"NEVER IN LIFE TO PROSPER MORE." Ill's viewless train-her days to pain At times she deemed the coming woe Her once-loved head unwatched, unknown Hushed as some Quiet carved in stone E'en her young heart's instinctive want. Inexorably vigilant, She checked with cold reproving. And Hope's whole priceless freight go down So pined that gracious form away, As still that rosy crowd was swayed I've seen since then the churchyard nook, Poor Girl! I've thought, as there reclined, I drank the sunset's glory Thy tale to meditative mind Is but an allegory; Once shatter inborn Truth divine, The soul's transparent mirror, Where Heaven's reflection loved to shine, And what remains but terror? Terror and Woe; -Faith's holy face No more our hearts relieving- That Broken Glass distorts them all THE FAIRIES OF KNOCKSHEGOWNA. BY R. D. WILLIAMS. [Knockshegowna is the name of a fairy Hill in Lower Ormond, and in English means Oonagh's Hill, so called from being the fabled residence of Una, the Fairy Queen of Spenser.] A RUSTLING, whirling sound sweeps by, Tho', since sunset fled, there was scarce a sigh And a troop comes forth from the moonlit glen, That you may not find an injur'd flower They glide along o'er the dewy banks, And anon and again from their restless ranks In lonely dells, where the starbeams fall Nor eye profane the mirth may mar, To the fitful song of the haunted stream The aerial numbers flow; And their tiny spears, in the starlight gleam Away! quick march! through the ruined arch, And here shall we halt at the Viking's vault, Now, left and right, in the moon's pale light, With the glow-worm's gem is his diadem, The beetle booms through the hawthorn blooms, Advance! advance! for a farewell dance, From a mushroom's cone shall our pipers drone, While the Phooka-horse holds his frantic course And the Banshees croon a rhythmic rune In the noon of night, o'er the stormy hills, And the strain, replete with fantastic dreams, Then the sleeper thinks, as the dreamful song That his nose as the church's spire is long, And when they spread their filmy wings Strange meteors dance, and the glittering rills And deep when booms the solemn toll Of the distant cloister bells, The clang, and the clash, and the tambour roll Of their midnight music swells. Their beamy spears, and crests, and shields, And their blazon'd banners flap and fly, And rattle on the breeze. The Genii of the Wold [The pass of Céim-an-eich (the path of the deer) lies to the south-west of Inchageela, in the direction of Bantry Bay. The tourist will commit a grievous error if he omit to visit it. Perhaps in no part of the kingdom is there to be found a place so utterly desolate and gloomy. A mountain has been divided by some convulsion of nature; and the narrow pass, about two miles in length, is overhung on either side by perpendicular masses clothed in wild ivy and underwood, with, occasionally, a stunted yew tree or arbutus growing among them. At every step advance seems impossible-some huge rock jutting out into the path; and, on sweeping round it, seeming to conduct only to some barrier still more insurmountable; while from all sides rush down the "wild fountains," and, forming for themselves a rugged channel, make their way onward-the first tributary offering to the gentle and fruitful Lee: "Here, amidst heaps Of mountain wrecks, on either side thrown high, Nowhere has nature assumed a more appalling aspect, or manifested a more stern resolve to dwell in her own loneliness and grandeur undisturbed by any living thing; for even the birds seem to shun a solitude so awful, and the hum of bee or chirp of grasshopper is never heard within its precincts.— Hall's Ireland, vol. i. p. 117.] AH! the pleasant time hath vanished, ere our wretched doubtings banished All the graceful spirit-people, children of the earth and seaWhom in days now dim and olden, when the world was fresh and golden, Every mortal could behold in haunted rath, and tower, and treeThey have vanished, they are banished-ah! how sad the loss for thee, Lonely Céim-an-eich! Still some scenes are yet enchanted by the charms that Nature granted, Still are peopled, still are haunted, by a graceful spirit band. Peace and beauty have their dwelling where the infant streams are welling, Where the mournful waves are knelling on Glengariff's coral strand,* Or where, on Killarney's mountains, Grace and Terror smiling stand, Like sisters, hand in hand! Still we have a new romance in fire-ships, through the tamed seas glancing, And the snorting and the prancing of the mighty engine steed; Still, Astolpho-like, we wander thro' the boundless azure yonder, Realizing what seemed fonder than the magic tales we readTales of wild. Arabian wonder, where the fancy all is freed— Wilder far, indeed! Now that Earth once more hath woken, and the trance of Time is broken, And the sweet word-Hope-is spoken, soft and sure, though none know how, Could we—could we only see all these, the glories of the Real, Blended with the lost Ideal, happy were the old world nowWoman in its fond believing-man with iron arm and browFaith and Work its vow! Yes! the Past shines clear and pleasant, and there's glory in the And the Future, like a crescent, lights the deepening sky of Time; Earth's great evening as its prime! * In the bay of Glengariff, and towards the N.W. parts of Bantry Bay, they dredge up large quantities of coral sand.-Smith's Cork, vol. i. p. 286. |