Stood round and near it roses and jessamine
Through its quaint porch luxuriantly did twine,
And peeped into the open lattices.
It had a quiet and a cheerful look
That spoke of comfort. With a favourite book
I know no place where one might wile away
More pleasantly a sun-bright summer day;
For ever as within its shaded porch I bent,
There breathed an atmosphere of such content
As sank into the heart.
Rapt, I've wrought out full many a bright day-dream, As short-lived as its bubbles, while the hours, Fraught with the fragrance of the laughing flowers, Flew lightly by. That happy, happy time!
At dewy eve or morning's lovely prime,
Or 'neath the blaze of noontide's glowing ray,
Pleasant alike the minutes flew away,
And all was happiness!
One summer eve I stray'd
Along the streamlet's side. Two children play'd,
Two rosy children, 'mid the stately ranks
Of rushy weeds that line its mossy banks,
Untiringly; and the long summer day
Seemed all too short for their delightful play.
One was a being beautiful and bright,
Soft as the dawn of summer's morning light;
And delicate as soft: her raven hair
Hung o'er a brow most exquisitely fair,
Its tresses twining round a neck of snow,
Down which they curled in rich and graceful flow.
In each bright sparkle of her gentle eyes
Some laughing Fairy lurked in soft disguise,
And music, as she laughed, in mirthful glee,
Burst forth in tones of touching melody.
Of age maturer was the stalwart boy
Who wandered by her side. To him 'twas joy
To tend that gentle girl: for her he bent
O'er the dark stream that murmured as it went
To pluck the flowers that fringed its sedgy banks,
His best reward her look of modest thanks!
She was the star on which his gaze was bent,
The pole-star of his hopes. Each lineament
Of that fair face was shadow'd on his heart.
She was, in truth, his better, nobler part—
For they were one: and each in other found
A dearer self. As twines the ivy round
The sturdy oak, so round his soul she threw
Her gentleness, and thus in love they lived and grew.
And years roll'd by, and that fair being stood
Bright in the charms of opening womanhood;
So fair withal, so modest none was seen
To match sweet ELLEN on the village-green;
Nor in the revel, nor the village dance,
A brighter form, or fairer countenance !
Thus years roll'd by till war's fierce tumult came,
And fill'd our valley with its ruthless flame.
The drum, the fife, the banners bright and gay,
Led many a youth to join the dread array.
Lured by the pomp, young DESMOND left his home
In search of fame through other lands to roam:
Through other lands, where distant, distant far,
Fierce burn'd the torch of desolating war.
Oh, what a parting then was theirs! What grief!
An age of sorrow in those moments brief
Their young hearts tasted. Vain it were to paint
Young ELLEN's anguish. Language could but faint
Picture her tearless grief-no complaint
Did her lips breathe. Buoy'd by bright hopes he went,
But she!-For her thenceforth was no content.
And months waned slowly by.
Full of delicious softness. Clear and bright
In the blue vault above the young moon shone,
And earth was cinctured with a starry zone.
The flowers, sweet smiles of earth, beneath her light,
Sparkling with Nature's tear-drops glistened bright,
And ever as the night-breeze sighed around,
Scattered their sweets upon the perfumed ground.
O, 'twas a night might tempt one forth to rove,
And hold communion with an absent love--
A night for tender thinking. She had been
Watching the beauties of that moonlight scene,
Marking the twinklings of each brilliant star,
And thinking that on other lands afar
Those bright orbs shone.
She deemed, too, that his gaze
Was turned upon them. Thoughts of bygone days
Came rushing o'er her, days of happiness,
And then the fond girl knelt to pray and bless;
She knelt as was her wont, and kneeling wept,
Till weary with her aching thoughts she slept.
Not long she slumber'd. On her half-closed ear
Broke words of dreadful import, sounds of fear.
Hark! hark! on the wings of the night-wafted gale
Sweeps on, in its death-tones, the BANSHEE'S shrill wail!
Hark! hark! to the echoes which sadly prolong
Those dread notes of sorrow, her gloom-bringing song!
From the depths of the grave, from the darkness of hell,
The Phantom comes forth with her death-breathing spell;
For the gleam of her dark eye, the hiss of her breath,
But herald the coming of sorrow and death!
See, see! as beneath the low casement she lingers,
How wildly she points with those skeleton fingers!
How harsh on the ear of the dream-lapp'd young sleeper,
Grate the heart-chilling tones of the wail of the weeper!
What anguish of grief, oh, what agony burning,
Breathe forth in that wild tale of sorrow and mourning!
Hark, hark! on the night-wind, so mournfully sighing,
Comes the death-shriek of one in a distant land dying!
"O'er the wild heath I roam,
On the night-wind I come;
And Beauty shall pale
At the voice of my wail!
Hush! hark to my tidings of gloom and of sorrow!
Go, weep tears of blood, for-Uch! d'eag an chorra!*
"With the stranger the brave
Hath now found him a grave;
And in beauty and bloom
He hath sunk to the tomb!
Oh, never for Desmond shall beam forth a morrow;
For in death cold he lieth-Uch! d'eag an chorra!
Go, go! henceforth life is a burden and sorrow!
For thy heart's pulse is stricken- Uch! d'eag an chorra!
Shrieking, the Phantom fled. I came and found
The maiden lying lifeless on the ground.
Long, long she lay insensible. At length
Some feeble symptoms of returning strength
Were manifest, and she could faintly tell
What on that sad and weary night befell.
'Twas vain to reason with her. She would hear
No reason from me. Still the ready tear
Would follow the sad story, and her cheek
Grow pallid at the thought of that unearthly shriek.
A month elaps'd-and then, alas! we knew
That the dread vision was too sadly true,
She smiled again no more; but from that hour
Wither'd and droop'd like to a blighted flower.
Hourly she wasted: Yet her cheek grew bright
With a deep crimson circle, and a light
Unearthly sparkled in her beaming eyes.
Fondly I hoped-alas! I was unwise
To dream the beauty of that crimson blush,
Was aught but what it was, Consumption's hectic flush.
She died-and oh, my grief was deep and wild-
I grieved for dark-hair'd ELLEN was my child!
yon lone glen they buried her, and there
Oft do I go alone to breathe a prayer
For her departed spirit. It may be
She hears and blesses me.
To think it otherwise. When the moon's light,
Her lowly grave doth rest upon, and bright
Its rays gleam over it, then doth it seem
As if her spirit hover'd in that beam,
And smiled in peace upon me. Deem ye not
My words unhallow'd. 'Tis a blessed thought
Which fondly I have cherish'd. I have clung
To this bright hope since first my heart was wrung
Under my sad bereavement. Soon, oh! soon,
(And I would crave it as a blessed boon!)
My bones shall rest with hers, my spirit soar
To meet my dark-hair'd child upon a happier shore!
A MOTHER came, when stars were paling,
Wailing round a lonely spring;
Thus she cried while tears were falling,
Calling on the Fairy King:
"Why with spells my child caressing,
Courting him with fairy joy;
Why destroy a mother's blessing,
Wherefore steal my baby boy?
"O'er the mountain, through the wild wood,
Where his childhood loved to play;
Where the flowers are freshly springing,
There I wander, day by day.
* When a beautiful child pines and dies, the Irish peasant believes the nealthy infant has been stolen by the fairies, and a sickly elf left in its place.
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