Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy Part 5

THE CLAN OF MAC CAURA.[21]

Oh! bright are the names of the chieftains and sages, That shine like the stars through the darkness of ages, Whose deeds are inscribed on the pages of story, There for ever to live in the sunshine of glory, Heroes of history, phantoms of fable, Charlemagne's champions, and Arthur's Round Table; Oh! but they all a new l.u.s.tre could borrow From the glory that hangs round the name of MacCaura!

Thy waves, Manzanares, wash many a shrine, And proud are the castles that frown o'er the Rhine, And stately the mansions whose pinnacles glance Through the elms of Old England and vineyards of France; Many have fallen, and many will fall, Good men and brave men have dwelt in them all, But as good and as brave men, in gladness and sorrow, Have dwelt in the halls of the princely MacCaura!

Montmorency, Medina, unheard was thy rank By the dark-eyed Iberian and light-hearted Frank, And your ancestors wandered, obscure and unknown, By the smooth Guadalquiver and sunny Garonne.

Ere Venice had wedded the sea, or enrolled The name of a Doge in her proud "Book of Gold;"

When her glory was all to come on like the morrow, There were the chieftains and kings of the clan of MacCaura!

Proud should thy heart beat, descendant of Heber,[22]

Lofty thy head as the shrines of the Guebre,[23]

Like them are the halls of thy forefathers shattered, Like theirs is the wealth of thy palaces scattered.

Their fire is extinguished--thy banner long furled-- But how proud were ye both in the dawn of the world!

And should both fade away, oh! what heart would not sorrow O'er the towers of the Guebre--the name of MacCaura!

What a moment of glory to cherish and dream on, When far o'er the sea came the ships of Heremon, With Heber, and Ir, and the Spanish patricians, To free Inisfail from the spells of magicians.[24]

Oh! reason had these for their quaking and pallor, For what magic can equal the strong sword of valour?

Better than spells are the axe and the arrow, When wielded or flung by the hand of MacCaura!

From that hour a MacCaura had reigned in his pride O'er Desmond's green valleys and rivers so wide, From thy waters, Lismore, to the torrents and rills That are leaping for ever down Brandon's brown hills; The billows of Bantry, the meadows of Bear, The wilds of Evaugh, and the groves of Glancare, From the Shannon's soft sh.o.r.es to the banks of the Barrow, All owned the proud sway of the princely MacCaura!

In the house of Miodchuart,[25] by princes surrounded, How n.o.ble his step when the trumpet was sounded, And his clansmen bore proudly his broad shield before him, And hung it on high in that bright palace o'er him; On the left of the monarch the chieftain was seated, And happy was he whom his proud glances greeted: 'Mid monarchs and chiefs at the great Fes of Tara, Oh! none was to rival the princely MacCaura!

To the halls of the Red Branch,[26] when the conquest was o'er, The champions their rich spoils of victory bore, And the sword of the Briton, the shield of the Dane, Flashed bright as the sun on the walls of Eamhain; There Dathy and Niall bore trophies of war, From the peaks of the Alps and the waves of Loire; But no knight ever bore from the hills of Ivaragh The breast-plate or axe of a conquered MacCaura!

In chasing the red deer what step was the fleetest?-- In singing the love song what voice was the sweetest?-- What breast was the foremost in courting the danger?-- What door was the widest to shelter the stranger?-- In friendship the truest, in battle the bravest, In revel the gayest, in council the gravest?-- A hunter to-day and a victor to-morrow?-- Oh! who but a chief of the princely MacCaura!

But, oh! proud MacCaura, what anguish to touch on The fatal stain of thy princely escutcheon; In thy story's bright garden the one spot of bleakness, Through ages of valour the one hour of weakness!

Thou, the heir of a thousand chiefs, sceptred and royal-- Thou to kneel to the Norman and swear to be loyal!

Oh! a long night of horror, and outrage, and sorrow, Have we wept for thy treason, base Diarmid MacCaura![27]

Oh! why ere you thus to the foreigner pandered, Did you not bravely call round your emerald standard, The chiefs of your house of Lough Lene and Clan Awley O'Donogh, MacPatrick, O'Driscoll, MacAwley, O'Sullivan More, from the towers of Dunkerron, And O'Mahon, the chieftain of green Ardinterran?

As the sling sends the stone or the bent bow the arrow, Every chief would have come at the call of MacCaura.

Soon, soon didst thou pay for that error in woe, Thy life to the Butler, thy crown to the foe, Thy castles dismantled, and strewn on the sod, And the homes of the weak, and the abbeys of G.o.d!

No more in thy halls is the wayfarer fed, Nor the rich mead sent round, nor the soft heather spread, Nor the "clairsech's" sweet notes, now in mirth, now in sorrow, All, all have gone by, but the name of MacCaura!

MacCaura, the pride of thy house is gone by, But its name cannot fade, and its fame cannot die, Though the Arigideen, with its silver waves, shine Around no green forests or castles of thine-- Though the shrines that you founded no incense doth hallow, Nor hymns float in peace down the echoing Allo, One treasure thou keepest, one hope for the morrow-- True hearts yet beat of the clan of MacCaura!

21. MacCarthaig, or MacCarthy.

22. The eldest son of Milesius, King of Spain, in the legendary history of Ireland.

23. The Round Towers.

24. The Tuatha Dedannans, so called, says Keating, from their skill in necromancy, for which some were so famous as to be called G.o.ds.

25. See Keating's "History of Ireland" and Petrie's "Tara."

26. In the palace of Emania, in Ulster.

27. Diarmid MacCaura, King of Desmond, and Daniel O'Brien, King of Th.o.m.ond, were the first of the Irish princes to swear fealty to Henry II.

THE WINDOW.

At my window, late and early, In the sunshine and the rain, When the jocund beams of morning Come to wake me from my napping, With their golden fingers tapping At my window pane: From my troubled slumbers flitting, From the dreamings fond and vain, From the fever intermitting, Up I start, and take my sitting At my window pane:--

Through the morning, through the noontide, Fettered by a diamond chain, Through the early hours of evening, When the stars begin to tremble, As their shining ranks a.s.semble O'er the azure plain: When the thousand lamps are blazing Through the street and lane-- Mimic stars of man's upraising-- Still I linger, fondly gazing From my window pane!

For, amid the crowds slow pa.s.sing, Surging like the main, Like a sunbeam among shadows, Through the storm-swept cloudy ma.s.ses, Sometimes one bright being pa.s.ses 'Neath my window pane: Thus a moment's joy I borrow From a day of pain.

See, she comes! but--bitter sorrow!

Not until the slow to-morrow, Will she come again.

AUTUMN FEARS.

The weary, dreary, dripping rain, From morn till night, from night till morn, Along the hills and o'er the plain, Strikes down the green and yellow corn; The flood lies deep upon the ground, No ripening heat the cold sun yields, And rank and rotting lies around The glory of the summer fields!

How full of fears, how racked with pain, How torn with care the heart must be, Of him who sees his golden grain Laid prostrate thus o'er lawn and lea; For all that nature doth desire, All that the shivering mortal shields, The Christmas fare, the winter's fire, All comes from out the summer fields.

I too have strayed in pleasing toil Along youth's and fertile meads; I too within Hope's genial soil Have, trusting, placed Love's golden seeds; I too have feared the chilling dew, The heavy rain when thunder pealed, Lest Fate might blight the flower that grew For me in Hope's green summer field.

Ah! who can paint that beauteous flower, Thus nourished by celestial dew, Thus growing fairer, hour by hour, Delighting more, the more it grew; Bright'ning, not burdening the ground, Nor proud with inward worth concealed, But scattering all its fragrance round Its own sweet sphere, its summer field!

At morn the gentle flower awoke, And raised its happy face to G.o.d; At evening, when the starlight broke, It bending sought the dewy sod; And thus at morn, and thus at even, In fragrant sighs its heart revealed, Thus seeking heaven, and making heaven Within its own sweet summer field!

Oh! joy beyond all human joy!

Oh! bliss beyond all earthly bliss!

If pitying Fate will not destroy My hopes of such a flower as this!

How happy, fond, and heaven-possest, My heart will be to tend and shield, And guard upon my grateful breast The pride of that sweet summer field!

FATAL GIFTS.

The poet's heart is a fatal boon, And fatal his wondrous eye, And the delicate ear, So quick to hear, Over the earth and sky, Creation's mystic tune!

Soon, soon, but not too soon, Does that ear grow deaf and that eye grow dim, And nature becometh a waste for him, Whom, born for another sphere, Misery hath shipwrecked here!

For what availeth his sensitive heart For the struggle and stormy strife That the mariner-man, Since the world began Has braved on the sea of life?

With fearful wonder his eye doth start, When it should be fixed on the outspread chart That pointeth the way to golden sh.o.r.es-- Rent are his sails and broken his oars, And he sinks without hope or plan, With his floating caravan.

And love, that should be his strength and stay, Becometh his bane full soon, Like flowers that are born Of the beams at morn, But die of their heat ere noon.

Far better the heart were the sterile clay Where the shining sands of the desert play, And where never the perishing flow'ret gleams Than the heart that is fed with its wither'd dreams, And whose love is repelled with scorn, Like the bee by the rose's thorn.