thee the mortal's world, my queen, With its dim, and its dark, and the gulfs between, And its wringing wrongs and care; Oh, 'tis full of guile As the wanton's smile, And as cold as the miser's prayer! And it seems at most But a desert coast, Save a few buds wondrous fair, That the minstrel child With that cold-eyed world to share. And the twilight hour, And no ice-eyed mortals there! In order that our readers may not forget that Davis has an additional attribute for which he has justly earned as much celebrity, as for excellence in any other, namely, a resistless spirit of independence, which sweeps all low animosities and petty cavillings before it, as a strong spring tide carries off the weed which it tears from the rocks, we should not finish our remarks without giving room for the following ardent ejaculations. WISHES AND WISHERS. Oh! know ye the wish of the true, the true! As its toil-nurtured muscles could do, Then hurrah for that wish of the true, the Hurrah for that wish of the true; For the fast coming day, Oh! know ye the wish of the proud, the Oh, know ye the wish of the proud? Though few, there are men amongst us who devote themselves to the cultivation of poetry; men whose vigorous intellects, luxuriant imaginations, and strong love of the beautiful in nature entitle them to be considered promising votaries of the muse. Even these few might effect much for the reconstruction of their country's literature. How much could they not accomplish towards the illustration of their enchanting legends? Surely they do not require to be reminded what more exalted honor they might derive from elucidating the hidden traditions of Ireland, in language suited to such interesting and eminently poetical subjects, than from adorning foreign scenery, and foreign themes, with the jewels which would ornament, with far better grace, an altar dedicated to the encouragement of native talent, and the preservation of native story? Are we never to break the degrading spell which compels us to profess such admiration for, and to exhibit so much infatuated delight, in that which belongs not to us by any of the connecting links of sympathy, kindred, or natural association, and necessitates us, in like manner, to treat with withering indifference, all those appealing objects, principles, and inestimable truths, which should fire the hearts of a people, with a flame unquenchable in itself, and irresistible in the results its active intensity would accomplish? What do we admire in the people of other countries, which we will not find, by careful and impartial investigation, either to have been possessed by our noble and chivalrous ancestors, or to be in our own power to possess if we ardently desired to enjoy it? Would to heaven that that silly pride, which hitherto has confined itself to matters of a genealogical character, would transmit itself from the weak attributes of our intellect to its stronger characteristics! How happy we should be, could we feel the fulness of our degradation with the sensitiveness of pride, and use the same pride as a powerful lever, to raise us from the depths of the disgraceful slough in which we have been wallowing! Would that the wand of some beneficent Prospero, could remove the causes of our incapacity to achieve any. practical benefit of a literary kind! Such men as Ferguson, and Mac Carthy, have worked some deep shafts in the prolific mine of Irish tradition, and the ore they have turned up has been amply sufficient to prove to them, how richly it has been impregnated with the elements of invaluable mental coin, and how charmingly it has been coloured with the splendor of native fancy, and the more enduring brightness of national virtue, veneration, and warm genuine feeling, the legitimate? offspring of the heart. Their own experience must have taught them the unexampled beauty of the tales which abound among our people, the curious and sweetly romantic garb in which they are arrayed, the sad, yet bewitching tone which prevails throughout them, in which we can almost fancy we detect the melancholy keen, which ever accompanies the funerals of the country people in the West, and South of Ireland; the unaccountable suddenness with which a change is made, from passages of apparently unappeasable woe, to passages of irresistible mirth, the depth of allusion, and of sentiment, the fierce and withering denunciation, the sweet angelic benison breathed in strains of heavenly tenderness, the stormy anger of revenge, the delicious, and melting calm of peaceful serenity, all, all must have been seen, felt, and thoroughly understood by those to whom we have referred. It is hardly possible to conceive that these poets cannot have had the penetration to observe, that genius allied to such scenes, and such a history as ours must have been wonderfully heightened in appearance, and displayed to much more considerable advantage, than that which is associated with commoner and less interesting subjects. He must, indeed, possess much less than the ordinary power of observation, who cannot see at a glance what an inexhaustible fund of poetical materials are supplied in, for instance, such districts as the Killarney Lakes, with their numberless legends, and old castles, and dreamy solitudes; or Glengariff, with its historic character, and the matchless grandeur of its scenery; the Northern Coast, with its gigantic boldness, and its tales of Goethe-like character; the mountain fastnesses of Connemara, with their Fays and Banshees; or the magnificent scenery of Clew Bay, with its numerous islands, and monarch mountain of Croagh Patrick. It is not possible, we say, that there are any to be found who having heard and read from their earliest youth, of the glories of our ancestors both at home and abroad, of the magnanimous deeds of heroism for which they have been distinguished, their noble simplicity, princely generosity, and chivalrous intrepidity; having pondered, (and pondered all must at one time or another,) on the enviable state of refined civilization and eminent learning for which Ireland was remarkable in the earlier stages of its history; having dwelt with pride on all that learning, and that civilization have done, not alone for the glory and the advancement of Ireland, but also for the enlightenment of the world, would not burn with ardor to take a part in illustrating the fame of that country, in whose name so much that is glorious, and holy is enshrined. Ireland wants a poet; it has given birth to men whose poetic genius will never be forgotten, but it has not, as yet, seen its poet in the true sense of the word. Moore cannot be honoured with the name his melodies, no doubt, illustrate some of the most beautiful parts of our history; the music is national, and includes the choicest snatches of native song; the words are charming, pathetic, melting, all true; but the sentiments, though sometimes purely Irish, are not generally so strong in this peculiarity, as to entitle them to the name of Irish sentiment, for to say that Moore's poetry typifies the heart of our country, would be to say that it elucidates, and reflects the every light and shadow of that sentiment; this, decidedly, it has not done, and for this excellent reason, that it was not written in the language of Irish expression. However, even if Moore had thus written, it would not have sufficed to render him worthy of such a coronal as that of Ireland's poet. He should have shadowed forth all the peculiarities of Irish character; its strong buoyant hope, as well as its plaintive sorrow; the vigor and comprehensiveness of its designs as well as the careless humour which it exhibits; its manly aspirations, as well as its amatory sighs; its lusty broad-heartedness, as well as its sensitive delicacy; each and all of those should be pourtrayed, and every other attribute which may belong to it, by the bard who would wish to wear such a noble crown. And more than this, Ireland with its varied scenes of sublime and awful grandeur, and its delicious landscapes of heavenly repose, its hills, and vales, and woods, and waters, should all be mirrored in the pages of such a poet, as on a clear sunny day we behold the heavens and the shores reflected in the quiet sea. When this is done, and not until then, Ireland will have a poet, and its people a perennial spring, from which blessed draughts of inspiration, and improving truth, may at all times be taken. N. J. G. |