Near Woodstock, In The County Of Kilkenny.[400]

“Yes! hide beneath the mouldering heap, The undelighted, slighted thing; There in the cold earth, buried deep, In silence let it wait the Spring.” Mrs Tighe’s “Poem on the Lily.”

I stood where the lip of song lay low, Where the dust had gather’d on Beauty’s brow; Where stillness hung on the heart of Love, And a marble weeper kept watch above.

I stood in the silence of lonely thought, Of deep affections that inly wrought, Troubled, and dreamy, and dim with fear-- They knew themselves exiled spirits here!

Then didst thou pass me in radiance by, Child of the sunbeam, bright butterfly! Thou that dost bear, on thy fairy wings, No burden of mortal sufferings.

Thou wert flitting past that solemn tomb, Over a bright world of joy and bloom; And strangely I felt, as I saw thee shine, The all that sever’d thy life and mine.

Mine, with its inborn mysterious things, Of love and grief its unfathom’d springs; And quick thoughts wandering o’er earth and sky, With voices to question eternity!

Thine, in its reckless and joyous way, Like an embodied breeze at play! Child of the sunlight!--thou wing’d and free! One moment, one moment, I envied thee!

Thou art not lonely, though born to roam, Thou hast no longings that pine for home; Thou seek’st not the haunts of the bee and bird, To fly from the sickness of hope deferr’d:

In thy brief being no strife of mind, No boundless passion, is deeply shrined; While I, as I gazed on thy swift flight by, One hour of my soul seem’d infinity!

And she, that voiceless below me slept, Flow’d not her song from a heart that wept? --O Love and Song! though of heaven your powers, Dark is your fate in this world of ours.

Yet, ere I turn’d from that silent place, Or ceased from watching thy sunny race, Thou, even thou, on those glancing wings, Didst waft me visions of brighter things!

Thou that dost image the freed soul’s birth, And its flight away o’er the mists of earth, Oh! fitly thy path is through flowers that rise Round the dark chamber where Genius lies!

See the “Grave of a Poetess,” p. 411, on the same subject, and written several years previously to visiting the scene.

EPITAPH.

Farewell, beloved and mourn’d! We miss awhile Thy tender gentleness of voice and smile, And that bless’d gift of heaven, to cheer us lent-- That thrilling touch, divinely eloquent, Which breathed the soul of prayer, deep, fervent, high, Through thy rich strains of sacred harmony. Yet from those very memories there is born A soft light, pointing to celestial morn: Oh! bid it guide us where thy footsteps trode, To meet at last “the pure in heart” with God!

PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF FIESCO,

AS TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER, BY COLONEL D’AGUILAR, AND PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, DUBLIN, DECEMBER 1832.

Too long apart, a bright but sever’d band, The mighty minstrels of the Rhine’s fair land Majestic strains, but not for us, had sung-- Moulding to melody a stranger tongue. Brave hearts leap’d proudly to their words of power, As a true sword bounds forth in battle’s hour; Fair eyes rain’d homage o’er th’ impassion’d lays, In loving tears, more eloquent than praise; While we, far distant, knew not, dream’d not aught Of the high marvels by that magic wrought.

But let the barriers of the sea give way, When mind sweeps onward with a conqueror’s sway! And let the Rhine divide high souls no more From mingling on its old heroic shore, Which, e’en like ours, brave deeds through many an age Have made the poet’s own free heritage! To us, though faintly, may a wandering tone Of the far minstrelsy at last be known; Sounds which the thrilling pulse, the burning tear, Have sprung to greet, must not be strangers here. And if by one, more used on march and heath To the shrill bugle than the muse’s breath, With a warm heart the offering hath been brought, And in a trusting loyalty of thought, So let it be received!--a soldier’s hand Bears to the breast of no ungenerous land A seed of foreign shores. O’er this fair clime, Since Tara heard the harp of ancient time, Hath song held empire; then, if not with fame, Let the green isle with kindness bless his aim, The joy, the power, of kindred song to spread, Where once that harp “the soul of music shed!”

TO GIULIO REGONDI,

THE BOY GUITARIST.

Blessing and love be round thee still, fair boy! Never may suffering wake a deeper tone Than genius now, in its first fearless joy, Calls forth exulting from the chords which own Thy fairy touch! Oh! may’st thou ne’er be taught The power whose fountain is in troubled thought!

For in the light of those confiding eyes, And on th’ ingenuous calm of that clear brow, A dower, more precious e’en than genius lies, A pure mind’s worth, a warm heart’s vernal glow! God, who hath graced thee thus, O gentle child! Keep midst the world thy brightness undefiled!