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James  Clarence  Mangan 

His  Selected  Poems, 
with  a  Study 


JAMESCLARENCEMANGAN 

HlS-SELECTED-POEMS*J»J»WITHA-STVDr-BY 

THE-EDITOR-LOVISE-IMOCEN-GVINEY 


P 

f/ 

I 


1 


Copyright,   1897, 
By  Lamson,  Wolfte,  and  Company. 


_<///  rights  reserved 


NortooolJ  IDrraa 

J.  S.  CmhinK  *  Co.  -  Berwick  *  Smith 
Norwood  Man.  U.S.A. 


The    Dedication 

Dear  Sir  Charles  Gavan  Duffy,  the  new  Mangan  begs 
to  be  yours,  partly  for  the  gratification  of  its  editor,  one 
of  the  many  who  revere  you;  much  more  for  the  sake  of 
the  poor  poet  who  helped  to  endear  your  distinguished 
name  when  he  saluted  it,  ffty  years  ago,  as  that  of  his 
kindest  friend.  IV hat  the  book  has  tried  to  be,  you  will 
know  best.  Far  away,  in  your  late  southern  sunshine, 
among  distances,  with  the  old  clear-seeing  mood  ever  upon 
you,  may  you  read  it  gently  ! 


Editor's  Note 

MANY  thanks  are  due  the  Reverend  J.  H. 
Gavin  of  S.  Charles  Seminary,  Overbrook, 
Pennsylvania,  for  the  loan  of  books,  prints, 
and  manuscripts,  while  this  edition  of  Man- 
gan  was  in  progress.  For  other  favors,  and 
much  general  furtherance,  warm  acknowledg- 
ments are  tendered  to  the  Reverend  William 
Hayes  Ward,  D.D.;  to  Mr.  Theodore  Koch, 
Esq.,  of  Cornell  University  Library;  Mr.  The- 
odor  Guelich  of  Burlington,  Iowa ;  Messrs. 
Robert  Waters  of  Linden,  and  Francis  Nugent 
of  Peabody,  Massachusetts;  Dr.  J.  J.  Man- 
gan  of  Lynn;  Mr.  D.  J.  O'Donoghue;  and 
Miss  Dora  Sigerson,  now  Mrs.  Clement  Shorter, 
who,  besides,  drew  the  portrait  used  as  frontis- 
piece. Owing  to  the  courteous  permission  of 
Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  the  Editor 
is  able  to  reprint  the  Study,  contributed  some 
five  years  ago  to  The  Atlantic  Monthly^  and 
since  greatly  revised  and  enlarged. 

Auburndale,  Massachusetts,  January,   1897. 


Table  of  Contents 

Page 

James  Clarence  Mangan  :   a  Study  ...  3 

MY  DARK  ROSALEEN,  AND  OTHER  TRANSLATIONS 
FROM  THE  GAELIC 

My  Dark  Rosaleen       .  .  .  .  .  I  1 5 

Prince  Aldtrid's  Itinerary  through  Ireland  .  .       118 

Kinkora     .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .121 

St.  Patrick's  Hymn  before  Tara      .  .  .  .123 

O'Daly's  Keen  for  O'Neill 128 

The  Fair  Hills  of  Eire,  O     .  .  .  .  .       1 29 

The  Geraldine's  Daughter     .  .  .  .  .131 

A  Lamentation  for  the  Death  of  Sir  Maurice  Fitzgerald      i  33 
Ellen  Ba\vn         .  .  .  .  .  .  .135 

O'Hussey's  Ode  to  The  Maguire  .  .  .  .137 

A  Lament  for  the  Princes  of  Tyrone  and  Tyrconnell  .       141 
A  Love  Song      .  .  .  .  .  .  .150 

A  Lullaby  .  .  .  .  .  .  .152 

The  Expedition  and  Death  of  King  Dathy         .  .156 

The  Woman  of  Three  Cows  .  .  .  .159 

A  Farewell  to  Patrick  Sarsficld,  Lord  Lucan       .  .       162 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


Page 

The  Ruins  of  Donegal  Castle          .  .  .  .166 

Sancta  Opera  Domini  .          .          .  .  .  .171 

Kathaleen  Ny-Houlahan        .          .  .  .  .173 

Welcome  to  the  Prince           .           .  .  .  .174 

The  Song  of  Gladness             .           .  .  .  .177 

The  Dream  of  John  Mac  Donnell  .  .  .  .179 

The  Sorrows  of  Innisfail         .           .  .  .  .182 

Leather  Away  with  the  Wattle,  O!  .  .  .184 

Lament  for  Banba         .           .           .  .  .  .186 

The  Dawning  of  the  Day      .           .  .  .  .188 

Dirge  for  The  O' Sullivan  Beare      .  .  .  .190 

TRANSLATIONS,  CHIEFLY  FROM  THE  GERMAN 

The  Maid  of  Orleans  .           .           .  .  .  .195 

The  Fisherman  .           .           .           .  .  .  .196 

Mignon's  Song  .           .           .           .  .  .  .197 

Nature  More  than  Science     .           .  .  .  .198 

The  Dying  Flower       .          .          .  .  .  .199 

Gone  in  the  Wind        .           .           .  .  .  .202 

The  Glaive  Song          ......      205 

Alexander  the  Great  and  the  Tree  .  .  .210 

Strew  the  Way  with  Flowers          .  .  .  .213 

The  Erl-King's  Daughter       .           .  .  .  .215 

The  Grave,  the  Grave            .           .  .  .  .218 

A  Song      .           .           .           .           .  .  .  .219 

To  Ludwig  Uhland      .           .           .  .  .  .220 

The  Poet's  Consolation          .           .  .  .  .221 

The  Love- Adieu  222 


TABLE    OF   CONTENTS 


Page 

A  Drinking-Song          .          .          .          .          .          .222 

Swabian  Popular  Song  .  .  .  .  .223 

Holiness  to  the  Lord    .  .  .  .  .  .225 

The  Ride  around  the  Parapet  .          .          .          .226 

My  Home  .......      234 

The  Fairies'  Passage    .          .          .          .          .          .235 

The  Last  Words  of  Al-Hassan        .          .          .          .238 

And  Then  no  More     .          .          .          .          .          .241 

Mother  and  Son  ......      242 

Two  Sonnets  from  Filicaja     .....      244 

The  Mariner's  Bride    ......      245 

To  Don  Rodrigo          ......      247 

Dies  Irae  ........      248 

ORIGINAL  POEMS 

/.    Those  purporting  to  be  Translations  from 
the  Oriental  Languages 

The  Karamanian  Exile  .  .  .  .  .253 

The  Wail  and  Warning  of  the  Three  Khalandeers       .      256 
Relic  of  Prince  Bayazeed       .....      260 

Advice  against  Travel  ......      260 

Adam's  Oath      .  .  .  .  .  .  .261 

Night  is  Nearing  ......      262 

To  Mihri  ........      263 

The  City  of  Truth       ......      264 

An  Epitaph         .......      267 

Good  Counsel     .......      268 

A  Ghazel  .  268 


xii  TABLE    OF   CONTENTS 

Page 

The  Time  of  the  Roses          .          .          .          .  .270 

The  Time  Ere  the  Roses  were  Blowing  .          .  .      273 

To  Amine,  on  seeing  her  About  to  veil  her  Mirror  .      275 

The  Howling  Song  of  Al  Mohara             .          .  .275 

Sayings  and  Proverbs   .           .           .           .           .  .278 

Lament  from  the  Farewell-book  of  Ahi     .           .  .281 

Love          .          .          .          .          .          .          .  .282 

Trust  not  the  World,  nor  Time      .           .           .  .283 

Relic  of  Servi      .          .          .          .          .          .  .286 

Jealousy     .           .           .           .           .           .           .  .286 

The  World:   a  Ghazel                       .           .  .288 
The  Time  of  the  Barmecides           ....      289 

//.    Pro  Patria 
Irish  National  Hymn   .  .  .  .  .  .295 

An  Invitation      .......      297 

Soul  and  Country         ......      299 

A  Highway  for  Freedom        .  .  .  .  .300 

To  my  Native  Land     .  .  .  .  .  .302 

Hymn  for  Pentecost     .  .  .  .  .  .304 

///.    Those  on  Miscellaneous  Subjects 
Pompeii     ........      309 

Twenty  Golden  Years  ago     .           .           .           .  .311 

To  Laura             .           .           .           .           .           .  .313 

Sonnet        .           .           .           .           .           .           .  .316 

Curtain  the  Lamp          .           .           .                      .  .316 

The  Dying  Enthusiast             .           .           .           .  .318 


TABLE    OF   CONTENTS 


Page 

To  Joseph  Brenan         .  ...      319 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  C.  II.  .  .           .  .321 

The  World's  Changes  .  .  .           .  .323 

The  Departure  of  Love  .  .  .          .  .      3  26 

Bear  Up    .           .           .  .  .  .           .  .326 

Two  Sonnets  to  Caroline  .  .  .           .  .328 

Enthusiasm          .           .  .  .  .           .  .329 

The  Lovely  Land         .  .  .  .          .  -33° 

Fronti  Nulla  Fides        .  .  .  .          .  .332 

Siberia       .           .           .  .  .  .           .  .332 

A  Vision  of  Connaught  in  the  Thirteenth  Century  .      334 

The  Saw-mill     .          .  .  .  .          .  -337 

The  One  Mystery        .  .  .  .          .  -339 

The  Nameless  One      .  .  .  .           .  .340 

NOTES  by  the  Editor    .  .  .  .           .  .343 


James  Clarence  Mangan 
A  Study 


JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN  : 
A  Study 

tf  Noi  siam  "vermi 

Nati  a  format  r  angelica  farfalla. " 

Purgatorio  :   Canto  X. 

I 

ON  the  principle  that  "  it  has  become 
almost  an  honor  not  to  be  crowned," 
the  name  of  James  Clarence  Mangan 
may  be  announced  at  once  as  very 
worthy,  very  distinguished.  He  is  unknown 
outside  his  own  non-academic  fatherland, 
though  he  bids  fair  to  be  a  proverb  and  a  fire- 
side commonplace,  much  as  the  Polish  poets 
are  at  home,  within  it.  Belonging  to  an  age 
which  is  nothing  if  not  specific  and  depart- 
mental, he  has  somehow  escaped  the  classifiers  ; 
he  has  never  been  run  through  with  a  pin, 
nor  have  his  wings  been  spread  under  glass  in 
the  museums.  It  was  only  yesterday  that 
Mangan  took  rank  in  The  Dictionary  of  National 
Biography,  in  Miles'  Poets  of  the  Century,  and 
in  a  new  edition  of  L\ra  lUcgantiarum.  In 
Allibone's  Dictionary  of  Authors  he  has  but 
hasty  mention,  and  a  representation  as  unjust 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN 


as  possible  in  H.  F.  Randolph's  Fifty  Tears 
of  English  Song.  He  is  absent  from  the  Ency- 
clopedia Eritannica.  Even  Mr.  J.  O'Kane 
Murray's  obese  volume,  The  Prose  and  Poetry 
of  Ireland,  has  contrived  to  live  without  him. 
Palgrave,  Dana,  Duyckinck,  and  the  score  of 
lesser  books  which  are  kind  to  forgotten  or  in- 
frequent lyres,  know  him  not ;  Ward's  English 
Poets  has  no  inch  of  classic  text  to  devote  to 
him.  Nor  is  Mangan's  absence  altogether  or 
even  chiefly  due  to  editorial  shortcomings. 
The  search  after  him  has  always  been  difficult. 
During  his  lifetime  he  published  only  a  collec- 
tion of  translations,  and  his  original  numbers 
were  left  tangled  up  with  other  translations, 
by  his  own  exasperating  hand.  A  large  mass 
of  his  work,  good,  bad,  and  indifferent,  lay  hid 
in  old  newspaper  files,  whence  some  of  it  has 
been  injudiciously  rescued  by  John  McCall,  a 
devoted  fellow-countryman ;  and  what  was,  for 
a  very  long  time,  the  only  collection  drawn 
from  Mangan's  store,  bearing  a  New  York 
imprint,  and  prefaced  by  John  Mitchel's  beau- 
tiful memoir,  has  never  had  a  revised  issue. 
In  1884,  the  Rev.  C.  P.  Meehan  brought  out 
a  small  two-volume  reprint  of  Mangan,  better 
than  Mitchel's,  and  with  some  freshly-discov- 
ered songs.  The  text  in  all  these  books  is  in 
an  imperfect  condition.  Beyond  them,  Man- 


A  STUDY  5 

gan's  work  was  not  accessible  in  any  form,  until 
some  of  it  was  put  into  the  Library  series 
brought  out  by  Mr.  Duffy  and  Mr.  McCarthy : 
cheap  volumes,  intended  for  the  people.  Man- 
gan  is  hardly  yet  a  Book.  So  it  is,  and  so, 
perhaps,  it  must  be.  Our  time  adjusts  merit 
with  supreme  propriety,  in  setting  up  Herrick 
in  the  market-place,  and  in  still  reserving 
Daniel  for  a  domestic  adoration.  Apollo  has 
a  class  of  might-have-beens  whom  he  loves  ; 
poets  bred  in  melancholy  places,  under  dis- 
abilities, with  thwarted  growth  and  thinned 
voices  ;  poets  compounded  of  everything  magi- 
cal and  fair,  like  an  elixir  which  is  the  outcome 
of  knowledge  and  patience,  and  which  wants  in 
the  end,  even  as  common  water  would,  the  es- 
sence of  immortality.  The  making  of  a  name 
is  too  often  like  the  making  of  a  fortune :  the 
more  scrupulous  contestants  are 

"  Delicate  spirits,  pushed  away 
In  the  hot  press  of  the  noonday." 

Mangan's  is  such  a  memory,  captive  and  over- 
borne. It  may  be  unjust  to  lend  him  the 
epitaph  of  defeat,  for  he  never  strove  at  all. 
One  can  think  of  no  other,  in  the  long  dis- 
astrous annals  of  English  literature,  cursed 
with  so  monotonous  a  misery,  so  much  hope- 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN 


lessness  and  stagnant  grief.  He  had  no  public  ; 
he  was  poor,  infirm,  homeless,  loveless  ;  travel 
and  adventure  were  cut  off  from  him,  and  he 
had  no  minor  risks  to  run  ;  the  cruel  necessities 
of  labor  sapped  his  dreams  from  a  boy ;  morbid 
fancies  mastered  him  as  the  rider  masters  his 
horse ;  the  demon  of  opium,  then  the  demon 
of  alcohol,  pulled  him  under,  body  and  soul, 
despite  a  persistent  and  heart-breaking  struggle, 
and  he  perished  ignobly  in  his  prime. 

We  know  nothing  of  his  ancestry  ;  and  can 
trace  to  none  of  its  watersheds  the  stream  of 
tendency  in  one  so  variously  endowed.  There 
are  Mangins  buried  in  the  old  Huguenot 
ground  in  Dublin,  from  whom  Edward  Man- 
gin,  a  writer  of  much  charm,  but  unknown  to 
fame  (1772— 1852),  was  descended.  Was  our 
poet  possibly  derived  from  the  Manians,  or 
clan  of  Hy-Many,  descendants  of  Maine  Mor, 
who  was  in  the  line  of  Cairbre  Liffeachair, 
King  of  Ireland  in  the  third  century  ?  Or 
we  may,  with  reason,  conjecture  that  Mangan 
had  some  Norman  blood  ;  for  his  features  were 
of  a  decided  Norman  cast.  He  was  born  at 
number  3  Fishamble  Street,  the  ancient  Vicus 
Piscariorum  of  Dublin,  on  the  first  day  of 
May,  1803.  He  was  the  eldest  of  four  chil- 
dren, an  early-dying  family;  his  brother,  the 
only  one  who  survived  him,  was  destined  to  fol- 


A  STUDY  7 

low  him  to  the  grave  during  the  same  month. 
The  father  belonged  in  Shanagolden,  Limerick, 
and  was  a  grocer  in  fair  circumstances  when  his 
son  was  born.  The  house  and  shop  were  the 
property  of  the  mother,  Catherine  Smith,  a 
comely  member  of  a  respectable  farmer's  family 
near  Dunsay,  in  the  County  Meath.  The  shop 
seems  to  have  been  soon  resigned  by  the 
elder  Mangan  to  a  brother-in-law,  whom  he 
beguiled  over  from  London ;  and  into  the  recep- 
tive hands  of  the  new-comer  he  is  said  to  have 
delivered  his  elder  son,  and  all  responsibility 
for  him.  James  Mangan  was  a  nervous,  wilful, 
tyrannous  person,  of  whom  his  little  ones  were 
afraid.  He  retired  from  his  business  on  a  com- 
petency, but  ran  through  his  new  estate  from 
excess  of  hospitality,  made  his  small  invest- 
ments which  failed,  and  died  prematurely  of 
the  superior  disease  of  disillusion  and  vexation. 
The  poet,  in  a  posthumously  published  auto- 
biographical fragment,  half-fanciful,  half-literal, 
thus  describes  him,  and  exalts  or  debases  him 
into  a  Celtic  type:  "His  nature  was  truly 
noble;  to  quote  a  phrase  of  my  friend  O'Don- 
ovan,  he  '  never  knew  what  it  was  to  refuse  the 
countenance  of  living  man';  but  in  neglecting 
his  own  interests  (and  not  the  most  selfish 
misanthropes  could  accuse  him  of  attending 
too  closely  to  those),  he  unfortunately  forgot 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN 


the  injuries  which  he  inflicted  upon  the  inter- 
ests of  others.  He  was  of  an  ardent  and  for- 
ward-bounding disposition;  and  though  deeply 
religious  by  nature,  he  hated  the  restraints  of 
social  life,  and  seemed  to  think  that  all  feelings 
with  regard  to  family  connections,  and  the  ob- 
ligations imposed  by  them,  were  beneath  his 
notice.  Me,  my  two  brothers,  and  my  sister, 
he  treated  habitually  as  a  huntsman  would  treat 
refractory  hounds.  It  was  his  boast,  uttered 
in  pure  glee  of  heart,  that  we  would  run  into 
a  mousehole  to  shun  him  !  While  my  mother 
lived,  he  made  her  miserable;  he  led  my  only 
sister  such  a  life  that  she  was  obliged  to  leave 
our  house;  he  kept  up  a  continual  succession 
of  hostilities  with  my  brothers;  and  if  he  spared 
me  more  than  others,  it  was,  perhaps,  because  I 
displayed  a  greater  contempt  of  life  and  every- 
thing connected  with  it.  ...  May  God  assoil 
his  great  and  mistaken  soul,  and  grant  him 
eternal  peace  and  forgiveness!  But  I  have  an 
inward  feeling  that  to  him  I  owe  all  my  mis- 
fortunes." 

Mangan's  judgments  were  gentle.  He  was 
never  heard  to  criticise  nor  blame  any  one  but 
himself.  Yet  the  experiences  of  his  tragic  in- 
fancy must  have  affected  the  fountain-springs 
of  human  feeling.  Perhaps  he  remembered  his 
own  nameless  antipathy,  by  contrast,  when  he 


A  STUDY  9 

came  to  render  the  wistful  thought  of  a  dead 
father  in  August  Kuhn's  lonely  little  wildwood 
boy :  — 

"  I  would  rather 
Be  with  him  than  pulling  roses." 

An  odd  moody  child,  he  was  sent  to  school 
in  Swift's  forlorn  and  formal  natal  neighbor- 
hood, in  Derby  Square,  offWerburgh  Street. 
There  was  a  master  there  who  had  baptized 
him  in  Rosemary  Lane  Chapel,  and  who  loved 
him;  and  from  him  he  learned,  among  other 
things,  the  rudiments  of  Latin  and  French. 
But  at  thirteen  or  at  fifteen  (it  is  impossible  to 
know  which),  he  had  to  enter  the  bitter  work- 
aday lists  of  the  world,  for  the  support  of  a 
family  of  steadily-sinking  fortunes,  who,  once 
they  found  him  productive  of  so  many  shillings 
a  week,  had  no  mercy  for  him,  and  preyed  upon 
him  like  a  nest  of  harpies.  As  early  as  1817 
the  talent  within  him  was  visibly  astir,  venting 
itself  in  the  charades  and  whimsical  rhymes 
proper  to  deservedly  obscure  Diaries  and  Al- 
manacs. But  before  he  was  sixteen,  he  had 
printed  some  noteworthy  verses,  with  all  of  the 
faults,  and  some  of  the  virtues,  of  his  maturer 
work,  and  dark  already  with  settled  melancholy. 
This  is  a  fine  imaginative  passage  from  the  pen 
of  a  child  :  — 


io  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN 

"  A  dream  fell  on  me,  fraught 

With  many  mingled  images  ascending 
Up  from  the  depths  of  slumber : 

Gigantical,  voluminous,  inblending." 

For  seven  weary  years  he  toiled  at  copying, 
from  five  in  the  morning,  winter  and  summer, 
until  eleven  at  night,  through  a  boyhood  which 
knew  no  vacations.  Mangan  shared  this  hard 
boyish  experience  with  Samuel  Richardson, 
bound  out  at  thirteen  as  apprentice  to  a  printer 
in  Aldersgate,  and  undergoing  for  seven  years 
an  intolerable  drudgery.  He  never  uttered, 
then  or  after,  Mangan's  "  lyric  cry  "  of  protest; 
perhaps  because  he  knew  that  Pamela  and  her 
prose  were  conspiracy-proof,  and  not  to  be 
snuffed  out  in  him.  For  three  years  succeed- 
ing, the  young  Mangan  was  an  attorney's  clerk, 
in  close  air  and  among  vulgar  associates,  so  tort- 
ured in  every  sentient  fibre  of  his  being  that  he 
affirmed  nothing  but  a  special  Providence  pre- 
served him  from  suicide.  The  circumstances  of 
this  slavery  gnawed  into  his  memory.  Isolation 
of  mind  was  his  habit  then  as  afterwards,  and  long 
walks  at  night  were  his  sole  relaxation.  As  he 
looked  back  upon  the  spectacle  of  his  innocent 
and  stricken  youth,  he  was  able  to  record  the 
anguish  at  which  the  outer  willingness  was 
priced.  "  I  would  frequently  inquire,  though 


A  STUDY  ir 

I  scarcely  acknowledged  the  inquiry  to  myself, 
how  or  why  it  was  that  I  should  be  called 
upon  to  sacrifice  the  immortal  for  the  mortal ; 
to  give  away  irredeemably  the  Promethean  fire 
within  me,  for  the  cooking  of  a  beefsteak;  to 
destroy  and  damn  my  own  soul  that  I  might 
preserve  for  a  few  miserable  months  or  years 
the  bodies  of  others.  Often  would  I  wander 
out  into  the  fields,  and  groan  to  God  for 

help:  De  profundis  clamavi!  was  my  continual 

» 
cry. 

These  were  the  years  when  first  he  took 
comfort,  five  minutes  at  a  time,  in  delightful 
study  ;  when  from  pure  single-hearted  passion 
he  made  himself  an  Oxford  out  of  nothing,  and 
won  what  is  rightly  called  his  "profound  and 
curiously  exquisite  culture";  when  toward  the 
unlovely  home,  anon  removed  to  Peter  Street, 
and  again  to  Chancery  Lane,  or  the  yet  un- 
lovelier  office,  at  6  York  Street,  he  would  go 
softly  reciting  some  sad  verses  of  Ovid  which 
had  a  charm  for  him  at  school,  and  keeping  his 
mind  alive  with  bookish  reverie :  a  solitary 
young  gold-haired  figure,  rapt  and  kind,  upon 
whom  no  gladness  ever  broke,  and  who  was 
alone  in  any  crowd.  His  genius  led  him  in- 
stinctively into  scholastic  ways.  Mr.  T.  H. 
Wright,  with  equal  truth  and  pathos,  has  thus 
sung  of  him  :  — 


12  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN 

—  "  Not  with  rude 

Untutored  hand  Apollo's  lyre  he  smote, 
Tho'  by  the  Furies  oftentimes  pursued 

In  dull  delirious  flight  thro'  wastes  remote." 

In  the  parlors  of  2  Church  Lane,  College 
Green,  he  found  his  earliest  encouragers;  in- 
tellectual tipplers,  like  Tighe  and  Lawrence 
Bligh,  stood  ready  to  be  Mangan's  colleagues 
in  worldly  paths.  A  friend  betrayed  his  confi- 
dence in  some  way,  and  helped  him  to  a  sick- 
ening foretaste  of  what  his  lot  was  to  be.  We 
have  no  reason  to  infer,  however,  that  the  blow 
was  dealt  to  so  trustful  a  heart  by  any  of  the 
radiant  and  erratic  Comet  Club,  of  which  that 
interesting  person,  Samuel  Lover,  was  then  a 
member.  Sometime  between  1825  and  1835, 
Mangan  had  a  calamity  of  the  heart.  Mitchel's 
too  romantic  statement,  generally  followed,  is 
that  Mangan's  first  love  was  given  to  a  girl 
much  "  above  him,"  according  to  our  strange 
surveys ;  that  she  encouraged  his  shy  ap- 
proaches, and  he  was  tremblingly  happy  ;  that 
tor  the  pieasantest  period  of  his  life  he  was  in 
frequent  contact  with  those  who  made  for  him 
his  fitting  social  environment ;  and  that  at  the 
moment  when  he  feared  nothing,  he  was  scorn- 
fully "whistled  down  the  wind."  And  the 
natural  inference  is  that  his  harsh  disappoint- 


A  STUDY  13 

ment  warped  the  poet's  life,  and  fastened  on 
him  his  air  of  irremediable  suffering.  There  is 
every  reason  why  Mangan  should  have  had  a 
hard  lot,  and  a  heavy  heart  to  carry,  without 
being  crossed  in  his  affections.  In  Grant's 
Almanack  for  1826,  is  a  poem  addressed  to  him, 
signed  by  his  old  friend  Tighe,  reproaching 
Mangan  for  "  the  dole  that  hath  too  long  o'er- 
cast  his  soul."  He  was  then  twenty-three. 
It  hardly  follows  that  the  event  in  question  was 
already  past.  All  adolescent  thinkers,  whether 
lovers  or  not,  experience  "  dole."  In  the  Octo- 
ber of  1832  died  Catharine  Hayes,  of  Re- 
hoboth  ("  the  quaint  old  house  with  the  Syrian 
name"),  a  young  girl,  almost  a  child,  to  whom 
he  taught  German.  It  has  been  said  that  this 
was  she  to  whom  he  was  engaged,  that  the 
breaking  of  the  tie  was  an  amicable  affair  of 
mutual  heroism,  and  that  the  girl  perished, 
shortly  after,  of  consumption.  Let  us  look 
into  the  poetic  chronology  ;  for  though  Man- 
gan, orally,  was  a  most  uncomplaining  person, 
he  was  not  altogether  reticent,  upon  paper. 
Elegiac  Verses  on  the  Early  Death  of  a  Beloved 
Friend  first  appeared  in  The  Comet,  on  the  tenth 
of  February,  1833.  They  were  unearthed  and 
reprinted  by  John  McCall.  Beginning 

u  I  stood  aloof;    I  dared  not  to  behold," 


I4  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN 

these  tender  lines  were  clearly  written  out  of 
no  vital  destroying  grief.  Ten  days  later,  and 
also  in  the  columns  of  The  Comet,  appear  from 
Mangan's  pen  Two  Sonnets  to  Caroline,  adorned 
later  by  bantering  adjectives  :  Two  Very  Inter- 
esting Sonnets  to  Caroline.  They  are  a-quiver 
with  something :  one  knows  not  whether  with 
strong  feeling  in  the  perfect  tense,  or  with  that 
dramatic  semblance  of  strong  feeling  which 
Childe  Harold  had  made  easy  to  his  contempo- 
raries. They  are  not  love-poems.  The  curi- 
ous circumstance  connected  with  them  is  that 
they  figure  anew  in  The  Dublin  University 
Magazine  for  January,  1839,  as  translations 
from  Gellert !  and  the  elegy  for  C.  H.,  with 
six  stanzas  eliminated,  emerges,  in  the  April 
number  following,  tagged  "from  the  Irish"; 
and  with  a  colophon  in  genuine  Gaelic  super- 
added.  Furthermore,  we  have  to  consider  a 
prose  paper  by  "  Clarence "  in  The  Weekly 
Dublin  Satirist^  dated  October  of  1833.  It  is 
called  My  Transformation ;  the  heroine  is  one 
Eleanor  Campion  ;  a  bitterly-conceived  sketch, 
ending  in  burlesque,  it  affords  minute  descrip- 
tion of  "  life's  fitful  fever."  Clearly,  Mangan 
was  in  a  very  black  Byronic  mood  indeed  circa 
1832-3.  Little  Miss  Hayes  was  in  no  wise 
responsible  for  it;  but  her  dying  coincided 
neatly  with  the  a  posteriori  suspicions  of  his- 


A  STUDY  15 

toriographers.  As  we  have  seen,  he  reprinted 
these  melodramatic  compositions  in  1839:  a 
year  when  he  recurred  afresh  to  the  pseudo- 
subjective  vein.  Amid  the  clumsy  machinery 
of  the  dialogue  Polyglot  Anthology,  Mangan 
produces  some  rather  imprecatory  stanzas  To 
Laura,  or,  as  afterwards  amended,  To  Frances, 
beginning  with  a  plagiarism  from  Burns:  — 

"  The  life  of  life  is  gone  and  over," 

which  would  seem  to  indicate  that  he  stood  in 
no  awe  of  his  victress  ;  nor  does  he  fail  to  men- 
tion, with  his  usual  mendacity  and  presence  of 
mind,  that  the  lyric  reproach  is  taken  from  the 
Italian.  Beautifully  does  it  close  :  — 

"  Adieu  !   for  thee  the  heavens  are  bright, 
Bright  flowers  along  thy  pathway  lie ; 
The  bolts  that  strike,  the  winds  that  blight, 
Will  pass  thy  bower  of  beauty  by. 

"  But  when  shall  rest  be  mine  ?      Alas, 

When  first  the  winter  wind  shall  wave 
The  pale  wild  flowers,  the  long  dark  grass, 
Above  my  unremembered  grave." 

It  has  been  taken  for  granted  by  some,  since 
the  version  entitled  To  Frances  is  less  inaccessi- 
ble than  the  other,  that  Frances  was  the  true 
name  of  the  cruel  maid  :  a  most  unlikely  do- 


1 6  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN 

duction.  A  recent  writer,  "  R.  M.  S.,"  in  The 
Catholic  World  for  October,  1888,  gives  a 
thoughtful  vote  of  accusation  to  one  Frances 
Stacpoole.  Stackpole,  too,  is  the  name  inde- 
pendently rescued  by  Mr.  W.  B.  Yeats  from 
the  reminiscences  of  an  aged  Anglican  Arch- 
deacon. Says  Miss  Susan  Gavan  Duffy,  in  a 
private  letter  to  the  editor  (1896) :  "  Margaret, 
not  Frances  Stacpoole,  was  the  name  of  the 
lady  beloved  by  Mangan  ;  and  my  Father  says 
you  are  right  in  surmising  that  his  blighted- 
love  episode  was  not  so  overwhelming  a  grief 
as  it  has  been  represented  to  be ;  for  when  it 
was  all  over  and  past,  Mangan  repeatedly  took 
my  Father  to  visit  Margaret,  and  her  mother 
and  sister.  Of  course  there  is  no  doubt  that 
the  poet  was  a  wrecked  and  broken-hearted 
man,  though  Margaret  Stacpoole  may  be  not  in 
the  least  accountable  for  his  misery."  Charles 
Gavan  Duffy  had  met  Mangan,  through  Carle- 
ton  the  novelist,  in  1836.  During  the  very 
time,  therefore,  when  the  poet  was  still  gladly 
visiting  the  gentlewomen  who  kept  their  kind- 
ness for  him,  he  was  putting  together  the 
highly-colored  maledictions  which  could  not 
possibly  have  represented  his  real  feeling. 
That  he  was,  in  some  sense,  disillusioned,  and 
thrown  back  upon  himself,  is  sure.  It  is  pite- 
ous that  he  had  ever  hoped  for  common  domes- 


A    STUDY  17 

tic  happiness  :  his  fate  could  neither  achieve  it 
nor  sustain  it,  for  an  hour.  He  was  ineffably 
unhappy,  and  in  his  loneliness  poured  his  un- 
happiness  into  verse.  It  would  be  unjust  to 
call  his  attitude  a  pose ;  for  he  was  sincere. 
Yet  lie  must  have  expressed  a  little  more  than 
he  felt,  as  did  every  poet  of  that  melodramatic 
generation.  And  there  is  some  evidence  that 
he  knew  his  lack  of  discipline.  Stanzas  Writ- 
ten in  Midsummer  (1839)  ne  rechristened  as 
Stanzas  Which  Ought  Not  to  Have  Been  Writ- 
ten in  Midsummer.  They  are  gruesome  pict- 
ures of 

—  "  an  undeparting  woe 
Beheld  and  shared  by  none : 
A  canker-worm  whose  work  is  slow, 
And  gnaws  the  heart-strings  one  by  one, 
And  drains   the   bosom's  blood,  till  the  last   drop  be 
gone  !  " 

We  must  remember  that  a  poet's  despair  can- 
not gracefully  charge  itself  to  dearth  of  beef, 
unpleasant  kinsfolk,  and  headaches  out  of  a 
morphine  phial.  Hence  woman,  and  the  love 
of  woman,  come  in  as  the  causa  rerum^  irrespec- 
tive of  proof,  even  with  a  Mangan.  After  his 
rebuff,  he  worked  back  into  some  show  of 
moral  courage  and  indifterentism ;  and  it  is 
said  that  no  fair  face  ever  appealed  to  him 
again.  Other,  and  more  mocking  faces,  walked 


1 8  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

by  his  side ;  for  his  ruin  had  begun,  and  the 
fatal  friend  of  sin  clung  to  him,  when  the 
white  visions  he  adored  had,  one  by  one,  with- 
drawn. 

Henceforth  it  is  not  so  easy  to  track  him  ; 
he  seems  to  have  vanished  into  smoke.  His 
bright  hair  blanched  of  a  sudden  during  his 
first  withdrawal  from  the  upper  world,  and  from 
the  fire  which  burned  his  fingers.  Whatever  is 
known  of  him  has  been  gathered  only  with 
extreme  painstaking ;  his  personal  history  is 
quite  as  vague  as  if  he  had  lived  in  a  hermit's 
cell  eight  hundred  years  ago,  when  as  yet  the 
fine  arts  of  spying  and  reporting  were  in  the 
germ.  Even  to  the  men  who  saw  him  close 
at  hand,  he  was  a  stranger.  He  passed 
through  their  company  like  the  ghost  of  a 
seance,  with  Dryden's  "  down  look,"  with 
soundless  speech  and  gait ;  whence  and  whither 
none  could  discover.  Mangan  was  a  loving 
student  of  the  mediaeval  alchemists,  and  he 
took  for  his  own  the  black  art  of  shooting 
out  of  darkness  into  a  partial  light,  and  van- 
ishing as  soon.  He  would  disappear  for 
weeks  and  months  at  a  time,  and  baffle  search. 
It  was  evident  that  he  mingled,  meanwhile, 
with  those  who  had  snapped  all  links  with 
human  society.  Nor  is  he  the  only  poet  in 
English  letters  over  whose  head  the  tides  of 


A    STUDY  19 

despair  rose  and  rolled,  that  he  might  so  sink, 
and  float,  and  sink  again.  We  have  not  for- 
gotten Dr.  Johnson's  heartfelt  lament  over 
Richard  Savage,  who,  not  without  an  inner 
battle,  retired  occasionally  into  chaos,  his  pen- 
sion-money in  his  pocket.  "  On  a  bulk,  in 
a  cellar,  or  in  a  glass-house,  among  thieves  and 
beggars,"  says  that  illustrious  friend,  "  was  to 
be  found  the  author  of  The  Wanderer^  the 
man  of  exalted  sentiments,  extensive  views, 
and  curious  observation ;  the  man  whose 
remarks  on  life  might  have  assisted  the  states- 
man, whose  ideas  of  virtue  might  have  enlight- 
ened the  moralist,  whose  eloquence  might 
have  influenced  senates,  and  whose  delicacy 
might  have  polished  courts."  Into  such  lowest 
deeps  of  partial  insanity  did  Mangan  also  die, 
and  out  of  them,  ever  and  again,  he  was  born, 
humble,  active,  clean  of  heart,  by  some  repara- 
tive  miracle,  his  eyes  fixed  (they,  at  least, 
never  wavered)  on  eternal  beauty  and  eternal 
good. 

II 

It  is  plain  on  the  face  of  things  that  he  was 
going  the  dark  way  of  the  opium-eater.  Yet 
this  point  has  been  greatly  obscured.  As  early 
as  1833,  Dr,  Wall  being  the  Librarian  of 


20  JAMES   CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Trinity  College,  Mangan,  through  the  friendly 
offices  of  Dr.  Todd,  who  had  been  attracted  by 
the  poet's  verses,  obtained  employment  for 
which  he  was  fitted,  and  in  an  atmosphere 
which  came  as  near  as  anything  could,  to  mak- 
ing him  happy.  Trinity  was  then  drawing  up 
her  vast  new  catalogues,  and  appreciated  "  the 
admirable  scribe's "  assiduity,  until,  alas,  he 
forfeited  her  regard.  At  large  among  rare 
folios,  Mangan  copied  for  his  living,  and  read 
for  love ;  losing  himself,  during  the  intervals 
for  lunch  or  exercise,  in  Matthew  Paris,  and 
Calmet's  Dissertatio  in  Musicam  Veterum  He- 
br<£orum.  Mitchel's  Carlyle-like  pen  so  paints 
him  for  us.  "The  present  biographer  being  in 
the  College  Library,  and  having  occasion  for  a 
book  in  that  gloomy  apartment  called  the 
Fagel  Library,  which  is  the  innermost  recess  of 
the  stately  building,  an  acquaintance  pointed 
out  to  me  a  man  perched  on  the  top  of  a  lad- 
der, with  the  whispered  information  that  the 
figure  was  Clarence  Mangan.  It  was  an  un- 
earthly and  ghostly  figure,  in  a  brown  garment: 
the  same  garment,  to  all  appearance,  which 
lasted  till  the  day  of  his  death.  The  blanched 
hair  was  totally  unkempt,  the  corpse-like  feat- 
ures still  as  marble;  a  large  book  was  in  his 
arms,  and  all  his  soul  was  in  the  book.  I  had 
never  heard  of  Clarence  Mangan  before,  and 


A   STUDY  21 

knew  not  for  what  he  was  celebrated,  whether 
as  a  magician,  a  poet,  or  a  murderer:  yet  I  took 
a  volume  and  spread  it  on  the  table,  not  to 
read,  but,  with  pretence  of  reading,  to  gaze  on 
the  spectral  person  upon  the  ladder."  This 
striking  description  of  a  man  who,  it  is  strange 
to  remember,  was  then  only  in  his  early  thir- 
ties, is  everywhere  corroborated,  even  by  those 
who  did  not  see,  as  Mitchel  did,  what  the  de- 
scription implied.  Mr.  James  T.  Fields  once 
wrote  of  his  meeting  with  De  Quincey : 
"  When  he  came  out  to  receive  me,  at  his  gar- 
den gate,  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  anything 
so  small  and  pale  in  the  shape  of  a  great  man, 
nor  a  more  impressive  head  on  human  shoul- 
ders. The  unmistakable  alabaster  shine,  which 
I  had  noticed  in  other  opium-eaters,  was  on  his 
face."  Mangan,  as  reported  by  all  who  re- 
member him,  as  implicated  (if  one  may  use 
that  word)  in  a  pathetic  posthumous  portrait, 
done  in  black-and-white,  had  also  "  the  unmis- 
takable alabaster-shine."  All  his  fitful  recluse 
habits  pointed  to  the  same  cause.  That  he 
had  gorgeous  visions,  his  fixed  eyes,  "  lustrously 
mild,  beautifully  blue,"  his  strangely-colored 
poems,  his  rapt  and  reticent  personality,  were 
so  many  witnesses.  Nor  did  he  escape  the 
penalties  intertwined  with  stolen  dreams.  "  The 
Gorgon's  head,"  he  wrote,  "  the  triple-faced 


22  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

hell-dog,  the  handwriting  on  Belshazzar's  pal- 
ace-wall, the  fire-globe  that  burned  below  the 
feet  of  Pascal,  are  all  bagatelles  beside  the 
phantasmagoria  which  evermore  haunt  my 
brain,  and  blast  my  eyes."  Mangan  is  looked 
upon  as  a  drunkard.  To  what  is  this  singular 
misconception  due  ?  To  his  own  denial  of  his 
real  folly,  and  to  his  complaint  that  William 
Carleton  had  circulated  the  statement  that  he 
(Mangan)  was  an  opium-eater;  and  likewise  to 
the  denial  of  the  Reverend  Charles  Meehan, 
who  knew  the  poet  well,  who  survived  him 
until  the  spring  of  1890,  and  had  always  a  posi- 
tive statement  or  two  to  make,  concerning  him. 
Every  one  knows  that  the  opium  practice  is 
never  admitted  by  its  victims  ;  secretiveness  is 
its  sign-manual.  As  to  the  second  testimony, 
it  is  true  so  far  as  it  goes.  The  kind  priest 
never  knew  Mangan  to  touch  the  drug.  But 
then,  he  knew  him  rather  late.  Said  Dr. 
George  Sigerson,  F.  R.  U.  I.,  in  a  recent  lecture 
before  the  Irish  Literary  Society  :  "It  has  been 
stated,  in  a  letter  given  to  the  public  some 
months  ago,  that  Mangan's  writing  was  ex- 
tremely irregular  and  erratic,  owing  to  his  drink- 
ing habits.  O'Daly  also  had  said  that  the  ver- 
sions of  the  Munster  poets  were  often  brought 
to  him  in  different-colored  inks,  indicative  of 
different  hostelries  or  public-houses  in  which 


A    STUDY  23 

they  were  composed.  Now  the  specimens  here 
shown  prove  that  Clarence  Mangan  wrote  a  clear, 
legible,  elegant  hand,  manifest  in  his  earliest  and 
latest  manuscripts.  The  writing  in  these  ver- 
sions of  the  Munster  poets  was  all  in  black  ink. 
Very  possibly,  they  were  written  in  various 
public-houses,  for  Dublin  offered  little  open 
hospitality,  while  there  were  no  free  libraries, 
and  all  the  squares  were  closed.  In  Paris,  and 
in  London,  many  writers  have  used  the  coffee- 
houses. .  .  .  Mangan's  handwriting  does  not 
present  the  signs  of  one  whose  nervous  system 
is  shattered  by  alcohol."  An  American  physi- 
cian, a  great  lover  of  Mangan,  has  come  to  the 
same  conviction,  by  the  process  of  pure  induc- 
tion. He  writes  to  the  present  editor  (May 
17,  1896):  "How  vain  it  is  to  try  to  see  in 
Mangan  the  fiery,  sensual,  besotted  look  of 
the  alcoholic  victim  !  Opium,  too,  explains  his 
strange  manner  of  life  to  any  medical  mind, 
which  alcohol  certainly  does  not ;  and  I  should 
dearly  like  to  see  him  freed  from  the  stigma  of 
drunkenness,  even  though  by  so  doing  he  had 
to  take  his  unhappy  place  with  Coleridge  and 
De  Ouincey."  One  other  point  has  to  be  dis- 
posed of.  In  The  Nameless  One,  Mangan  de- 
plores his  own  fall  into 

—  "  The  gulf  and  grave  of  Maginn  and  Burns." 


24  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

The  confession  is  most  inaccurately  phrased. 
It  is  by  poetic  license,  indeed,  that  the  conse- 
quences of  other  drugs  are  so  visited,  before 
all  men,  on  the  known  scapegoat  head  of 
whiskey.  But  The  Nameless  One  was  written 
in  1842.  By  that  time  Mangan  had  learned 
intemperance.  It  is  pathologically  impossible 
that  a  man  should  be  a  drunkard  and  an 
opium-eater  at  the  same  time.  The  general 
testimony  is  that  the  very  smallest  quantity 
of  spirits  was  sufficient  to  send  Mangan  on 
the  road  to  madness.  He  could  never  have 
gratified  an  appetite  for  strong  drink,  did  he 
possess  it ;  for  his  physical  forces  were  ruined. 
He  may  have  begun  in  his  youth,  on  a  few 
occasional  grains  of  opium,  with  the  intent  to 
deaden  the  pangs  of  hunger  and  dejection. 
Such  things  have  been.  And  he  must  have 
tasted  of  liquor  in  the  end,  as  part  and  parcel 
of  a  resolve  to  break  off  at  any  cost  from 
life-long  slavery.  Between  De  Quincey,  who 
struggled  successfully,  and  Coleridge,  who 
struggled  hardly  at  all,  stands  this  lonely  Irish 
poet,  who  struggled  in  vain.  Sometime  be- 
tween his  twenty-eighth  and  his  thirty-fifth 
year  he  stopped  on  his  downward  course,  and 
entered  on  a  new  life.  Feeble,  but  not  over- 
borne, eager  for  any  help,  though  it  were  full 
of  danger,  he  fell  presently  on  the  neck  of  one 


A   STUDY  25 

evil,  seeking  deliverance  from  another.  And 
whereas,  in  his  former  misery,  he  had  cried  out 
in  no  human  ear,  he  began  now  to  pour  forth 
impotent  plaints  and  promises,  after  the  man- 
ner of  dipsomaniacs.  These  are  too  painful 
to  quote.  One  marvels  how  his  patient  and 
compassionate  friends  endured  him  at  all ;  and 
that  they  stood  by  him  even  while  he  evaded 
and  disheartened  them,  proves  that  in  Mangan, 
repentant  for  the  moment,  survived  a  spark 
of  the  immortal  he  was,  some  nameless  divine 
quality  which  never  forfeited  reverence.  Sigh- 
ing over  him,  they  may  have  anticipated  the 
mournful  final  verdict  passed  by  Stevenson  on 
Burns.  "  If  he  had  been  but  strong  enough 
to  refrain,  or  bad  enough  to  persevere  in  evil ! 
.  .  .  there  had  been  some  possible  road  for  him 
throughout  this  troublesome  world ;  but  a  man, 
alas,  who  is  equally  at  the  call  of  his  worse  and 
better  instincts,  stands  among  changing  events 
without  foundation  or  resource."  It  is  the  one 
atoning  circumstance,  in  Mangan's  favor,  that 
though  his  attempt  was  a  foregone  defeat,  it 
was  a  brave  fight ;  he  broke  himself  to  pieces 
in  the  effort  to  save  his  soul  alive.  His  occa- 
sional regularity  of  living,  and  his  deepening 
religiousness,  show  that  some  very  powerful 
influence  was  at  work  within  him.  Is  it  a 
stretch  of  fancy  to  recur  to  Margaret  Stac- 


26  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

poole  ?  She  must  have  refused  him  prior  to 
1837,  and  the  refusal  was  perhaps  conditional. 
It  may  well  have  been  that  she  was  the  witness 
to  his  vow  of  reform ;  and  that  afterwards, 
while  he  came  and  went  with  other  literary 
men,  in  her  mother's  house,  she  was  gazing 
through  tears,  in  the  pauses  of  his  losing  bat- 
tle, on  her  poor  shattered  knight.  At  any 
rate,  the  supposition  harmonizes  with  what  we 
know  of  his  restless,  ever-remorseful,  light-ador- 
ing, and  "  gloom-o'erdarkened  "  spirit.  Had 
his  passion  indeed  ended  in  the  short  pang 
of  a  rude  dismissal,  as  some  of  his  biographers 
contend,  it  would  have  left  him  more  of  a  man. 
A  hope  of  marriage,  "  subdued  and  cherished 
long,"  eclipsed  a  thousand  times  by  horrible 
folly  and  weakness,  and  flickering  on  in  con- 
valescent dreams,  would  be  the  explanation 
both  of  much  of  Mangan's  poetry,  and  of  the 
moral  turmoil  of  all  his  latter  years.  Love 
the  saviour  was  not  strong  enough  to  save 
him.  The  men  who  guessed  nothing  of  his 
true  heart-history,  and  who  saw  him  often  and 
near  enough  to  connect  his  squalor  and  de- 
spair with  a  mere  common  dissipation,  were 
natural  contradictors  of  that  earlier  allegation, 
Carleton's  or  another's,  concerning  opium. 
Still  less  did  they  disentangle  the  thing  Clar- 
ence Mangan  was,  from  the  things  he  kept  on 


A    STUDY  27 

doing.  In  the  sight  of  the  All  Wise,  he  must 
have  approximated  not  to  the  suicide,  but  to 
the  martyr. 

He  is  no  subject  for  biography.  Paul  Ver- 
laine  is  his  only  parallel,  were  it  not  that 
Mangan  had  no  such  intense  moods  of  reli- 

O 

gious  mysticism,  and  none  of  bestiality.  "  No 
purer  and  more  benignant  spirit,"  —  it  is  John 
Mitchel,  again,  who  speaks,  "  ever  alighted  upon 
earth  ;  no  more  abandoned  wretch  ever  found 
earth  a  purgatory  and  a  hell.  There  were,  as  1 
have  said,  two  Mangans :  one  well-known  to 
the  Muses,  the  other  to  the  police ;  one  soared 
through  the  empyrean  and  sought  the  stars, 
the  other  lay  too  often  in  the  gutters  of  Peter 
Street  and  Bride  Street.  ...  In  his  deadly 
struggle  with  the  cold  world  he  wore  no  defi- 
ant air  and  attitude  ;  was  always  humble,  affec- 
tionate, almost  prayerful.  He  was  never  of 
the  Satanic  school,  never  devoted  mankind  to 
the  infernal  gods,  nor  cursed  the  sun."  Giv- 
ing what  he  could,  and  asking  nothing,  genial 
and  gentle  to  all  that  lived,  he  did  not  lack 
affection.  In  his  penury,  his  eccentric  habits, 
his  irresponsibilities,  he  found  a  distinguished 
and  devoted  few  to  replace  his  mistaken  circle 
of  Church  Lane  wits :  Mr.  George  Petrie, 
Dr.  Todd,  and  Dr.  Anster,  the  translator  of 
Faust ;  the  Reverend  John  Kenyon  of  Temple- 


28  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

derry,  Dr.  Gilbert,  and  especially  Charles 
Gavan  Duffy.  The  Nation  paid  Mangan  in 
advance  for  the  copy  he  too  often  forgot  to 
supply ;  he  had  a  haven  in  Trinity  Library, 
and  another  in  the  Ordnance  Survey  Office, 
where  he  was  at  peace  awhile  among  topog- 
raphers and  antiquaries,  generally  the  happi- 
est-tempered of  men.  He  might  have  lived 
with  those  who  would  have  appreciated  and 
protected  him,  but  he,  for  reasons,  was  too 
shy  and  too  proud.  It  pleased  him  better  to 
sit  in  the  liberty  of  a  garret  by  William,  his  in- 
valid brother,  sipping  tar-water,  and,  with  his 
delicate  smile,  watching  the  other's  consump- 
tion of  the  single  egg,  which  was  all  Apollo's 
vassal  could  afford  to  buy  him  for  a  certain 
Christmas  dinner ;  or  to  move  from  lodging 
to  lodging,  with  his  hand-bag  and  his  "  large, 
malformed  umbrella,"  devising  how  he  could 
redeem  his  manuscripts,  and  his  Berldeian 
tar-water,  too,  left  in  pawn  for  the  ante- 
penultimate rent.  The  poor  gifted  creature 
was  driven  more  than  once  to  private  beggary. 
We  read  oi  him,  at  another  time,  as  residing  in 
a  hay-loft,  and  eloquently  expostulating  with 
the  landlady,  a  person  with  a  syllogistic  eye  to 
conflagrations,  because  she  would  allow  him  no 
candle  to  write  by  !  Nothing  very  definite  ever 
happened  to  him.  Always  suffering,  always 


A    STUDY  29 

absent-minded  and  a  prey  to  accidents,  he  was 
no  stranger  to  hospitals,  and  cheerfully  as- 
serted that  his  intellect  cleared  the  moment 
he  entered  the  ward.  Lonely,  weak,  harassed, 
scorning  precautions,  on  the  ground  that  there 
is  no  contagion  "but  thinking  makes  it  so," 
clinging  with  foolhardy  calm  to  his  Bride 
Street  dwelling  during  the  great  cholera  epi- 
demic, Mangan  perished;  suddenly  and  quietly, 
as  the  shutting  of  a  glow-worm's  little  lamp,  on 
the  twentieth  of  June,  1849,  ms  ^e  went  °ut:>  at 
the  Meath  Hospital,  Long  Lane,  whither  he  had 
been  removed.  He  was  buried  in  Glasnevin. 
Three  persons  are  said  to  have  followed  his  body 
to  the  grave.  One  of  these  was  the  Reverend 
Charles  Meehan.  The  tardily-raised  headstone 
was  placed  by  Mangan's  uncle,  Mr.  Smith. 

From  Mr.  Hercules  Ellis  we  have  some 
distressing  details  of  our  poet's  last  days.  "  For 
twenty  years,"  he  says  in  a  sympathetic  preface 
to  his  book,  The  Ballads  and  Romances  of  Ire- 
land^ "  Mangan  labored  assiduously  in  his  art, 
gladly  accepting  for  his  works  payment  lower 
than  that  given  to  the  humblest  menial;  and 
the  return  for  this  devotion  of  his  noble  genius 
to  the  noblest  purposes  was  a  life  of  privation 
and  wretchedness,  and  an  early  death  caused  by 
want,  and  cold,  and  hunger,  and  nakedness,  and 
every  kind  of  misery." 


30  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

He  goes  on  to  say  that,  on  taking  up  one  of 
the  Dublin  newspapers,  he  was  much  startled 
by  the  announcement  of  the  death  of  Man- 
gan,  of  whom  he  had  ever  been  a  warm  ad- 
mirer, though  a  stranger ;  and  that  he  reached 
the  Meath  Hospital  in  time  to  see  his  body 
before  burial,  "  wrapped  in  a  winding-sheet, 
wasted  to  a  skeleton."  From  the  house-sur- 
geon he  learned  that  Mangan,  alone  and  ill,  in 
a  wretched  room,  had  been  discovered  by  the 
officers  of  the  Board  of  Health,  and  removed, 
as  a  probable  victim  of  the  cholera,  to  the 
North  Union  sheds.  But  the  attendant  phy- 
sician recognized  him,  and  found  him  not 
infected,  but  merely  starved.  "  He  was  im- 
mediately transmitted  to  the  Meath  Hospital, 
where  everything  that  skill  and  kindness  could 
suggest  for  the  purpose  of  reviving  the  expir- 
ing spark  of  life  was  attempted,  and  attempted 
in  vain.  The  unfortunate  child  of  genius  sank 
hourly,  and  died  shortly  after  his  admission, 
exhibiting,  to  the  last,  his  gentle  nature,  in  re- 
peated apologies  for  the  trouble  he  gave,  and 
constant  thanks  for  the  attentions  and  assist- 
ance afforded  him.  In  his  pocket  was  found  a 
volume  of  German  poetry,  ...  in  his  hat  were 
found  loose  papers.  Laboring  to  the  last  in 
his  noble  art,  striving  to  obtain  a  morsel  of  bread 
by  the  production  of  the  finest  compositions, 


A    STUDY  31 

.  .  .  poor  Clarence  Mangan  died ;  an  honor 
to  his  country  by  his  writings,  a  disgrace  to  it 
by  his  miserable  fate." 

Father  C.  P.  Meehan,  whose  kind  voice, 
reciting,  by  request,  the  Penitential  Psalms,  was 
the  last  sound  Mangan  heard  on  earth,  also 
testified,  on  being  questioned  many  years  after, 
that  Mangan  died,  not  from  cholera,  but  from 
"  exposure  and  exhaustion."  Unattended  for 
the  moment,  it  seems  that  he  arose,  and  got 
out  upon  the  street,  and  in  his  great  weakness 
fell  into  a  pit  dug  for  a  house-foundation,  and 
lay  there  awhile  before  being  rediscovered. 
Mr.  Ellis's  account  was  thought  to  be  sensa- 
tional when  it  was  published.  But  there  is  a 
grave  fear  that  it  was  the  truth.  The  condi- 
tions, not  of  one  mishap  or  one  moment,  which 
killed  Mangan,  were  those  which  have  visited 
poets  from  the  earth's  beginning,  those  which 
the  comfortable  world,  well-clad,  well-dined, 
with  its  feet  on  the  fender,  finds  it  hard  to  be- 
lieve in  at  all.  Whatever  nominal  and  visible 
cause  appeared  to  end  him,  amid  the  terror  and 
contusion  of  the  great  cholera  outbreak,  we  may 
set  him  down  as  a  victim,  foredoomed  from  his 
birth, 

—  "who  on  the  milk  of  Paradise 
Should  have  been  fed,  and  swam  in  more  heartsease 
Than  there  are  waters  in  the  Sestian  seas." 


32  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

To  the  tragic  testimony  of  those  who  stood  at 
Mangan's  bedside,  may  be  added  an  extract  from 
a  letter  of  Miss  Jane  Barlow  to  Mrs.  Hinkson 
(Katharine  Tynan),  since  permission  has  been 
accorded  to  quote  it  here.  "  The  other  day  I 
went  to  see  Miss  Margaret  Stokes,  whose  ac- 
quaintance I  made  lately.  She  was  talking  about 
Clarence  Mangan,  whose  friend  her  father  was, 
as  no  doubt  you  know.  In  fact,  he  was  his 
last  friend.  For  Mangan  had  been  lost  sight 

O  O 

of  by  everybody  for  a  very  long  time,  when, 
one  morning,  as  Dr.  Stokes  was  going  his 
rounds  in  the  Meath  Hospital,  the  porter  told 
him  that  admission  was  asked  for  a  miserable- 
looking  poor  man  at  the  door.  He  was 
shocked  to  find  that  this  was  Mangan,  who 
said  to  him  :  '  You  are  the  first  who  has 
spoken  one  kind  word  to  me,  for  many  years  '  : 
a  terrible  saying  !  Dr.  Stokes  got  him  a  pri- 
vate room,  and  had  everything  possible  done 
for  him  ;  but  not  many  days  after,  he  died  in 
Dr.  Stokes's  arms.  Immediately  after  death, 
such  a  wonderful  change  came  over  the  face 
that  Dr.  Stokes  hurried  away  to  Sir  Frederick 
Burton,  the  artist,  and  said  to  him  :  '  Clarence 
Mangan  is  lying  dead  at  the  Hospital.  I  want 
you  to  come  and  look  at  him  ;  for  you  never 
saw  anything  so  beautiful  in  your  life  !  So  Sir 
Frederick  came,  and  made  the  sketch  which  is 


A   STUDY  33 

now  in  the  National  Gallery.  I  daresay  you 
have  heard  all  this  before."  Mr.  F.  W.  Bur- 
ton, as  the  painter  then  was,  hurriedly  drew 
the  pallid  head  as  it  lay  back  on  the  pillow, 
old  and  weary  with  its  forty-six  insupport- 
able years  :  hurriedly,  because  there  was  some 
groundless  fear  of  infection  ;  and  from  this  first 
small  sketch,  he  made  the  very  touching  and 
striking  picture,  which  Miss  Barlow  mentions 
as  among  the  treasures  of  the  Irish  National 
Gallery  on  Leinster  Lawn  in  Dublin.  The 
original  seems  to  have  passed  into  Father 
Meehan's  hands  ;  and  by  him  was  given  to  its 
present  possessor,  the  Reverend  J.  H.  Gavin  of 
S.  Charles  Seminary,  Overbrook,  Pennsylvania. 
The  larger  and  more  perfect  head  was  beauti- 
fully reproduced  in  Irish  Love  Songs,  published 
by  Mr.  Fisher  Unwin  in  1894.  There  is  no 
truer  relic  of  its  class,  in  the  history  of  English 
letters ;  not  even  among  death-masks.  And 
it  recalls  to  mind,  would  one  seek  its  fellow, 
Severn's  heart-breaking  little  drawing  of  the 
dying  Keats.  A  sad  redoubled  value  attaches 
itself  to  this  memorial  of  Mangan,  when  it  is 
remembered  that  it  was  his  only  portrait.  He 
was  too  secluded  and  indifferent  to  wish  his 
features  perpetuated,  too  little  famous  to  attract 
artists,  too  poor  to  pay  them.  We  have  to 
thank  Dr.  Stokes  and  Sir  Frederick  Burton 


34  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

alone  for  the  broken  reflection  of  his  already 
vanished  spirit.  From  this  famous  vignette 
some  half  dozen  copies  have  been  made ;  or, 
rather,  basing  themselves  upon  it,  these  have 
endeavored  to  represent  the  poet  as  he  lived, 
with  no  marked  technical  success,  and  all,  save 
one,  with  a  significant  misconception.  Mr. 
D.  J.  O'Donoghue,  the  best  authority  on 
everything  pertaining  to  Mangan,  says  of  these 
attempts  :  "  They  are  not  like  him.  As  they 
are  all  deductions,  as  it  were,  from  the  Burton 
in  the  National  Gallery,  they  make  a  curious 
mistake  in  assuming  that  Mangan  habitually 
showed  his  fine  forehead.  It  was  only  when 
he  lay  dead,  with  head  unsupported,  that  his 
forehead  was  properly  seen  ;  for  his  long  hair, 
which  usually  fell  over  it,  had  then  fallen  back." 
This  just  criticism  cannot  be  extended  to  the 
sensitively-pencilled  sketch  by  Dora  Sigerson 
(Mrs.  Shorter),  which  has  the  tangled  locks 
shadowing  the  brow,  and  the  studious  stoop  of 
Haydon's  Wordsworth. 

u  This  is  the  poet  and  his  poetry." 

Ill 

In  The  Nameless  One  Mangan  lends  us  an  in- 
cidental glimpse  of  two  forerunners  to  whom 
he  was  attached.  The  mention  of  Maginn  has 


A    STUDY  35 

historic  interest ;  for  he  exercised  on  Mangan's 
genius  a  pronounced,  though  superficial  influ- 
ence. It  seems  ironic  to  recall  to  the  present 
generation  of  readers  the  Sir  Morgan  Odoherty 
of  BlackwootPs,  the  star  of  Fraser  s  and  the 
Noctes,  now  cinis  et  manes  et  fabula, —  the  joy- 
ous, the  learned,  the  amazing  William  Maginn, 
LL.D.,  who,  because  he  reaped  a  temporal  re- 
ward as  the  most  magazinable  of  men,  has  all 
but  perished  from  the  heaven  of  remembered 
literature.  The  coupling  of  his  name  with  that 
of  Burns  was,  at  the  given  date,  obvious.  It  is 
not  likely  that  Mangan  would  have  spoken  of 
the  ultimate  blight  of  Maginn's  great  powers 
while  he  lived ;  and  the  reference  in  the  poem 
itself  to  the  age  of  the  author,  would  tend  to  fix 
its  composition  in  the  year  of  Maginn's  death, 
1842.  Profound  feeling,  as  of  a  personal  loss, 
premonition,  as  if  called  forth  by  the  fate  of 
one  familiarly  known,  hang  over  these  rushing 
strophes,  written  as  they  are  in  the  third  person. 
It  is  clear  that  Mangan  had  an  enthusiasm  for 
Maginn,  hitherto  unnoted.  His  commentary 
in  the  Antkologia  Germanica,  in  the  Litters  Ori- 
entates, and  in  all  the  imitative  raillery  of  his 
Dublin  University  Magazine  work,  with  its  offi- 
cious instructive  foot-notes,  testifies  how  genu- 
ine it  was.  And  the  midsummer  news  from 
Walton-on-Thames,  which  struck  home  to 


36  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

many  who  loved  wit,  and  who  grieved  for 
might  put  to  no  immortal  use,  hurt  also  the 
quiet  clerkly  figure  on  the  library  ladders  of 
Trinity,  and  added  a  pang  to  his  opinion  of 
himself.  Maginn's  is  the  only  influence  except, 
—  longissimo  intervallo  —  Hunt's  and  Lamb's, 
discernible  in  Mangan's  prose.  As  for  some 
of  his  early  poetry,  it  is  on  Coleridge's  head. 
The  Betrothed,  beginning 

"  A  silence  reigns  in  Venice  streets," 

has  the  tone  and  the  motion  of  Christabel. 
Mangan  assimilated  later  a  note  of  the  "paus- 
ing harp"  of  1797.  We  are  told  of  the  knight 
who  won  "the  bright  and  beauteous  Genevieve" 
that  so  soon  as  the  story  faltered  on  his  lips,  he 

"Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity." 

"  The  song  of  the  tree  that  the  saw  sawed 
through,"  says  Mangan,  after  Coleridge, 

"Disturbed  my  spirit  with  pity, 
Began  to  subdue 
My  spirit  with  tcnderest  pity." 

And  there  is  a  palpable  echo  of  two  famous 
lines  of  Shelley,  imported  into  Mangan's  ver- 
sion of  Schiller's  Bis  an  des  Atbers  bleicbste 
Sterne  :  — 


A    STUDY  37 

"Fancy  bore  him  to  the  palest  star 
Pinnacled  in  the  lofty  ether  dim," 

and  a  reminiscence  of  The  Sensitive  Plant,  in  a 
mention  of  the  darnel  and  the  mandrake  as 
being  unfit  sister-growths  for 

—  u  the  proud, 
The  hundred-leafed  rose." 

"  Lampless  "  is  a  favorite  word  with  Mangan, 
who  had  admired  it,  no  doubt,  in  Epipsychidion. 
But  the  man  who  most  powerfully  swayed 
his  budding  art  was  not  any  of  these.  It  seems 
hardly  necessary  to  state  that  it  was  Lord  Byron, 
Byron  who  once  bestrode  all  young  minds, 

"  As  a  god  strong, 
And  as  a  god  free." 

There  is  nothing  more  broadly  Byronic  in  the 
magnific  wails  of  that  generation  than  a  certain 
production  of  our  poet  in  The  Dublin  Satirist 
of  the  fifth  of  December,  1835.  ^  ^s  amusing 
to  note  that  the  original  author's  name  is  given 
as  Johann  Theodor  Drechsler,  one  of  Mangan's 
numerous  sawdust  dollies.  He  outgrew  this 
influence,  as  he  did  every  other.  In  his  noble 
Pompeii,  lingers  the  last  tone  caught  from  the 
Childe,  already  merging  into  something  unlike 
itselt.  The  Hymn  for  Pentecost,  in  The  Irish 


38  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Tribune  for  the  eighth  of  July,  1 848,  is  modelled 
naturally  on  Schiller's  and  Byron's  lines.  It  is 
a  paean  of  the  year  of  revolution  ;  a  plea  that 
Innisfail  might  not  swoon  on,  while  all  Europe 
was  awakening  from 

"The  nightmare  sleep  of  nations  beneath  Kings." 

Mangan  had  some  theoretical  knowledge  of 
painting  and  of  music.  Though  the  practical 
sciences  had  small  attraction  for  him,  in  psychic 
experimentalists,  from  Paracelsus  to  Lavater,  he 
took  deep  interest.  For  the  pages  of  Sweden- 
borg  he  had  lasting  love.  It  is  said  of  him 
that  even  as  a  boy,  his  reading  could  not  be 
prescribed  for  him.  He  was  a  freebooter  stu- 
dent, in  spirituals  and  temporals.  Of  whatever 
other  comfort  he  was  bereft,  he  had  fabulous 
revenues  in  his  taste  for  the  best  books. 
Browsing  habitually  among  the  stalls  of  the 
Four  Courts,  when  he  could  not  command  a 
library,  Mangan  grew  intimate  with  the  fathers 
of  English  literature.  It  is  curious  that  he 
would  not,  or  could  not,  appreciate  the  great- 
ness of  Burke.  His  choice  of  contemporaries 
was  fallible.  He  cried  up  Godwin's  -St.  Leon, 
and  its  author's  "  forty-quill  power,"  and  ap- 
proved of  Contarini  Fleming,,  while  the  glorious 
If  aver  leys  left  him  cold.  He  admired  (may  he 


A    STUDY  39 

be  forgiven  for  these  vagaries  !)  Mr.  Rogers, 
and  he  did  not  spare  jibes  to  so  good  a  man 
as  Mr.  Southey.  On  the  other  hand,  we  find 
him  quoting  Balzac,  Charles  Lamb,  and  the 
young  Tennyson,  and  affectionately  addressing 
a  friend  who  sought  to  uplift  him  as 

"  Thou  endowed  with  all  of  Shelley's  soul," 

at  a  time  when  "  Shelley's  soul  "  was  still  rated 
below  par  by  the  sagacious  world  which  had 
not  known  him.  Mangan  thought,  however, 
that  there  was  "  a  cloud  on  Shelley's  character." 
It  is  pleasant  to  think  of  the  small  blonde  sprite 
of  1811  tripping  in  and  out  of  the  Derby 
Square  school,  who  may  have  looked  more 
than  once,  unawares,  on  Shelley's  boyish  self 
as  he  went  crusading  with  Harriet  through  the 
streets.  For  whatever  Mangan  saw  or  heard, 
it  was  from  his  own  contracted  orbit  at  home. 
He  was  acquainted  with  his  Dublin 

"As  the  tanned  galley-slave  is  with  his  oar," 

and  it  is  doubtful  if  he  were  ever  out  of  it, 
except  on  a  dull  six  weeks'  visit  to  his  uncle's 
farm  in  Kiltale.  Mangan  says,  however,  that 
he  found  his  "Saw-mill"  in  Rye  Valley,  Leix- 
lip;  and  he  dated  some  Italian  translations 
from  Liverpool,  having  apparently  induced 


4o  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Pegasus  to  ford  the  Irish  Sea  for  the  occasion. 
Certain  Italian  poets  were  all  his  life  very  dear 
to  him,  Petrarca  and  Filicaja,  and  Metastasio 
in  particular. 

IV 

Deep  as  was  Mangan's  hope  for  the  welfare 
of  all  humanity,  he  could  not  be  accredited 
with  anything  so  specific  as  a  political  opinion, 
even  in  the  seething  times  of  O'Connell,  till  he 
proved,  when  the  crisis  came,  that  his  heart 
was  with  the  Young  Ireland  party.  In  that 
season  of  great  intellectual  enthusiasm,  it  was 
natural  that  an  impressionable  mind  like  his 
should  be  swept  into  the  wake  of  Davis,  Duffy, 
Dillon,  O'Hagan,  Dalton  Williams,  Pigot, 
D'Arcy  M'Gee,  Meagher,  and  Mitchel.  But 
while  the  eyes  of  these  men  were  fixed  on  their 
far-off  common  ideal,  the  eyes  of  Mangan  were 
fixed  only  upon  them.  They  had  been  kind  to 
him  ;  his  soul  was  sensitively  grateful ;  and  he 
made  their  convictions  his  by  an  act  of  faith  in 
all  he  knew  of 

—  "that  bright  band 
That  on  the  steady  breeze  of  Honor  sailed." 

Two  among  them  have  written  of  their  uncer- 
tainty, lasting  for  years,  regarding  their  con- 
tributor's political  feeling ;  and  they  were  very 


A    STUDY  41 

careful  not  to  involve  his  name  in  their  own 
hopes  and  perils.  We  are  happy  to  think  of 
him  posing  as  a  rebel  and  a  reformer,  although 
he  counts  for  so  little,  and  looks  so  oddly  mis- 
placed. He  dedicated  to  his  country  a  great 
deal  of  middling  verse ;  he  meant  to  conse- 
crate to  her  new-born  aspiration  the  energies  in 
him  which  yet  survived.  Carried  away  by  the 
warmth  of  personal  allegiance,  Mangan  offered 
to  become  a  member  of  the  Irish  Confedera- 
tion, and,  later,  to  follow  John  Mitchel  to 
prosecution  and  exile :  measures  from  which 
his  wise  leaders,  as  gentlemen  endowed  with 
humor,  very  gently  dissuaded  him.  Towards 
1842,  he  became  touchingly  altruistic.  He 
even  endeavored  to  give  the  benefit  of  his 
interest  and  criticisms  to  that  incomparably 
well-edited  paper,  The  Nation.  Whatever  he 
could  get,  in  the  way  of  blocked  out  transla- 
tions from  the  Gaelic,  he  took,  with  eagerness, 
for  his  poetic  purposes,  and  obtained,  during 
his  last  year  or  two  of  life,  considerable  insight 
into  his  ancestral  tongue.  Such  an  ardor, 
whether  or  no  its  results  can  be  called  success- 
ful, had,  in  one  apart  from  the  common  con- 
cerns of  men,  a  distinctive  moral  beauty.  So 
Thoreau,  wedded  to  growing  leaves  and  the 
golden  hues  ofr  a  squirrel's  eye,  stood  forth 
From  his  happy  woods,  and  spoke  promptly  and 


JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 


aloud,  in  the  ear  of  scandalized  New  England, 
for  John  Brown. 

Like  all  Irishmen,  Mangan  was  by  nature 
something  of  a  commentator  on  public  affairs. 
Many  were  the  squibs  and  epigrams  from  his 
boyish  pen  ;  and  in  The  Belfast  Vindicator  he 
had  all  the  fun  he  could  out  of  the  eternal 
English  misrule.  His  highest  powers,  how- 
ever, refused  to  be  pressed  into  service,  as  the 
angelic  standard-bearers  of  a  cause.  Instead  of 
singing  The  Nation  s  First  Number  (one  knows 
not  what  he  could  have  done,  with  such  a  low- 
flying  materialistic  title  as  that !),  he  heartily 
shouted  it.  The  Irish  National  Hymn  has 
emotion  and  dignity  ;  A  Highway  for  Freedom 
is  a  good  song  of  its  kind.  But  there  are  a 
dozen  kindred  themes  from  Mangan's  pen  which 
nobody  of  frail  endurance  would  wish  to  read 
twice.  There  is  opulent  speechifying,  but  little 
poetry,  in  The  Warning  Voice ,  The  Peal  of  Another 
Trumpet  (with  its  motto  "  Irlande,  Irlande^  r'c- 
jouis-toi"  from  the  prophecies  of  Mademoiselle 
Lenormand),  and  in  the  one  strain  typical  of  all, 
The  Voice  of  Encouragement :  A  New  Year  s  Lay. 
The  last  begins  oratorically  enough  :  — 

Youths,  compatriots,  friends,  men  for  the  time  that  is 

nearing  ! 
Spirits  appointed  by  Heaven   to   front   the  storm  and 

the  trouble  ! 


A  STUDY  43 

You   who   in   seasons   of  peril,  unfaltering   still  and 

unfearing, 
Calmly  have  held  on  your  course,  the  course  of  the 

just  and  the  noble, 
You,  young  men  !   would  a  man  unworthy  to  rank   in 

your  number, 
Yet  with  a  heart  that  bleeds  for  his  country's  wrongs 

and  affliction, 
Fain  raise  a  voice  too  in  song,  albeit  his   music  and 

diction 
Rather  be  fitted,  alas,  to  lull  to,  than    startle    from 

slumber. 

It  closes  with  a  lofty  abstract  image,  worthy  of 
Mangan,  and  of  the  spirit  of  Young  Ireland. 

Omenful,  arched  with  gloom,  and  laden  with  many  a 

presage, 

Many  a  portent  of  woe,  looms  the  impending  era  ; 
Not    as   of   old   by  comet-sword,  gorgon,  or  ghastly 

chimera, 
Scarcely  by   lightning    and    thunder,   Heaven    to-day 

sends  its  message. 

Into  the  secret  heart,  down  thro'  the  caves  of  the  spirit, 
Pierces  the  silent  shaft,  sinks  the  invisible  token  : 
Cloaked    in    the    hall    the    envoy    stands,   his    mission 

unspoken, 
While  the  pale  banquetless  guests  await  in  trembling 

to  hear  it. 

Nevertheless,  Young  Ireland  must  have  found 
him  a   most  useless   person.      His  known  gen- 


44  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

ius  and  admired  achievements  floated  him  over 
these  years  of  profound  stress,  when  he  pro- 
duced next  to  nothing  of  any  worth  ;  and  when 
his  always  gently-remote  bearing  must  have 
had  the  value  of  an  anachronism.  Fortunately, 
there  were  those  near  at  hand  to  supplant  him, 
the  instant  he  failed.  It  is  not  from  Mangan 
that  we  have  Who  Fears  to  Speak  of  'Ninety-Right ', 
and  The  Rapparees.  Best  of  all,  there  was 
Thomas  Osborne  Davis,  a  patrician  tribune,  a 
most  lovable  and  very  perfect  character,  who 
made  rhymes  only  as  a  means  to  an  end,  yet 
out-reached  any  rival  whomsoever  in  that 
direction,  as  in  others.  With  such  splendid 
popular  ballads  of  his  as  Fontenoy,  The  Sack  of 
Baltimore ',  Given  Roe,  O' Erien  of  Ara^  nothing 
of  Mangan  (least  of  all  The  Siege  of  Maynooth) 
can  compete.  Besides,  unlike  Davis,  or  his 
nearest  followers,  clear-headed  young  enthu- 
siasts of  culture  and  breeding,  Clarence  Man- 
gan had  no  very  definite  idea  of  what  was  the 
desirable  thing  to  say.  While  in  aiming  at  the 
Repeal  of  the  Act  of  Union,  they  were  con- 
tent to  arouse  a  manly  spirit  in  the  long- 
oppressed  peasantry,  by  dwelling  on  the 
antique  glories  of  the  isle  and  the  names  of 
her  romantic  heroes,  nothing  would  serve 

7  O 

Mangan,  the  one  anointed  poet  among  them, 
but  prophecy,  calamitous  preaching,  and  the 


A    STUDY  45 

most  prosy  insistence  on  concrete  agitation. 
Worse  yet,  he  was  inconsistent :  his  theories 
veered  and  wobbled.  He  begets  generalities 
Continental  in  application  :  — 

March  forth,  Eighteen  Forty-Nine  ! 

Yet  not  as  marched  thy  predecessor 

With  flashing  glaive,  and  cannon-peal : 

Of  no  law,  human  or  divine, 

Shalt  thou  be,  even  in  thought,  transgressor. 

Strike  with  amaze,  but  not  with  steel ! 

Blood  enough  has  flowed,  Heaven  knows, 

Even  at  freedom's  holy  shrine  ; 

Not  by  blowings-up,  or  blows, 

Shall  conquer  Eighteen  Forty-Nine. 

And  again,  in  Consolation  and  Counsel:  — 

" '  Knowledge    is    power,'    not    powder.      That    man 

strikes 

A  blow  for  Ireland  worth  a  hundred  guns 
Who   trains   one   reasoner.      Smash   your    heads  of 

pikes, 
And  form  the  heads  of  men,  my  sons." 

Will  it  do  to  compare  such  approved  utter- 
ances with 

u  Your  swords,  your  guns,  alone  can  give 
To  Freedom's  course  a  highway  "  ? 

Surely,  no  more  drastic  urging  ever  came  from 
Mangan's  colleague,  the  young  Speranza 


46  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

(Miss  Elgee,  afterwards  Lady  Wilde),  in  the 
famous  Jacta  Alea  Esf.  Whether  the  mood  of 
patience,  or  that  of  indignation,  at  given  times, 
were  best  for  Ireland,  is  a  question  apart; 
what  is  certain,  is  that  the  man  who  would 
encourage  her  simultaneously  in  both,  cancels 
his  value  as  a  public  personage,  and  may  well, 
on  the  whole,  "go  back  to  his  gallipots." 

It  is  simple  truth  to  say  that  Mangan's  was 
a  non-conducting  mind,  up  to  his  very  last 
years.  He  was  "  in  the  sea  of  life  enisled," 
unwitting  of  the  passions  of  the  human  kind. 
This  loneliness  of  his,  this  dream-meshed  with- 
drawal, may  not  have  been  altogether  a  con- 
genital condition  ;  for  indifferentism  is  a  sure 
after-growth  of  the  opium  garden.  Yet  he 
was  a  born  unit.  He  inhabited  a  Bagdad  of 
his  own,  melancholy  and  fantastic,  and  with  no 
gates  opening  on  the  world  of  action.  No  close 
observer  of  his  earlier  life  and  writing  can  find 
in  them  definite  patriotic  or  religious  ardor,  or 
ardor  of  any  sort  except  the  literary.  Had 
Mangan  held  deep-seated  faiths,  they  could 
hardly  have  been  in  accord,  at  any  rate,  with 
those  of  The  Dublin  University  Magazine,  dur- 
ing the  years  he  devoted  to  its  enrichment. 
That  able  periodical  reeked  with  the  bigotry, 
arrogance,  cruelty,  and  spite  of  the  dominant 
social  element  in  the  Dublin  of  sixty  years  ago. 


A    STUDY  47 

It  was  to  end  such  a  spirit  of  faction,  i.e.,  de- 
nationalization, that  Young  Ireland  ("  Protes- 
tant, Catholic,  Dissenter:  quis  separabit ?  ") 
arose.  It  endeavored  to  wake  the  people 
from  an  enchanted  sleep,  in  the  great  name  of 
Justice.  It  woke  Mangan,  among  others  :  he 
put  himself  forth,  in  loyal  and  honorable 
energy,  as  an  Irishman.  He  had  all  manner 
of  new  prospects  to  befit  his  new  character ; 
for  he  proposed  to  devote  himself,  "  almost 
exclusively,"  to  the  service  of  his  country. 
Hence  much  lamentable  prosody :  the  active 
poet's  meat  is  the  contemplative  poet's  poison. 
His  translations  continued  to  be,  in  varying 
degrees,  effective ;  his  original  verse  became, 
for  the  most  part,  monstrous  flat  and  foggy. 
He  belonged  in  a  cell  of  his  own  ;  it  was  an 
artistic  error  ever  to  have  left  it.  Yet  in  leav- 
ing it  he  proved,  however  feebly,  that  in  his 
outworn  consciousness  was  the  manly  spark, 
albeit  he  could  not,  out  of  his  accustomed 
vaporous  abstraction,  speak,  in  the  crowd,  the 
efficacious  word.  He  had  been  too  long  a 
recluse,  a  bookworm,  and  a  leaf  in  the  wind. 
Poor  Mangan,  impotently  moralizing  towards 
the  last,  is  not  the  idler 

—  "  full  of  health  and  heart 
Upon  the  foamy  Bosphorus  ;  " 


48  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

but  who  that  loves  liberty  as  well  as  he  loves 
lyric  worth,  can  be  loath  to  honor  him  for  the 
fruitless  change  ?  It  has  been  remarked  con- 
cerning Mangan,  that  though  full  of  personal 
hopelessness,  he  was  a  political  optimist.  "  He 
always  dreamed,  mystically  enough,  after  the 
modern  fashion,  of  a  new  era  just  about  to 
dawn  upon  the  world,  and  of  the  regeneration 
of  mankind."  (And  he  is  a  most  compensatory 
singer :  "  what  though,"  is  his  ever-recurrent 
word.)  Hungary  failed  in  1848,  Sicily  failed, 
Ireland  failed.  But  there  was  much  healthful 
havoc.  With  the  final  thunder  of  disparting 
thrones,  dear  to  Mangan's  remote  ear,  he 
himself  was  fated  to  pass,  unconsummated. 


Mangan,  like  Cowley>  like  Southey  and 
Coleridge,  like  our  friend  Goldsmith,  between 
his  call  on  the  Bishop  (in  fatal  scarlet  breeches) 
and  his  attacks  on  medicine  and  the  law,  had  a 
yearning  for  what  he  is  pleased  to  call 

"The  daedal  Amazon, 
And  the  glorious  O'hi-o;" 

and,  like   Byron,  he  pays  a  lofty  compliment 
to  "the  single  soul  of  Washington"  ;   but   the 

O  D 


A    STUDY  49 

possibility  of  his  actually  taking  passage  to 
Washington's  open-doored  republic  must  have 
looked  absurd  even  to  himself.  In  fact,  he 
never  struck  at  anything,  nor  "put  it  to  the 
touch,"  for  the  major  reason  suggested  by  the 
Cavalier  poet,  that  he  "feared  his  fate  too 
much."  His  inertia  was  due  mainly,  of  course, 
to  the  Circean  drugs,  and  partially  to  his  con- 
stitutional fragility,  and  a  dull  submissiveness 
which  he  took,  perhaps,  to  be  his  duty.  He 
had  extreme  charity  for  everybody  but  Clar- 
ence Mangan.  It  seems  superfluous  to  say 
that  he  made  no  rebellious  clutches  at  life, 
had  no  greed.  Thinking  once  of  domestic 
peace,  debts  discharged,  and  acknowledged  per- 
sonal value  to  a  community,  Goldsmith  sighed 
in  a  letter  to  his  brother:  "Since  I  knew  what 
it  was  to  be  a  man,  I  have  not  known  these 
things."  Worldly  wisdom  is  not  a  gift  left  in 
Irish  cradles.  It  was  Mangan's  instinct,  as  it 
was  Goldsmith's,  to  "hitch  his  wagon  to  a  star," 
and  presently  to  discover,  without  any  change 
of  countenance,  that  his  star  had  no  legs,  and 

7  O     ' 

so  to  stand,  a  spectacle  for  the  laughter  of  men 
and  gods.  He  was  unfair  to  himself,  we  know. 
And  the  world  was  unfair  to  him,  and  to  his 
industry.  It  is  his  chief  negative  merit  that 
he  was  duped  and  driven  to  the  wall.  Such 
weakness,  rather  than  the  "  push"  which  re- 


50  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

ceives  superstitious  reverence,  is  advanced  civ- 
ilization ;  and  yet  it  must  not  be  recommended 
in  hornbooks.  Civilized  Mangan  was,  nay, 
more :  unlike  "  Goldy,"  he  might  be  called 
genteel.  About  the  tight  coat  and  the  torn 
stock  was  an  aroma  as  of  wilted  elegance,  a 
deceptive  aroma  of  what  had  never  been.  His 
manner  had  great  charm;  his  voice  and  smile 
were  winning.  With  a  gliding  grace,  he  wan- 
dered around  the  journalist  offices  of  Trinity 
Street;  after  prolonged  eclipse,  the  outcast  ap- 
parition alighted  again  in  the  doorway,  and 
heads  of  curious  clerks  bobbed  up  from  the 
desks.  "He  looked  like  the  spectre  of  some 
German  romance,"  said  his  most  appreciative 
contemporary.  "He  stole  into  The  Nation 
office  once  a  week,  to  talk  over  literary  pros- 
pects ;  but  if  any  of  my  friends  appeared,  he 
took  flight  on  the  instant.  In  earlier  days,  I 
had  spent  many  a  night,  up  to  the  small  hours, 
listening  to  his  delightful  monologues  on 
poetry  and  metaphysics;  but  the  animal  spirits 
and  hopefulness  of  vigorous  young  men  op- 
pressed him,  and  he  fled  from  the  admiration 
and  sympathy  of  a  stranger  as  others  do  from 
reproach  or  insult."  Sir  Charles  Gavan  Duffy 
also  speaks  of  him,  during  The  Nation  years,  as 
"  so  purely  a  poet  that  he  shrank  from  all 
other  exercises  of  his  intellect.  He  cared  noth- 


A    STUDY  51 

ing  for  political  projects.  He  could  never  be 
induced  to  attend  the  weekly  suppers,  and 
knew  many  of  his  fellow-laborers  only  by 
name."  And  once  more,  as  late  as  1893,  in 
the  course  of  a  private  correspondence  with  a 
clerical  friend  and  admirer :  "  Some  of  the 
pleasantest  evenings  of  my  life  were  spent  with 
Mangan  in  a  room  in  the  office  of  The  Morn- 
ing Register^  I  being  then  sub-editor.  Mangan 
recited  verse  with  singular  power  :  not  with  the 
skill  of  an  elocutionist,  but  with  the  elan  of  a 
man  of  genius  ;  and  his  memory  was  inexhaust- 
ible. Great  ceremonies,  splendid  feasts,  and 
distinguished  personages  have  faded  away  from 
my  mind  ;  but  these  nights  with  Mangan  are 
still  fresh  and  vivid."  Sometimes,  if  Mangan 
talked  at  all,  he  indulged  in  a  soft,  desultory, 
uncanny  soliloquy,  in  the  ear  of  an  old  friend. 
"  It  was  easy  to  perceive  that  his  being  was  all 
drowned  in  the  blackest  despair.  .  .  .  He  saw 
spirits,  too,  and  received  unwelcome  visits  from 
his  dead  father,  whom  he  did  not  love."  In 
spite  of  destiny  he  would  anon  be  gay.  There 
was  nothing  in  him  of  the  roisterer,  but  his 
speech  was  full  of  sudden  witticisms,  sly  fool- 
ing which  drew  no  blood.  He  could  not  tor- 
bear  a  bit  of  satire  at  the  expense  of  his 
countrymen,  as  in  his  charming  claim  of  the 
discovery  of  fire,  by  Prometheus,  five  thousand 


52  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

six  hundred  years  ago,  in  Kilkenny!  The 
grimmest  poem  he  wrote  has  its  play  upon 
words,  at  which  melancholy  game  he  takes 
rank  with  Heine  and  Thomas  Hood,  invinci- 
bles  like  himself.  "Poor  Clarence  Mangan, 
with  his  queer  puns  and  jokes,  and  odd  little 
cloak  and  wonderful  hat!"  —  so  his  old  desk- 
mate  in  the  Ordnance  Survey  Office,  Mr.  W. 
F.  Wakeman,  paints  him,  not  without  a  hand- 
some reference  to  the  huge  inevitable  umbrella. 
This  implement,  says  Father  Meehan,  was 
"carried  like  a  cotton  oriflamme  in  the  most 
settled  weather,  and  might,  when  partly  cov- 
ered by  his  cloak,  easily  be  mistaken  for  a 
Scotch  bagpipe."  Never  were  clothes  so  mar- 
ried to  a  personality;  they  were  as  much  a 
part  of  Mangan  as  his  shining  blue  eyes,  or 
his  quiet,  rapid,  monk-like  step.  He  had  a 
brown  caped  cloak  in  which  he  seemed  to  have 
been  born;  and  the  strange  antique  dismaying 
hat  aforesaid,  fixed  over  his  yellow  silken 
dishevelled  hair,  is  set  down,  to  our  great  satis- 
faction (in  the  preface  to  O' Daly's  Poets  of 
Munster),  as  broad-leafed,  steeple-shaped,  and 
presumably  built  on  the  Hudibras  model  ! 
Stooped,  but  not  short;  wan,  thin,  and  bright; 
powdery  with  dust  from  the  upper  shelf; 
equipped  with  the  scant  toga  precariously  but- 
toned, the  great  goggles,  and  the  king-umbrella 


A    STUDY  53 

of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  —  such  was  Man- 
gan,  so  ludicrous  and  so  endearing  a  figure  that 
one  wishes  him  but  a  thought  in  Fielding's 
brain,  lovingly  handled  in  three  volumes  octavo, 
and  abstracted  from  the  hard  vicissitudes  of 
mortality. 

VI 

A  lecture  on  Mangan  was  lately  delivered  in 
Glasgow  by  Mr.  W.  Boyle.  We  learn  from  a 
newspaper  report  that  after  giving  the  date  of 
birth,  May  Day  of  1803,  this  gentleman  said 
further:  "  You  will  all  remember  that  some  four 
and  twenty  years  before,  upon  another  May 
morning,  another  poet,  named  Thomas  Moore, 
had  been  born  above  another  grocer's  shop  in 
the  same  old  city.  .  .  .  To  one,  the  dignified 
society  of  all  the  great  and  brilliant  of  his  time, 
the  sweetest  bowers  on  the  world's  sunniest 
slopes ;  to  the  other,  the  reeking  slum,  the 
evil-smelling  taproom,  the  garret,  and  the 
lazar-house.  To  Moore,  the  loving  admira- 
tion of  all  men,  high  and  low;  to  Mangan  the 
pitying  approval  of  the  few,  and  even  in  his 
own  city,  the  all  but  complete  forgetfulness  of 
the  many.  And  yet  some  of  you  will  be  sur- 
prised to  learn  that  Mangan,  in  the  intervals 
of  his  employment  as  a  scrivener,  and  during 


54  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

the  active  period  of  a  life  disturbed  by  illness, 
and  not  more  than  half  as  long,  composed  al- 
most as  many  lines  of  verse  as  Moore,  who 
devoted  all  his  time  and  mind  and  soul  to  the 
pursuits  of  literature."  In  the  matter  of  mere 
quantity  these  two  come  together,  who  in  all 
else  stand  asunder  at  the  poles  of  the  lyric 
world.  Mangan,  as  may  be  surmised,  made 
no  sustained  flights;  but  there  survive  from  his 
pen  rather  more  than  two  thousand  short  com- 
positions, about  half  of  which  are  translations, 
or,  in  some  measure  too  generously  acknowl- 
edged, inspired  by  poems  in  another  language. 
We  may  roughly  rate  his  purely  original  work 
(the  finer  half  of  which,  again,  he  chose  to 
call  translation),  as  numbering  fully  a  thousand 
pieces.  To  reprint  Mangan  in  the  bulk  would 
be  (and  one  may  count  that  his  first  stroke  of 
luck  !)  difficult.  It  would  amount,  moreover, 
to  the  sin  of  detraction.  The  thinnest  duo- 
decimo, containing  at  the  most  thirty-five 
poems,  would  adequately  show  the  quintes- 
sence of  his  gift,  to  the  few  whose  senses  are 
quick  at  literary  divination.  Slight  as  is  the 
body  of  Mangan's  poetry  hitherto  printed  as 
his  own,  he  shows  in  it  conspicuous  inequality. 
It  is  hard  to  believe  that  the  strophes  of 
Enthusiasm,  whose  opening  invocation  Clough 
might  have  penned,— 


A   STUDY  55 

"  Not  yet  trodden-under  wholly, 
Not  yet  darkened, 
O  my  spirit's  flickering  lamp  !  art  thou," 

belong  to  the  same  source  as  certain  numbers 
artfully  omitted  from  this  book.  But  Mangan 
must  have  his  range :  awful  when  he  draws  him- 
self up  to  the  Pompeiian  or  the  Karamanian 
attitude,  and  something  else  when  he  touches 
Ireland  and  the  peasants'  famine-year,  in 

"  Understand  your  position, 
Remember  your  mission, 
And  vacillate  not 
Whatsoever  ensue  !  " 

The  majority  of  his  fugitive  verses  were  given 
to  The  Dublin  Penny  Journal,  from  1 832  to  1 837  ; 
to  The  Irish  Penny  Journal,  started  in  1 840,  for 
which  he  wrote  much ;  to  The  Nation  and  The 
United  Irishman  ,•  and  to  The  Dublin  University 
Magazine,  to  which,  in  his  intermittent  fash- 
ion, he  was  faithful  throughout.  He  is  to  be 
traced  under  various  signatures  :  The  Man  in 
the  Cloak,  Monos,  Lageniensis,  Vacuus,  The 
Mourner,  A  Yankee,  Terras  Filius,  Wilhelm, 
J.C.  M.,  Clarence,  Clarence  Mangan,  and  James 
Clarence  Mangan.  "  Throughout  his  whole  liter- 
ary lite  of  twenty  years,"  says  his  patriot  friend 
Mitchel,  "  he  never  published  a  line  in  any  Eng- 
lish periodical  or  through  any  English  bookseller. 


56  JAMES    CLARENCE   MANGAN 

He  never  appeared  to  be  aware  that  there  was 
a  British  public  to  please."  Mangan,  modest 
by  nature,  had  schooled  himself  to  the  neglect 
of  the  critics  ;  no  selfish  zeal  was  able  to  fire 
him,  and  he  would  not  have  crossed  the  street 
to  advance  his  interests.  He  says  roguishly  of 
one  of  his  home-made  German  poets,  "  Selber's 
toploftical  disdain  of  human  applause  is  the 
only  great  thing  about  him,  except  his  cloak." 
It  is  just  to  reflect,  also,  that  he  kept  from  the 
agreeable  ways  of  publicity  in  London,  because 
his  feelings  and  associations,  so  far  as  they  were 
defined,  were  republican  and  hostile,  and  on  the 
side  of  his  country  in  her  storms  of  fifty  years 
ago.  At  any  rate,  he  never  burned  the  per- 
missible candle  to  Mammon.  London,  and 
through  her,  posterity,  are  the  losers ;  there 
would  have  been,  sooner  or  later,  no  doubt  of 
his  welcome.  He  was  not  uncritical.  He 
likened  his  genius  to  "a  mountain  stream,"  and 
no  analysis  could  be  better,  on  the  whole.  His 
home  is  on  untrodden  highlands,  in  rough  pre- 
cipitous places,  where  only  the  Munster  shep- 
herd-boys pass  with  their  flocks,  and  drink  of 
the  gushing  water,  and  dream  not  but  that  all 
water  tastes  the  same,  the  wide  world  over. 

Miserable  as  Mangan  was,  he  had  comfort 
in  his  art.  On  this  subject,  where  so  many  are 
loquacious  enough,  he  is  dumb.  We  know 


A    STUDY  57 

very  little  of  his  literary  habits,  save  that  he 
wrote  fitfully,  and  often  failed,  in  his  earlier 
years,  to  get  a  farthing's  pay.  He  apologizes 
for  gaps  in  his  various  Anthologize,  once  by 
pleading  that  he  had  mislaid  the  last  leaves  of 
his  manuscript,  again  by  saying  that  he  had  not 
of  late  found  a  peaceful  hour  in  which  to  re- 
sume his  task.  He  belied  himself  by  letting 
men  think  that  this  irregularity  was  due  to  too 
convivial  nights.  On  that  subject  he  gives  us 
an  epigram. 

"Thinkers  have  always  been  drinkers,  and  scribblers 

will  always  be  bibblers  ; 

Waiter!   I  solemnly  charge  you  to  vanish,  and  make 
yourself  handy  !  " 

VII 

His  work,  at  its  worst,  has  the  faults  insepa- 
rable from  the  conditions  under  which  it  was 
wrought:  it  is  stumbling,  pert,  diffuse,  dis- 
traught. What  Mr.  Gosse  has  named  the 
"  overflow,"  the  flux  of  a  line-ending  into 
the  next  line's  beginning,  so  that  it  becomes 
difficult  to  read  both  aloud,  and  preserve  the 
stress  and  rhyme,  —  this  bad  habit  of  good  poets, 
completely  ruins  several  of  Mangan's  longer 
pieces.  He  had  in  rull  that  racial  luxuriance 
and  fluency  which,  wonderful  to  see  in  their 


5 8  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

happier  action,  tend  always  to  carry  a  writer  off 
his  feet,  and  wash  him  into  the  deep  sea  of 
slovenliness.  Mangan's  scholarship,  painfully, 
intermittently  acquired,  never  distilled  itself 
into  him,  to  react  imperiously  on  all  he  wrote, 
smoothing  the  rough  and  welding  the  disjointed. 
Again,  his  mental  strength,  crowded  back  from 
the  highways  of  literature,  wreaked  itself  in 
feats  not  the  worthiest :  in  the  taming  of  un- 
heard-of metres,  in  illegal  decoration  of  other 
men's  fabrics,  in  orthoepic  and  homonymic 
freaks  of  all  kinds,  not  to  be  matched  since  the 
Middle  Ages. 

He  delights  in  creating  oceans  of  this  sort  of 
thing  (1835):  — 

u  Besides,  of  course,  heroically  bearing 
The  speech,  half-sneer,  half-compliment,  of  Baring, 
And  standing  the  infliction  of  a  peel 
Of  plaudits  from  Lord  Eldon  and  Bob  Peel." 

Or  this  (1839):- 

"The  wretch,  who  rescued  from  the  halter,  still 

Will  kill, 
Or  he,  who  after  trampling  tillages, 

Pillages  villages, 
Has  less  of  guiltiness  than  one  who  when 

Men  pen 
Such  rubbish  as  the  dullest  must  despise, 

Cries  '  Wise  !  ' 


A    STUDY  59 

What  he  alleges,  with  truth,  in  a  posthumous 
fragment,  of  Maginn,  may  be  reverted  to  him- 
self: "  He  wrote  alike  without  labor  and  with- 
out limit.  He  had,  properly  speaking,  no 
style ;  or  rather,  he  was  master  of  all  styles, 
though  he  cared  for  none."  The  legerdemain 
he  shows  in  handling  our  flexible  language,  is 
hardly  so  admirable  as  it  has  been  said,  on 
excellent  authority,  to  be.  His  compound 
rhymes,  his  unearthly  opulent  metres,  are  in- 
deed extraordinary ;  but  their  effect  is  often 
gained  by  illegitimate  means.  Mangan  has  no 
philological  scruples,  no  "  literary  conscience," 
whatever.  Does  he  need  a  rhyme,  he  invents 
a  word,  chooses  one  which  is  archaic,  or  gives 
to  a  known  one  some  grotesque  turn  ;  he  has 
prefixtures  and  elisions  ever  on  duty ;  his  mu- 
sicianly  ear  cannot  be  relied  upon  to  keep  him 
always  clear  of  English  sibilations ;  he  fre- 
quently loses  his  sense  of  the  place  and  time 
to  stop;  and  when  he  attempts  recognized 
forms,  as  in  the  sapphics  (with  breath-catching 
rhymes!)  of  his  own  Lure/ay,  or  the  alexan- 
drines of  Freiligrath's  spirited 

"Bound,  bound,  my  desert  barb  from  Alexandria!' 

the  result  is  somewhat  fearsome,  to  say  the 
least.  While  a  poet  subdues  technical  difficul- 
ties by  overriding  their  laws,  success  so  oh- 


60  JAMES   CLARENCE   MANGAN 

tained  must  be  ruled  out  of  court.  However, 
a  born  metrist  he  was,  though  a  perverse  one. 
From  his  very  first  appearances  in  print,  as  a 
young  boy,  he  displays  as  his  essential  charac- 
teristics, imagination,  and  the  greatest  verbal 
dexterity.  A  good  proportion  of  his  poems 
are  informal  exhibitions  by  a  virtuoso,  a  game 
of  all  miracles  known  to  writing  man.  His 
best  burlesque  rivals  Butler's  and  Thomas 
Hood's,  which  is  the  same  as  saying  that  it 
attains  the  front  rank.  But  we  cannot  endure 
mediocre  burlesque  in  the  author  of  Dark 
Rosa/een.  His  prose,  nearly  always,  is  forced, 
and  defaced  with  tedious  puns.  The  painful 
mummery  of  some  pages  (of  which,  it  is  but 
fair  to  recall,  their  author  had  never  the  revi- 
sion, and  which  should  not  have  been,  nor 
should  be  reprinted)  is  not  representative  of 
anything  but  the  awkwardness  that  comes  at 
intervals  over  Mangan,  and  stands  between 
him  and  his  angel, 

"  When  the  angel  says,  '  Write.' ' 

As  an  essayist,  despite  some  fine  flashes,  he  is 
hardly  worth  preserving.  Nor  can  it  be  de- 
nied that  the  same  element  of  restlessness  and 
strain,  a  sort  of  alloy  from  the  frightful  pov- 
erty and  degradation  nigh  it,  gets  at  times 


A   STUDY  6 1 

even  into  much  of  Mangan's  golden  poetic 
work.  "  Hippocrene  may  be  inexhaustible,"  he 
says  quaintly,  "  but  it  flows  up  to  Us  through 
a  pump."  Did  ever  the  Virgilian  distinction 
spring  from  a  houseless  Muse,  half-fed  ?  The 
marvel,  rather,  is  that  the  spirit  in  Mangan  so 
often  surmounts  the  most  appalling  obstacles 
known  to  the  human  mind. 

Mitchel,  who  had  unerring  literary  acumen, 
detected  in  him  the  conflict  of  "  deepest  pathos 
and  a  sort  of  fictitious  jollity."  At  times,  he 
says,  the  poet  breaks  into  would-be  humor, 
"not  merry  and  hearty  fun,  but  rather  gro- 
tesque, bitter,  Fescennine  buffoonery,  which 
leaves  an  unpleasant  impression,  as  if  he  were 
grimly  sneering  at  himself  and  all  the  world, 
purposely  spoiling  and  marring  the  effect  of 
fine  poetry  by  turning  it  into  burlesque,  and 
showing  how  meanly  he  regarded  everything, 
even  his  art  wherein  he  lived  and  had  his 
being,  when  he  compared  his  own  exalted  ideas 
of  art  and  life  with  the  littleness  of  all  his 
experiences  and  performances."  Mitchel  was 
thinking,  in  all  probability,  of  the  ruinous  but 
very  clever  postlude  to  The  Broken-Hearted 
Song,  and  the  interpolation  of  Yankee  dialect 
in  a  lyric  raucously  beginning, 

u  O  hush  such  sounds!  " 


62  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

To  such  spoliations  his  words  apply.  But  there 
is  a  vast  deal  of  facetious  excellence  in  Man- 
gan.  Amid  less  felicitous  drollery,  the  reader 
can  take  pleasure  in  a  snatch  of  triumphant 
parody  on  Moore,  and  a  recurring  chorus  which 
is  a  real  gold  nugget  of  comic  opera  :  — 

"  So  spake  the  stout  Haroun-al-Raschid, 
With  his  jolly  ugly  hookah  in  his  hand  !  " 

Will  it  be  believed  that  Mangan  was  a  choice 
librettist,  without  his  opportunity  ?  Were  he 
earning  his  living  in  the  same  walk  to-day,  Mr. 
W.  S.  Gilbert  might  look  to  his  laurels.  Some 
of  his  nonsense  runs  for  all  the  world  like  a 
Gilbert  and  Sullivan  "  topical  song,"  in  long 
rattling  declamatory  lines,  of  wit  and  anima- 
tion all  compact.  Behold  the  exhumed  pre- 
cursor of  The  Mikado  !  The  Gilbertian  accent 
is  unmistakably  prefigured,  in  Mangan's  humor- 
ous hours.  Sundry  lines  need  but  to  put  in  an 
appearance  at  the  Savoy  Theatre,  and  be  wel- 
comed at  once  as  long-lost  fathers,  by  all  the 
six-time  A-major  presto  e  staccato  tribe  modern 
playgoers  know  so  well :  — 

"As  backward  he  staggered 
With  countenance  haggard, 
And  feelings  as  acid  as  beer  after  thunder, 
'Twas  plain  that  the  dart  which  had  entered  his  heart 
Was  rending  his  physical  system  asunder  ! 


A    STUDY  63 

and  so  on;  for  there  is  no  dearth  of  it.  Let  us 
take  Metempsychosis  as  a  fair  specimen  of  Man- 
gan's  achievement  in  this  direction.  It  purports 
to  derive  its  parentage  from  John  Frederick 
Castelli,  "  a  very  select  wag,"  in  Klauer-Klat- 
towski's  Popular  Songs  of  the  Germans. 


METEMPSYCHOSIS 

I've  studied  sundry  treatises  by  spectacled  old  sages 
Anent  the  capabilities  and  nature  of  the  soul,  and 
Its  vagabond  propensities  from  even  the  earliest  ages, 
As  harped  on  by  Spinoza,  Plato,  Leibnitz,  Chubb,  and 

Toland. 
But  of   all   systems  I've  yet  met  or  p'raps  shall  ever 

meet  with, 
Not    one    can    hold    a   candle   to,  (videlicet,    compete 

with) 

The  theory  of  theories  Pythagoras  proposes, 
And  called  by  that  profound  old  snudge  (in  Greek,) 

metempsychosis. 

It  seems  to  me  a  positive  truth,  admitting  of  no  modi- 
Fication,  that  the  human  soul,  accustomed  to  a  lodging 
Inside  a  carnal  tenement,  must,  when  it  quits  one 

body, 

Instead  of  sailing  to  and  fro,  and  profitlessly  dodging 
About  from  post  to  pillar  without  either  pause  or  pur- 
pose, 
Seek  out  a  habitation  in  some  other  cozy  corpus  ; 


64  JAMES   CLARENCE   MANGAN 

And  when,  by  luck,  it  pops  on  one  with  which  its 

habits  match,  box 
Itself  therein  instanter,  like  a  sentry  in  a  watch-box. 

This  may  be  snapped  at,  sneered  at,  sneezed  at;  deuce 

may  care  for  cavils  ! 
Reason  is  reason.     Credit   me,  I've  met  at  least  one 

myriad 
Of  instances    to   prop  me   up :    I've   seen    upon    my 

travels 
Foxes  who  had  been  lawyers  at,  no  doubt,  some  former 

period ; 

Innumerable  apes,  who,  tho'  they'd  lost  their  patro- 
nymics, 

I  recognized  immediately  as  mountebanks  and  mimics; 
And  asses,  calves  et  cetera,  whose  rough   bodies  gave 

asylum 
To  certain   souls,  the   property  of  learned   professors 

whilome. 

To  go  on  with  my  catalogue,  what  will  you  bet  I've 
seen  a 

Goose,  that  was  reckoned,  in  her  day,  a  pretty-faced 
young  woman  ? 

But  more  than  that.  I  knew  at  once  a  bloody-lipped 
hyena 

To  have  been  a  Russian  marshal,  or  an  ancient  em- 
peror. (Roman.) 

All  snakes  and  vipers,  toads  and  reptiles,  crocodiles 
and  crawlers, 

I  set  down  as  court  sycophants  or  hypocritic  bawlers  ; 


A    STUDY  65 

And  there,  I  may've  been  right  or  wrong,  but   noth- 
ing can  be  truer 
Than  this,  that  in  a  scorpion  I  beheld  a  vile  reviewer  ! 

So  far,  we've  had   no  stumbling-block.      But  now  a 

puzzling  question 
Arises.      All    the    afore-named   souls  were    souls   of 

stunted  stature, 

Contemptible  or  cubbish ;    but   Pythag.  has  no  sug- 
gestion 
Concerning  whither  transmigrate  souls  noble  in  their 

nature, 
As  Homer,  Dante,  Shakespeare,  Schiller !    These  now, 

for  example, 
What   temple  can    be  found   for  such   appropriately 

ample  ? 
Where  lodge  they  now  ?      Not,  certes,  in  our  present 

ninny-hammers 
Who  mumble  rhymes  that  seem  to've  been  concocted 

by  their  grammars. 

Well,  then,  you  see,  it  comes  to  this  :  and  after  huge 
reflection 

Here's  what  I  say  !  A  soul  that  gains,  by  many  trans- 
migrations, 

The  summit,  apex,  pinnacle,  or  acme  of  perfection, 

There  ends,  concludes,  and  terminates  its  earthly  pere- 
grinations ; 

Then,  like  an  air-balloon,  it  mounts  thro'  high  Olym- 
pus' portals, 

And  cuts  its  old  connections  with  mortality  and 
mortals. 


66  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

And    evidence  to  back   me  here  I   don't    know  any 

stronger 
Than  that  the  Truly  Great   and  Good  are  found  on 

earth  no  longer  ! 

As  it  is  not  within  the  scope  of  this  book  to 
amass  Mangan's  comic  poetry,  we  may  cull 
here  perhaps,  in  passing,  three  more  character- 
istic samples  of  it,  the  last  of  which,  once  more, 
is  a  fantasia  on  the  jolly  German  Burscbenlied, 
which  Mangan  translated  in  conjunction  with 
Gustav  Schwab's  almost  equally  good  Rurscas 
Departure  from  College.  This  original  epigram 
celebrates  the  author's  personal  appearance. 

"  I,  once  plump  as  Shiraz'  grape, 
Am,  like  Thalhh  of  thin  renown, 
Grown  most  chasmy,  most  phantasmy, 
Yea,  most  razor-sharp  in  shape  ! 
Fact :   and  if  I'm  blown  thro'  town, 
I'll  cut  all  the  sumphs  who  pass  me." 

A    FAST    KEEPER 

My  friend,  Tom  Bentley,  borrowed  from  me  lately 

A  score  of  yellow  shiners.      Subsequently 

I  met  the  cove,  and  dunned  him  rather  gently. 

Immediately  he  stood  extremely  stately, 

And  swore  'pon  honor  that  he  wondered  greatly  ! 

We  parted  coolly.      "  Well,"  (exclaimed  I  ment'lly,) 


A    STUDY  67 

"  I  calculate  this  isn't  acting  straightly  : 

You're  what  slangwhangers  call  a  scamp,  Tom  Bent- 
ley  !  " 

In  sooth,  I  thought  his  impudence  prodigious, 

And  so  I  told  Jack  Spratt  a  few  days  after; 

But  Jack  burst  into  such  a  fit  of  laughter  ! 

"  Fact  is,"  said  he,  "  poor  Tom  has  turned  religious." 

I  stared,  and  asked  him  what  it  was  he  meant. 

u  Why,  don't  you  see  ?  "  quoth  Jack.  "  He  keeps  the 
Lent." 


THE    MAKING    OF    A   FRESHMAN 

Burschen. 

Very  good,  very  good  :   he  is  ripe  ! 

So  let  him  fill  up  a  pipe, 

So  let  him  fill  up  a  smokified  pipe, 

(Ho,  ho  ! 

A  smokified  pipe.) 
So  let  him  fill  up  a  mighty  old  pipe. 

Fuchs. 

Ugh  !   take  it  away  from  me  quick  ! 

Ugh,  hog-sties  !   it  makes  me  so  sick, 

Ugh,  hog-sties  !   it  makes  me  so  smokified  sick  ! 

(Ho,  ho! 

Dim  smokified  sick.) 
Ugh,  hog-sties  !   it  makes  me  so  mighty  old  sick  ! 

Burschen. 

Then  let  the  cub  sneak  to  his  den, 
And  let  him  not  smoke  it  again  ! 


68  JAMES   CLARENCE   MANGAN 

No,  let  him  not  smoke  with  us  smokified  men, 

(Ho,  ho  ! 

Dim  smokified  men.) 
And  let  him  not  smoke  with  us  mighty  old  men. 

Fucks. 

There,  now  !   .   .   .      I  am  rid  of  the  spell ; 
There,  now,  I  again  am  all  well ; 
There,  now  !   I  am  smokified  well : 

(Ho,  ho ! 

Am  smokified  well.) 
Hurrah  !   I  again  feel  mighty  old  well ! 

Omnes. 

So  grows  the  Wild  Fox  a  Bursch, 
So  grows  the  Wild  Fox  a  Bursch, 
So  grows  the  Wild  Fox  a  smokified  Bursch ! 

(Ho,  ho ! 

A  smokified  Bursch.) 
So  grows  the  Wild  Fox  a  mighty  old  Bursch  ! 

For  a  riotous  college-song  this  passes  mus- 
ter. (Innocent  Foxling,  never  to  have  smoked 
before  !  Or  was  there  an  unholiest  substance 
in  that  bowl  ?) 

VIII 

Mangan  had  not  been  given  for  nothing  his 
title  to  the  Erin  of  song.  He  atoned  to  the 
venerable  tongue  he  could  neither  speak  nor 


A    STUDY  69 

understand,  by  making  it  articulate  in  the  hear- 
ing of  the  invader.  Running  into  twilight 
fields  of  his  own,  as  was  his  wont,  he  dedicated 
exquisite  work,  albeit  a  trifle  schismatical,  to 
the  ancient  literature  of  his  country,  in  the  day 
of  its  last  splendid  but  brief  revival.  Several 
scholars,  among  them  the  great  Eugene  Curry 
of  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold's  admiration,  furnished 
Mangan,  toward  the  end  of  his  life,  with  literal 
drafts  in  English  of  the  many  ballads  taken 
down  from  the  lips  of  the  peasants,  which  he 
was  to  render  for  publisher  O'Daly  of  Anglesea 
Street  and  for  the  Gaelic  and  Archaeological 
societies  ;  and  within  these  outlines  he  built  up 
structures  not  untrue  to  their  first  design.  Mr. 
J.  H.  Ingram,  editing  Mangan's  twelve  poems 
for  the  third  volume  of  Mr.  Alfred  H.  Miles's 
collection,  Poets  of  the  Century,  and  basing  all 
his  facts,  if  not  his  judgments,  on  Mitchel, 
calls  these  renditions  from  the  Irish  "spirit- 
less." Some  persons  may  think  that  there  is 
a  breathless  grandeur  in  Mangan's  chanting 
of  the  hymn  of  Saint  Patrick,  At  Tarah  To-Day^ 
and  that  a  less  "spiritless"  thing  never  came 
into  being.  It  was  with  such  deep-mouthed 
apostrophes  that  he  was  best  fitted  to  cope. 
He  was  able  to  try  them  again  in  a  translation 
sacred  to  war,  as  the  other  is  sacred  to  Christian 
peace:  O'Hussefs  Ode  to  The  Maguire :  rude 


70  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

heroic  strophes  bursting  from  the  heart  of  the 
last  hereditary  bard  of  the  great  sept  of  Fer- 
managh, as  late  as  the  reign  of  Charles  the  First, 
while  the  courtly  lyres  of  England  were  tink- 
ling a  cannon-shot  away.  Quite  as  good  as 
these,  in  its  province,  is  the  sarcastic  rattle  of 
The  Woman  of  Three  Cows.  My  Dark  Rosaleen 
is  worth  them  all,  "  on  a  pinnacle  apart."  It  was 
written  by  a  worthy  contemporary  of  Shake- 
speare, an  unknown  minstrel  of  the  Tyrcon- 
nell  chief,  Aodh  Na  Domhnaill  (Hugh  Roe, 
or  the  Red,  O'Donnell),  who  put  upon  the 
lips  of  his  lord,  as  addressed  to  Ireland,  the 
love-name  of  "  Roisin  Dubh,"  the  Black- 
Haired  Little  Rose.  More  exact  versions  of 
this  symbolic  masterpiece  have  since  been 
made,  but  the  stormy  beauty  of  Mangan's  lines 
does  away  with  considerations  of  law  and  order. 
From  an  extract  such  as  "  Over  hills  and  hol- 
lows I  have  travelled  for  you,  Roisin  Dubh ! 
and  crossed  Loch  Erne  in  a  strong  wind  ;  far 
would  I  go  to  serve  my  flower ;  .  .  .  but  the 
mountains  shall  be  valleys  and  the  rivers  flow- 
ing backward  before  I  shall  let  harm  befall  my 
Roisin  Dubh,"  the  poet  draws  the  second, 
fifth,  and  last  stanzas  of  his  noble  seven,  the 
fifth  of  these,  the  passage  about  "  holy  delicate 
white  hands,"  being  a  pure  gratuity,  like  a 
foam-ball  on  the  stream. 


A    STUDY  71 

Since  My  Dark  Rosaken  is  perfect,  its  genesis 
cannot  be  uninteresting.  The  original  literal 
English  of  it  is  to  be  found  in  the  Egerton 
MSS.  in  the  British  Museum.  The  song  (it 
was,  rather,  a  group  of  traditional  songs)  fig- 
ures in  James  Hardiman's  Irish  Minstrelsy,  or 
Bardic  Remains  of  Ireland  (1831).  Hardiman's 
translators,  Messrs.  Dalton,  Furlong,  Curran, 
and  others,  were  learned  gentlemen  of  much 
disinterestedness,  giving  their  leisure  to  the 
work,  who  yet  felt  it  necessary  to  condone, 
quite  as  if  they  belonged  to  the  eighteenth 
century,  the  "  barbarity "  of  the  antique 
phrases,  and  to  foist  upon  them  modern 
smoothness  and  circumlocution.  Roisin  Dubb 
may  or  may  not  be,  as  has  been  claimed  for  it 
also,  a  personal  and  passionate  old  love-song. 
(To  the  peasantry  of  to-day  it  is  that  only.) 
The  opening  and  the  close  seem  to  bear  out 
strongly  the  theory  held  by  most  scholars, 
that  it  is  the  allegory  of  proscribed  patriots, 
who  dared  not  directly  address  their  unhappy 
country.  During  this  war  of  the  northern 
clans  against  Elizabeth,  as  during  the  Jacobite 
insurrections,  Ireland  was,  as  the  gallant  song 
has  it  of  the  MacGregors,  "  nameless  by  day." 
The  allusions  to  Rome  and  Spain  refer  to  aid 
promised  from  both  quarters.  The  unadulter- 
ated "  prose  poem  "  follows,  in  full  :  — 


72  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

0  rosebud,  let  there  not  be  sorrow  on  you  on  account 

of  what  happened  you  ! 
The   friars    are   coming  over  the    sea,  and    they   are 

moving  on  the  ocean  ; 
Your    pardon   will    come    from    the    Pope    and   from 

Rome  in  the  east, 
And  spare  not  the  Spanish  wine  on  my  Roisin  Dubh. 

The  course   is   long  over  which    I    brought  you  from 

yesterday  to  this  day. 
Over   mountains   I   went  with    you,   and    under    sails 

across  the  sea; 

The  Erne  I  passed  at  a  bound,  though  great  the  flood, 
And  there  was  music  of  strings   on   each   side  of  me 

and  my  Roisin  Dubh. 

You  have  killed  me,  my  fair  one,  and  may  you  suffer 

dearly  for  it  ! 
And    my   soul   within    is    in    love   for    you,  and    that 

neither  of  yesterday  nor  to-dav  ; 

You  left  me  weak  and  feeble  in  aspect  and  in  form  ; 
Do   not  discard  me,  and  I  pining  for   you,  my  Roisin 

Dubh  ! 

1  would  walk  the  dew  with  you,  and  the  desert  of  the 

plains, 
In  hope  that  I  would  obtain  love  from  you,  or  part  of 

my  desire. 
Fragrant    little    mouth  !    you    have    promised    me   that 

you  had  love  for  me  : 
And  she    is    the    flower   of   Munster,    she,  my    Roisin 

Dubh. 


A    STUDY  73 

0  smooth  rose  !   modest,  of  the  round  white  breasts, 
You  are  she  that   left   a  thousand  pains   in   the  very 

centre  of  my  heart. 

Fly  with  me,  O  first  love !   and  leave  the  country  : 
And  if  I  could,  would   I  not  make  a  queen  of  you, 

my  Roisin  Dubh  ? 

If  I  had  a  plough,  I  would  plough  against  the  hills, 
And  I  would   make  the  gospel  in  the  middle  of  the 
Mass  for  my  Black  Rosebud  : 

1  would  give  a  kiss  to  the  young  girl  that  would  give 

her  youth  to  me, 

And  I  would   make  delights  behind  the  fort  with   my 
Roisin  Dubh. 

The  Erne  shall  be  in   its  strong  flood,  the  hills  shall 

be  uptorn, 
And  the  sea  shall   have  its  waves  red,  and  blood  shall 

be  spilled  ; 
Every   mountain-valley   and    every   moor    throughout 

Ireland  shall  be  on  high, 
Some  day,  before  you  shall  perish,  my  Roisin  Dubh. 

No  fewer  than  three  times  did  Mangan  try 
his  hand  at  this  truly  bardic  fragment.  The 
first  experiment  was  a  happy  one :  yet  our 
skilled  reviser  was  not  satisfied  with  it. 

Since  last  night's  star,  afar,  afar, 
Heaven  saw  my  speed  ; 


74  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

I  seemed  to  fly  o'er  mountains  high 

On  magic  steed. 

I  dashed  thro'  Erne !     The  world  may  learn 

The  cause  from  love : 

For  light  or  sun  shone  on  me  none, 

But  Roisin  Dubh. 


O  Roisin  mine,  droop  not,  nor  pine  ; 

Look  not  so  dull ! 

The  Pope  from  Rome  shall  send  thee  home 

A  pardon  full ; 

The  priests  are  near :   O  do  not  fear  ! 

From  heaven  above 

They  come  to  thee,  they  come  to  free 

My  Roisin  Dubh. 


Thee  have  I  loved,  for  thee  have  roved 

O'er  land  and  sea ; 

My  heart  was  sore,  and  evermore 

It  beat  for  thee  ; 

I  could  not  weep,  I  could  not  sleep, 

I  could  not  move  ! 

For  night  or  day  I  dreamed  alway 

Of  Roisin  Dubh. 


Thro'  Munster  land,  by  shore  and  strand, 

Far  could  I  roam, 

If  I  might  get  my  loved  one  yet, 

And  brinu;  her  home  : 


A    STUDY  75 

O  sweetest  flower  that  blooms  in  bower, 
Or  dell,  or  grove  ! 
Thou  lovest  me,  and  I  love  thee, 
My  Roisin  Dubh. 

The  sea  shall  burn,  the  earth  shall  mourn, 

The  skies  rain  blood, 

The  world  shall  rise  in  dread  surprise 

And  warful  mood, 

And  hill  and  lake  in  Eire  shake 

And  hawk  turn  dove, 

Ere  you  shall  pine,  ere  you  decline, 

My  Roisin  Dubh  ! 

Accordingly,  we  find  a  second  version  by 
Mangan  in  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Munster 
from  which  we  take  the  four  last  verses  :  — 

In  years  gone  by,  how  you  and  I   seemed  glad   and 

blest  : 
My  wedded   wife,  you  cheered   my  life,  you   warmed 

my  breast  ! 

The  fairest  one  the  living  sun  e'er  decked  with  sheen, 
The    brightest    rose    that    buds    or    blows,    is    Dark 

Roisin. 

My  guiding  star  of  hope  you  are,  all  glow  and  grace, 
My    blooming    love,   my    spouse    above    all    Adam's 

race  : 
In   deed    or  thought    vou  cherish    naught   of   low  or 

O  ./  O 

mean  ; 
The  base  alone  can  hate  my  own,  my  Dark  Roisin. 


76  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

O  never  mourn  as  one  forlorn,  but  bide  your  hour ; 
Your  friends  ere  long,  combined  and  strong,  will  prove 

their  power. 
From  distant  Spain  will   sail   a  train   to  change  the 

scene 
That   makes   you  sad,  for  one   more  glad,  my  Dark 

Roisin. 

Till  then,  adieu,  my  fond  and  true,  adieu  till  then  ! 
Tho'  now  you  grieve,  still,  still  believe  we'll    meet 

again  ; 
I'll  yet  return  with  hopes  that  burn,  and  broadsword 

keen  : 
Fear    not,  nor    think   you   e'er   can    sink,  my    Dark 

Roisin  ! 

The  theme  had  taken  hold  of  Mangan's  im- 
agination. Last  of  all,  in  1 845  or  after,  with  the 
right  mood  of  selection  upon  him,  and  with 
the  warm  consciousness  at  heart  of  the  docility 
of  the  one  style  he  had  made  his  own,  the 
poet  fused  together  the  best  in  the  Roisin 
ballads,  and  broke  into  the  inebriating  music  of 
My  Dark  Rosaleen. 

It  is,  let  us  say,  the  most  original  of  them 
all.  The  manner,  too,  is  all  Mangan's;  its 
noteworthiest  feature  being  the  rich  recurrence 
of  words  and  lines  for  which  Roisin  Dubb  gives 
no  warrant,  and  to  whose  examination  we  shall 
return  when  we  come  to  speak  of  Poe.  Be- 


A    STUDY  77 

tween  My  Dark  Rosaleen  and  the  preceding 
lyrics  made  from  Roisin  Dubh  by  the  same  hand, 
is  a  difference  :  all  the  difference  there  can  be 
between  things  cunningly  wrought,  and  the  thing 
divinely  inspired. 

Of  this  translation,  and  of  two  or  three 
others  from  a  kindred  source,  Mr.  Maurice 
Leyne  wrote  in  a  supplement  to  The  Nation^ 
long  ago:  "Their  beauty  can  scarcely  be  exag- 
gerated. To  compare  with  them  any  actual 
remains  which  we  have  of  the  Jacobite  poetry 
would  be  extravagant.  They  are  what  an  Irish 
bard  might  have  written  if  to  the  deep  vague 
love  of  country,  the  longing,  the  dreaminess, 
the  allegoric  expressions  of  his  art,  were  added 
all  that  modern  culture  can  give  of  distinct- 
ness of  feeling  and  sequence  of  idea.  We  have 
other  poets  who  have  caught  with  wonderful 
fidelity  and  felicity  the  Gaelic  turns  of  thought 
and  the  structure  of  the  language  ;  but  in  Man- 
gan  the  very  Gaelic  heart  seems  poured  out." 
Mangan,  however,  was  not  always  a  successful 
conductor  of  sounds  reaching  him  obliquely, 
through  the  stout  persons  ot  Irish  scholars. 
Certain  numbers,  such  as  O '  Hussey 's  Ode,  and 
Prince  Aldfrid*  s  Itinerary,  are  modelled,  with 
the  most  astonishing  closeness,  on  faithful  un- 
rhymed  renditions  in  The  Penny  Journal  (1832) 
and  The  University  Magazine  (1834).  But  no 


78  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

critic  can  set  Mangan's  flat  and  passionless 
Eileen  Aroon  beside  the  wonderful  strain  of 
Carroll  O'Daly,  or  prefer  The  Fair  Hills  of 
Eire,  O,  charming  as  that  is,  to  Sir  Samuel 
Fergusson's 

"  A  plenteous  place  is  Ireland  for  hospitable  cheer," 

which  has  the  advantage,  in  this  instance,  of 
greater  literalness.  And  comparison  is  least 
possible  between  the  two  native  translators, 
when  it  comes  to  the  Boatman's  Hymn,  yet  sung, 
in  vernacular  snatches,  off  the  wild  western 
coast.  Not  only  is  the  Fergusson  version  a 
hundred-fold  more  pleasing,  but  it  is,  in  equal 
measure,  more  Gaelic.  It  rushes  along  like 
the  wind  scooping  the  dusky  Kerry  sails. 

"Bark  that  bears  me  thro'  foam  and  squall! 
'Tis  you  in  the  storm  are  my  castle  wall. 
Tho'  the  sea  should  redden  from  bottom  to  top, 
From  tiller  to  mast  she  takes  no  drop. 
On  the  tide-top,  the  tide-top, 
Wherry  aroon,  my  land  and  store  ! 
On  the  tide-top,  the  tide-top, 
She  is  the  boat  can  sail  go  tear." 

How  does  Mangan  start  off  with  this  finest  of 
open-air  themes  ? 

"  O  my  gallant,  gallant  bark  ! 
Oft,  a  many  a  day,  and  oft 


A    STUDY  79 

When  the  stormy  skies  above  are  dark, 

And  the  surges  foam  aloft, 

Dost  thou  ride 

In  thy  pride 

O'er  the  swelling  bosom  of  the  sea; 

Tho'  lightning  flash 

And  thunder  crash, 

Still,  my  royal  bark,  they  daunt  not  thee. 

Yeo-ho,  yeo-ho  ! 

The  bar  is  full,  the  tide  runs  high. 

So  !   ready  hand,  and  steady  eye, 

And  merrily  we  go." 

And  at  the  close,  in  the  apostrophe  to  the 
Atlantic  crag  (which  one  poet  salutes  as 

"  Whillan  ahoy  !   old  heart  of  stone," 
and  the  other,  more  suo,  as 

"Dark  Dalan,  colossal  cliff,") 

as  well  as  in  the  whimsical  outcry  of  the  fisher- 
men terrified  at  the  speed  of"  Wherry  aroon" 
it  is  easy  to  decide  which  translator  attains  to 
the  sailor-like  and  singable,  and  which  remains 
merely  literary.  I  cannot  think  that  Sir  Sam- 
uel Fergusson  ever  yielded,  in  power  of  in- 
terpretation, to  Mangan,  in  any  single  case 
where  they  chose  to  handle  the  same  origi- 
nals. Despite  it,  we  have  not  from  him,  nor 
could  we  have  had,  a  Dark  Rosaleen.  Mr. 


80  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Maurice  Leyne,  in  the  illuminating  article 
quoted  a  moment  ago,  speaks  of  Mangan's 
as  a  typically  Irish  temperament  :  "  a  tem- 
perament," according  to  another  sociologist, 
"  which  makes  both  men  and  nations  feeble 
in  adversity,  and  great,  gay,  and  generous  in 
prosperity."  Is  he  so  generic  ?  It  is  impos- 
sible to  think  of  any  class  or  race  of  Mangans. 
Like  Swaran  in  Ossian,  he  "  brings  his  own 
dark  wing,"  whereas  some  readers  have  asked 
for  references,  antecedents,  certificates.  Or  per- 
haps, to  say  that  such  a  one  is  Celtic,  is  to  put 
him  back  among  the  indescribables.  One  Wil- 
son, a  phrenologist,  made  in  the  February  of 
1835  a  professional  examination  of  Mangan's 
beautifully-shaped  head,  with  this  recorded  re- 
sult. "  Constructiveness  is  hardly  developed  at 
all ;  on  which  account  he  would  not  have  a 
genius  for  mechanism  or  invention  generally, 
but  he  would  possess  the  power  of  magnifying, 
embellishing,  and  beautifying  in  the  highest  de- 
gree. A  tendency  to  exaggerate  and  amplify 
would  pervade  whatever  he  undertook."  Here 
we  have,  disguised  as  a  communication  from 
the  physical  sciences,  a  remarkable  bit  of  lit- 
erary criticism.  The  verdict  is  perfectly  true, 
though  opium  had  helped  to  make  it  so. 
Mangan  was  not  least  Irish  ("Oriental"  Irish) 
in  this,  that  he  loved  expansions  and  dilutions, 


A    STUDY  8 i 

and  could  not  forbear  yoking  quantity  with 
quality.  A  hypochondriac  too  odd  to  be  sus- 
ceptible of  classification,  he  is 

— u  like  almost  anything, 
Or  a  yellow  albatross  !  " 

And  eccentricity  itself  is  a  purely  Celtic  prop- 
erty. Strange  that  his  genius  is  happier  on 
Saxon  than  on  Celtic  ground! 

IX 

Mangan's  chief  passion  was  for  the  Ger- 
mans, then  in  their  aesthetic  flowering-time  ;  he 
herded  by  instinct  with  these  contemporaries 
best  fitted  to  be  his  guides  and  friends.  Con- 
stant immersion  in  the  strong  stream  of  their 
thought  (for  he  read  endless  German  metaphys- 
ics as  well  as  German  poetry),  colored  his  intel- 
lectual life.  He  knew  no  stronger  influence. 
"  Meines  Herz  Ricbter"  he  calls  John  Paul. 
Mangan's  only  book  published  during  his  life- 
time was  the  Anthologia  Germanica,  which,  hav- 
ing run  its  course  in  a  magazine,  was  printed 
(without  its  prose  passages)  at  Gavan  Duffy's 
expense,  in  1845.  Some  of  the  lyrics  included 
have  a  transmitted  truthfulness,  as  of  a  ray 
through  clear  glass.  Even  Schiller's  great  note 
is  echoed,  now  and  then,  with  absolute  iner- 


82  JAMES   CLARENCE   MANGAN 

rancy.  There  are  few  finer  illustrations  of 
aural  sensitiveness  in  a  translator  than  Mangan 
gives  us  in  the  eleventh  and  twelfth  stanzas 
of  Der  Gang  nach  dem  Eisenhammer  (The  Message 
to  the  Foundry}. 

Da  ritt  in  seines  Zornes  Wut 

Der  Graf  ins  nahe  Holz, 

Wo  ihm  in  hoher  Oefen  Glut 

Die  Eisenstufe  schmolz. 

Hier  nahrten  friih  und  spat  den  Brand 

Die  Knechte  mit  geschaft'ger  Hand  ; 

Der  Funke  spriiht,  die  Biilge  blasen, 

Als  gait'  es,  Felsen  zu  verglasen. 

Des  Wassers  und  des  Feuers  Kraft 

Verbiindet  sieht  man  hier  ; 

Das  Miihlrad,  von  der  Flut  gcrafft, 

Umwalzt  sich  fur  und  fur. 

Die  Werke  klappern  Nacht  und  Tag, 

Im  Lakte  pocht  der  Hammer  Schlag, 

Und  bildsam  von  den  ma'cht'  gen  Streichen, 

Muss  selbst  das  Eisen  sich  erweichen. 


At  once  into  a  neighboring  wood 
The  Count  in  frenzy  rode, 
Wherein  an  iron  foundry  stood 
Whose  furnace  redly  glowed. 
Here,  late  and  early,  swinking  hands 
Fed  volumed  flame  and  blazing  brands, 
While  sparkles  flew  and  bellows  roared, 
And  molten  ore  in  billows  poured. 


A   STUDY  83 

Here  waves  on  waves,  fires  hot  and  hotter, 
In  raging  strength  were  found ; 
Huge  mill-wheels,  turned  by  foaming  water, 
Clanged,  clattering,  round  and  round. 
Harsh  engines  brattled  night  and  day ; 
The  thunderous  hammer  stunned  alway 
With  sledgeblows  blended,  which  descended 
Till  even  the  stubborn  iron  bended. 

The  Maid  of  Orleans  finds  its  very  self  again 
in  Mangan's  English;  so  does  The  Fisher; 
Riickert's  enchanting  Das  Eine  Lied  (Nature 
More  than  Science],  LJhland's  Lebe  wohly  lebe 
wobl,  mein  Lieb,  and  Alexander  and  the  Tree: 
these  wed  literalness  to  beauty,  in  their  own 
established  metre.  Half  a  dozen  times,  he  so 
touches  the  achievement  set  before  him  ;  nay, 
rivals  it,  as  he  certainly  does  in  the  magical 
simile  about  "  the  piping  notes  of  the  coppice 
bird,"  closely  inwrought  with  Kerner's  song  of 
praise  to  Uhland  for  his  book  :  a  song  really  as 
fresh  and  rushing  in  Mangan  as  in  the  original, 
and  far  more  prodigal  of  music.  Many  pages 
are  simple,  spontaneous,  choice.  But  when  all 
is  said,  the  Anthologia  is  a  kaleidoscope,  rather 
than  a  mirror.  The  majority  of  these  German 
poems,  being  what  the  Irish  ones  are  not,  the 
children  of  conventional  art,  suffer  more  from 
Mangan's  swervings  and  strayings.  He  treats 
his  great  victims  pretty  much  as  Burns,  with 


84  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

every  justification,  treats  the  floating  Scotch 
ballads  :  he  adjusts,  he  reverses ;  into  his  old 
material  he  infuses  a  novel  substance.  In 
scarcely  any  instance  is  he  content  to  keep  a 
poem's  given  title  ;  and  upon  it  he  can  foist 
foreign  matter,  with  an  almost  criminal  restless- 
ness. If  he  need  not  confess,  with  the  Sir 
E B L of  Bon  Gaultier :  — 

"I've  hawked  at  Schiller  on  his  lyric  throne, 
And  given  the  astonished  bard  a  meaning  all  my  own," 

at  least  he  may  well  be  pardoned  for  his  all- 
too-generous  doings  elsewhere :  for  Clarence 
Mangan  seldom  detracts  from  the  Muse  he  pro- 
fesses to  follow  ;  his  unfaithfulness  is  in  quite 
another  category.  Having  satisfied  you  with 
what  exquisite  attentiveness  he  can  follow  his 
exemplars,  he  hastens  to  show  how  variously, 
how  cunningly,  and  how  effectually  he  can  run 
away  from  them.  The  single  tact  of  his  hav- 
ing transformed  the  hard-hearted  Kunegund 
of  Die  Begrussung  auf  dem  K\nast  (The  Ride 
Around  the  Parapet},  into  the  Lady  Eleanora 
von  Alleyne,  trumpeting  her  to  and  fro  with 
splendid  corroborations,  is  indicative  enough  of 
his  habits.  Mangan  takes  under  protest,  though 
his  endeavor  is  always  to  make  you  think  him 
a  great  assimilator  and  economist ;  but  he  is  a 
prodigal  giver.  He  hates  the  niggardly  hand, 


A    STUDY  85 

as  much  as  Horace  does,  and  he  cares  not  a 
straw  how  much  of  himself  he  throws  away  at 
his  game  of  setting  up  a  poet  in  whom  he  has 
no  special  interest,  and  who  is  often  his  inferior.* 
This  is,  indeed,  as  a  severe  reviewer  named  it 
at  the  time,  a  "  vicious  system  "  ;  and  it  cannot 
be  justified  by  the  undeniable  fact  that  Mangan 
imports  into  his  subject  an  illicit  beauty.  The 
Germans  who  had  most  verbal  compression, 
who  are  most  set  upon  a  calm  statement  of 
things,  are  those  who  suffer  most  from  Man- 

O     J 

gan's  exuberant  hullabaloo.  Yet  sometimes  in 
himself,  when  he  is  improvising,  and  does  not 
feel  bound  to  keep  step  for  step,  is  a  compres- 
sion very  remarkable,  and  a  calm  more  pro- 
found than  their  own. 

The  best  known,  and  certainly  the  loveliest, 
of  his  shorter  German  translations  is  Ruckert's 
ghazel,  Und  dann  nicbt  Mebr.  Even  here, 

D 

where  he  keeps,  physically,  rather  close  to  his 
pensive  model,  he  adds  metaphor  after  meta- 
phor, many  a  lyrical  wail,  and  a  heart-stopping 
pathos  all  unwarranted  and  new  ;  he  seems  to 
blight  and  then  revivifv  everything  he  touches. 

O  f  *  J  O 

Scores  of  times,  as  in  Wetzel's  Sebnsucbt,  itself 
very  like  Mignon's  immortal  song  of  the  far-off 
land  and  of  the  spiritual  longing  to  turn  thither, 
Mangan  deliberately  transposes  and  vanes  his 
theme.  He  matches  Wetzel's  graceful  eight 


86  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

lines  with  twenty-five  of  his  own,  melodiously 
overlapping,  and  of  extraordinary  sweetness,  in 
which 

"Morn  and  eve  a  star  invites  me, 
One  imploring  silver  star, 
Wooes  me,  calls  me,  lures  me,  lights  me, 
To  the  desert  deeps  afar," 

with  a  persistence  remote  as  the  "  imploring 
star"  itself  from  good  Wetzel's  imagination. 
Still  more  transformed  are  the  wild  and  mov- 
ing measures  of  The  Last  Words  of  Al  Has- 
san,  which  purport  to  belong  to  "  one  Heyden, 
a  name  unfamiliar  to  our  ears,"  and  to  be 
found  in  Wolff's  Hausscbatz,  "  the  repertory 
of  an  incredible  quantity  of  middling  poetry." 
Mark  the  artful  depreciation  of  the  German 
volume,  as  if  to  fright  a  possible  speculator 
in  Manganese !  If  any  one  hungers  for  a 
thorough  insight  into  Mangan's  method,  he 
cannot  do  better  than  to  open  the  bulky 
flausschat'z  (in  all  of  whose  editions,  however, 
Hassan,  by  Friedrich  August  von  Heyden, 
does  not  figure),  and  read  over  the  six  stanzas 
of  stout  commonplace  which  contain  the 
straightforward  remarks  of  a  worsted  Bedouin. 
Not  a  reference  in  them  does  Mangan  repro- 
duce, except  the  profaned  Kaaba,  the  "  black- 
ringleted "  unfaithful  mistress,  the  desert  wind. 


A    STUDY  87 

He  throws  away  Heyden's  deserted  tents,  the 
captive  women,  the  wounded  and  weary  horses, 
the  scattered  sheep  and  shepherd :  all  the 
imagery  of  war  and  defeat  which  carry  out  a 
pictorial  and  romantic  tradition.  What  he 
substitutes  is  so  utterly  alien  to  these  that  no 
human  being  could  refer  it  to  Heyden's  Hassan 
at  all,  unless  Mangan  had  chosen  to  indicate 
the  source  of  his  inspiration.  Heyden  ends  :  — 

"Nimm  bin  dies  letze  Griisscn. 
Was  kam  hat  kommen  mussen: 
Nur  Allah's  Macht  besteht ; 
Gelobt  sei  der  Prophet !  " 

This  is  worth  while  being  considered  as  the 
sub-structure  of 

"The  wasted  moon  has  a  marvellous  look 
Amiddle  of  the  starry  hordes  ; 
The  heavens,  too,  shine  like  a  mystic  book 
All  bright  with  burning  words  ; 
The  mists  of  the  dawn  begin  to  dislimn 
Zahara's  castle  of  sand  : 
Farewell,  farewell  !      Mine  eyes  feel  dim, 
They  turn  to  the  lampless  land, 
'Llah  Hu! 

My  heart  is  weary,  mine  eves  arc  dim  ; 
I  will  rest  in  the  dark,  dark  land." 

Mangan's  Hassan,  moreover,  is  richly  em- 
broidered with  geographical  detail.  He  had  a 


JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 


fine  sense  for  the  uses  of  proper  names,  and 
displayed  vague  attractions  for  the  region  after- 
wards surveyed  by  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold, 
whose  yellow  Oxus  and  star-lighted  Aral  Sea 
no  reader  of  this  generation  is  likely  to  forget. 
But  aKpifitia,  unerring  nicety  founded  on  fore- 
thought and  research,  was  not  among  Mangan's 
natural  virtues.  He  invents  neighborhoods 
and  coasts ;  he  couples  cheerfully  towns  two 
thousand  miles  apart,  and  even  reaches  over 
into  another  continent  for  a  gem  of  a  substan- 
tive to  deck  his  languorous  Asian  lines.  But 
poetry,  after  all,  is  so  much  finer  than  gazet- 
teers !  he  seems  to  insinuate. 

The  truth  is,  Clarence  Mangan  is  no  trans- 
lator at  all.  He  is  dominated  by  his  own  gen- 
uine erratic  force,  which  throve  under  evil 
conditions,  and  had  no  clear  outlet ;  and  he 
cannot  contain  the  ebullition  of  his  natural 
speech  even  in  the  majestic  presence  of  Goethe. 
His  mind  is  not  serviceable ;  he  can  give  an 
able  and  courteous  co-operation  only  when  the 
demigod  chances  to  agree  with  his  native  fire. 
The  most  striking  internal  evidence  that  he 

O 

had  not  in  him  the  first  instinct  of  the  transla- 
tor, is  that  he  approaches  Heine  (whose  abrupt 
beauty,  if  indeed  it  be  conveyable  at  all,  Man- 
gan in  his  trustier  mood  was  curiously  well 
fitted  to  convey  into  English),  in  order  to 


A    STUDY  89 

appraise  him  as  "  darkly  diabolical,"  and  to 
deplore  his  "  melancholy  misdirection  of  glori- 
ous faculties."  As  it  was,  Mangan  wasted  on 
the  dreams  of  anybody  else  the  time  he  was 
forbidden  to  devote  to  the  inspirations  of  his 
own  brain.  It  was  his  misfortune,  his  punish- 
ment also,  that  with  the  early  loss  of  enthusi- 
asm, and  "  that  true  tranquil  perception  of  the 
beautiful,"  which,  as  he  himself  feelingly  says 
of  an  elder  writer,  "  a  life  led  according  to  the 
rules  of  the  divine  law  alone  can  confer  on 
man,"  there  came  an  autumnal  decadence :  a 
sinking  from  the  exercise  of  the  creative  faculty 
to  that  of  the  critical  ;  a  relinquishment  of  the 
highest  intellectual  mood,  which  was  his  birth- 
right, for  that  of  the  spectator,  the  sceptic,  the 
jaded  philosopher.  He  recanted  his  belief  in 
his  own  powers,  and  having  done  that,  he  held 
a  false  but  consistent  way.  The  things  he 
accomplished  in  literature  have  the  look  of  acci- 
dents and  commentaries,  as  he  wished  ;  the  pride 
of  his  whole  shadowed  career  was  to  figure  in  a 
mask  unworthy  of  him.  In  such  a  spirit  of 
evasion  he  took  to  his  inexplicable  trade  of 
translating:  accepting  a  suggestion,  and  scorn- 
fully elaborating;  it,  or  ironically  referring  to 
the  gardens  of  Ispahan  his  own  roses,  whose 
color  seemed  too  startling  for  the  banks  of  the 
Liffey. 


90  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

X 

The  question  of  Mangan's  Oriental  "  trans- 
lations "  is  one  of  keen  interest.  He  is  not 
known  to  lovers  of  poetry,  because  he  played 
tricks  masterly  as  any  of  Chatterton's,  and  be- 
cause, unfortunately  for  the  vindication  of  his 
genius,  his  tricks  have  never  been  discovered 
and  explained,  when  they  were  suspected  ;  and 
some  who  have  written  of  him  have  left  it  to 
be  inferred  that  he  was  more  of  a  wiseacre, 
and  less  of  an  organic  force,  than  he  was.  His 
obliging  labor  of  transposing  the  Welsh,  Da- 
nish, Frisian,  Swedish,  Russian,  and  Bohemian 
(for  he  solemnly  pretends  to  deal  in  all  of 
these)  is  pure  blague.  If  Mangan  had  had  the 
polyglot  acquirements  of  his  adored  Maginn 
and  of  Father  Prout,  he  would  have  rivalled 
their  gigantic  jokes  on  the  general  reader. 
Latin  and  three  of  the  current  European 
tongues  he  knew,  though  not  with  equal 
thoroughness,  and  he  quoted  Greek,  possibly 
at  first  hand.  He  had  exceptional  opportuni- 
ties, in  the  library  of  Trinity,  for  linguistic 
study,  and  once  went  out  of  his  way  to  bear 
witness  that  our  own  tongue  is  nobler  than 
them  all  ;  but  it  seems  plain  that  he  was  no 
better  versed  in  the  eldest  literatures  than  in 
Gaelic.  He  was  not,  of  course,  absolutely 


A    STUDY  91 

ignorant  of  their  .nature.  In  an  elegy  on 
Sarsfield,  put  into  English,  Mangan  singled  out 
two  lines  of  primitive  vehemence  touching  the 
slain  Jacobite  general,  Jerome  ;  and  after  giv- 
ing the  original  Irish  in  a  footnote,  he  adds  : 
"  This  is  one  of  those  peculiarly  powerful 
forms  of  expression  to  which  I  find  no  parallel 
except  in  the  Arabic  language."  So  that  he 
would,  presumably,  have  us  believe  he  knew 
what  Arabic  was  made  of,  even  if  he  could  not 
parse  it.  In  this  same  spirit,  he  once  gravely 
contradicted  the  dean  of  Orientalists,  Sir  Will- 
iam Jones.  And  again,  in  the  course  of  a 
contemptuous  review  in  The  Dublin  University 
Magazine  for  March,  1838,  he  breaks  off  with 
-—  "  Enough  of  so  ungracious  a  theme."  (The 
theme  is  Hammer- Purgstall's  Turkish  Poetry.} 
"  We  must  see  whether  it  be  not  practicable  to 
exhibit  the  Ottoman  Muse  in  apparel  some- 
what more  attractive  than  that  which  decorates 
her  here  !  "  The  Schlegels,  .Herder,  Ruckert, 
and  others  whom  Mangan  read,  were  full  of 
Oriental  influences,  direct  or  indirect.  He  was 
a  voracious  student  of  De  Sacy  and  Galland,  of 
Fundgruben  des  Orients,  and  of  d'Herbelot's  Ori- 
ental Catalogue.  During  the  earlier  half  of  the 
century,  the  eyes  of  scholars  were  turned  often 
to  the  East.  By  1830  there  was  enough  of  it 
reflected  in  German  letters,  enough  even  in 


92  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

the  spurious  bulbuls  of  Lalla  Rookb,  to  supply 
a  man  of  nimble  apprehension  like  Mangan, 

—  "sagacious  of  his  quarry  from  afar," 

with  his  personal  visions.  He  expressly  states 
somewhere  that  he  dislikes  the  Orientals  for 
their  mysticism.  Meanwhile,  on  a  fine  mys- 
tical principle,  he  approximates  them,  he  has 
sympathies  with  them.  He  has  all  the  sense 
of  awe  and  horror,  the  joy  in  action  and  the 
memory  of  action,  the  bright  fatalism,  of  a 
Mussulman.  Whenever  he  puts  on  a  turban, 
natural  to  him  as  was  the  himation  to  Keats, 
mischief  is  afoot.  He  did  not  wear  it  "  for 
the  grandeur  of  the  thing,"  like  a  greater  poet, 
poor  Collins,  who,  in  his  last  days,  confessed 
to  the  Wartons  his  suspicion  that  his  Oriental 
Eclogues  were,  rather,  his  Irish  Eclogues. 
"  Translation's  so  feasible  !  "  Mangan  exclaims 
in  a  jolly  passage  wherein  he  blames  other 
bards  who  do  not  dedicate  themselves,  for  the 
hungry  public's  sake,  to  that  excellent  diver- 
sion. Lamb  himself  had  no  more  fun  out  of 
Ritson  and  juhn  Scott  the  Quaker,  than  Man- 
gan has  out  of  his  poems  by  Selber,  with  notes 
by  Dr.  Berri  Abel  Hummer.  The  nomenclat- 
ure of  some  of  his  puppets  is  quite  too  danng. 
Berri  Abel,  Ben  Daood,  and  Bham-Booz-eel 
are  bad  enough,  but  Baugtrauter  is  notorious. 


A    STUDY  93 

He  declared  continually  that  his  "  translations  " 
were  not  rigidly  exact,  or  he  refused  altogether 
to  gratify  the  curiosity  of  his  audience.  "  It  is 
the  course  that  liberal  feeling  dictates,''  he  says, 
with  a  strict  humor  worthy  of  Newman,  "  to  let 
them  suppose  what  they  like."  And  all  the 
time  he  is  enriching  them  and  cheating  himself, 
adorning  the  annals  of  reversed  forgery,  and 
cutting  off  from  the  circulation  of  his  mother- 
tongue  some  of  its  most  original  accents.  He 
produced  several  Ottoman  "  proverbs,"  in  the 
September  of  1837,  which  are  the  everyday 
saws  of  our  western  civilization  served  with 
spice.  Reduced  to  their  lowest  terms,  these 
mystical  mouthings  grin  at  one  like  a  bottled 
imp.  "  Speech  is  Silver,  but  Silence  is 
Golden,"  they  say  ;  "  Enough  is  as  good  as  a 
Feast";  "The  Pot  calls  the  Kettle  Black"; 
"  A  Bird  in  the  Hand  is  Worth  Two  in  the 
Bush  "  !  Mangan  took  tremendous  delight  in 
throwing  dust  in  devoted  eyes.  It  is  within 
reason  that  in  his  roaring  stanzas  dedicated  To 
the  Ingleeze  Khafir^  Djaun  Bool  Djenkinzun, 
the  dear  and  dunderheaded  gentleman  ad- 
dressed might  miss  the  point  altogether.  It 
would  not  be  so  conceivable  that  he  hood- 
winked also  the  Trinity  Fellows  at  his  elbow, 
were  it  not  for  two  considerations.  In  the 
first  place,  nobody  was  especially  well  ac- 


94  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

quainted  with  him ;  he  was  intangible.  As 
none  could  affirm  with  authority  whether  he 
had  but  one  coat  in  his  wardrobe,  or  where 
and  how  he  kept  his  distressing  relatives  ;  so 
none  could  track  his  elusive  mental  habits,  and 
say,  "  This  knowledge,  and  not  that,  has  he 
acquired."  Again,  specialists  do  not  grow  on 
every  bush,  even  in  Trinity.  The  names  of 
authors  whom  he  cited,  Mehisi,  Kemal-Oomi, 
Baba  Khodjee,  Selim-il-Anagh,  Mustafa  Reezah, 
Burhan-ed-Deen,  Mohammed  Ben  Osman,  Ben 
AH  Nakkash  (may  their  tribe  decrease  !)  were 
not  illuminating ;  neither  were  the  mottoes  in 
good  Arabic,  but  somewhat  irrelevant  to  their 
purpose,  with  which  he  prefaced  his  apocrypha. 
He  attributes  one  strain  to  a  sixteenth-century 
Zirbayeh,  another  to  Lameejah,  a  third  to  a 
phonetic  nightingale  called  Waheedi.  He  ab- 
stracts from  a  manuscript  in  possession  of  "  the 
queen  of  Transoxiana  "  one  of  the  loveliest  of 
his  songs,  and  fathers  it  upon  Al  Makeenah,  a 
fighting  bard  of  his  fancy.  Once  he  was 
brought  to  task  for  concealing  himself  under 
the  cloak  of  Hafiz,  whereupon  he  replied  that 
any  critic  could  discern  that  the  verses  were 
only  Hafiz  !  His  custom  was  to  leave  Hafiz 
alone,  with  Saadi  and  Omar,  these  being  per- 
sons somewhat  familiar  to  the  general.  The 
poets  he  courts  arc  more  preciously  private  to 


A    STUDY  95 

himself  than  ever  Cyril  Tourneur  was,  years 
ago,  to  the  elect.  Some  of  their  names  stand 
out  memorably  bright,  and  only  just  beneath 
those  of  the  splendid  phantom  Mirza  Schaffy, 
and  the  Haji-Abdu  el-Yezdi,  who  had  some 
reality  so  long  as  Sir  Richard  Burton  lived. 
The  attention  of  a  competent  Orientalist  may 
never  have  been  drawn  to  specifications  which 
would  at  once  throw  the  unwary  off  the  trail ; 
but  it  is  likely  that  they  passed  with  modest 
minor  scholars  who  would  have  suspected  any- 
body of  this  roguery  sooner  than  innocent  be- 
spectacled Mangan. 

It  is  as  a  son  of  the  Prophet  that  he  claims 
his  full  applause.  Al  Hassan  is  more  than 
equalled  by  The  Wail  and  Warning  of  the  Three 
Kbalendeers  (which  Thackeray  would  have  rel- 
ished had  he  known  it),  by  The  Time  of  the 
Barmecides^  the  vehement  Howling  Song  of  Al 
Mohara,  and  others,  drawn,  like  these,  from  the 
impossible  Persian,  and  many  of  which  are  only 
to  be  found  scattered  up  and  down  the  capi- 
tal-lettered yellow  pages  of  extinct  provincial 
journals. 

It  is  more  than  likely  that  his  taste  for  East- 
ern poetry,  gratified  under  such  ironic  condi- 
tions, was  in  Mangan  a  reaction  from  the  little 
he  knew  of  the  bardic  antiquities  of  his  own 
Ireland;  for  lie  appears  to  have  been  much  at- 


96  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

tracted  to  Vallencey's  most  tenable  theory  that 
the  Milesians  were  the  lost  tribe  of  Israel.  The 
all-but-identity  of  the  typical  Turkish  wail :  — 

"  Wulla-hu,  wulwulla-hu  !  " 
with  the  more  melodious  Gaelic 
"  Ullu,  ullalu  !  " 

fascinated  him ;  and  he  used  both  rather  too 
freely.  Working  on  Shane  O'Golain's  Lament 
in  1848  he  took  fire,  at  three  o'clock  of  a  Fri- 
day morning,  and  resolved  to  give  as  good  as 
he  got.  "  I  will  shortly  send  you,"  he  writes 
to  his  patron,  "  a  funeral  wail  from  the  Turkish, 
on  the  decease  of  one  of  the  Sultans.  The 
spirit  of  the  composition  closely  resembles  what 
we  meet  with  in  similar  Irish  poems."  (Marry 
come  up  !  so  it  must,  slyest  of  Mangans.)  This 
was  probably  the  Elegy  for  Sulieman  the  Magnifi- 
cent, a  fairly  unimpressive  production.  With 
his  genius  for  analogies,  the  "  translator"  found 
ancient  Irish,  at  second-hand,  as  Oriental  as 
need  be.  Adjurations,  apostrophes,  superla- 
tives, monotones,  reiterations,  vague  but  bold 
colors,  belonged,  as  outstanding  features,  to 
both  languages ;  and  to  all  these  characteris- 
tics his  own  habits  of  speech  and  thought  were 
congenial. 

What   Matthew   Arnold   said   of  the   Celtic 


A    STUDY  97 

literature  in  general,  may  apply  to  Mangan''s 
share  in  it.  "It  is  not  great  poetical  work; 
but  it  is  poetry,  with  the  air  of  greatness  invest- 
ing it."  His  Eastern  fictions,  like  most  of  his 
Western  ones,  deal  usually  with  a  mood  of 
reminiscence  and  regret,  and  they  have  the  arch 
and  poignant  pathos  in  which  English  song  is 
not  rich.  The  mournful  echo  of  days  gone  by, 
the  light  tingeing  a  present  cloud  from  the  ab- 
sent sun,  are  everywhere  in  Mangan's  world. 
He  looks  back  forever,  not  with  moping,  but 
with  a  certain  shrewd  sense  of  triumph  and 
heartiness.  He  embraces  the  tragical  to-day, 
like  Pascal's  crushed  and  thinking  reed  of 
mankind,  parce  quil  salt  quil  meurt,  et  I'avan- 
tage  que  /'univers  a  sur  lui :  I*  univers  ri en  sait 
rien.  He  delivers  a  lament  as  if  it  were  a 
cheer ;  in  his  strange  temperament  they  blend 
in  one.  It  is  clear  to  posterity  that  this  look- 
ing back  on  rosy  hours  is  a  sham,  a  poet's 
fantasy.  What  idyllic  yesterday  cradled  and 
reared  so  ill-adventured  a  soul  ?  Out  of  his 
imagination  his  "  rich  Bagdad  "  never  existed  ; 
though  it  be  cherished  there  as  only  the  soli- 
tary and  disregarded  intelligence  can  cherish  its 
ideal,  he  is  lord  of  it  yet,  and  can  bid  it  van- 
ish, at  one  imperious  gesture  of  relinquishment. 
Down  tumbles  Bagdad  !  The  crash  thereof  is 
in  the  public  ears;  and  who  will  refuse  to  be- 


98  JAMES   CLARENCE    MANGAN 

lieve  that  there  was  a  Clarence  Mangan  who 
knew  something  of  the  blessed  Orient,  some- 
thing, too,  of  felicity,  even  though  it  passed  ? 


XI 

With  his  provoking  banter,  in  April  of  1 840, 
he  calls  attention,  in  a  magazine,  to  The  Time  of 
the  Barmecides,  a  composition  of  his  own,  which 
he  had  given  to  the  same  pages  just  a  year 
before,  and  which  he  had  bettered  infinitely, 
meanwhile,  by  a  few  discreet  touches.  Start- 
ing off  with  a  motto  (obviously  of  his  own 
manufacture),  that 

"  There  runs  thro'  all  the  dells  of  Time 
No  stream  like  Youth  again," 

he  proceeds  to  explain  the  second  appearance 
of  his  favored  lyric.  "It  was  published  some 
months  back,  but  in  such  suspicious  company 
that  it  probably  remained  unread,  except  by 
the  very  few  persons  who  have  always  believed 
us  too  honorable  to  attempt  imposing  on  or 
mystifying  the  public.  We  now,  therefore, 
take  the  liberty  of  reintroducing  the  poem  to 
general  notice,  embellished  with  improvements, 
merely  premising  that  if  any  lady  or  gentle- 
man wishes  to  have  a  copy  of  the  original  (or, 


A    STUDY  99 

indeed,  of  any  originals  of  our  oversettings), 
we  are  quite  ready  to  come  forward  and  treat : 
terms  cash,  except  to  young  ladies."  With 
talk  of  such  vain  and  transparent  nonsense, 
Mangan  attempts  to  parry  his  rightful  praise. 
He  would  have  us  think  that  to  his  laborious 
searching  and  transcribing,  "  with  the  help,"  as 
he  says,  of  "punch  and  patience,"  we  are  in- 
debted for  the  existence  of  his  finest  work. 
But  the  punch  is  direct  from  Castaly's  well, 
and  the  patience  covers  the  rapturous  drudgery 
known  to  all  true  art.  What  held  him  back 
from  acknowledging  his  own  homespun  glories 
was  a  trait  both  of  shyness  and  of  perversity. 
He  must  have  been  conscious  that  his  rhythms 
were  nothing  short  of  innovations.  Nearly 
everything  which  bears  his  name  has  a  voluptu- 
ous dance-measure  which  no  one  had  written 
before:  a  beauty  so  novel  and  compelling, 
that  it  is  remarkable  it  has  lacked  recognition. 
With  characteristic  shrinking,  Mangan  sealed 
his  charter  of  merit  to  supposititious  ancients 
and  aliens.  Perspicacious  readers  are  besought 
to  consider  it  less  likely  that  in  one  poet  was 
a  voice  of  such  individuality  that  it  breaks 
forth  through  a  hundred  disguises,  than  that 
bards  resident  through  the  ages  in  the  four 
zones,  Jew  and  Gentile, 

"  Bold  Plutarch,  Neptune,  and  Nicodemus," 


JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 


are  the  co-heirs  of  the  self-same  astonishing 
style.  Wits  were  at  work  on  him,  even  as  on 
a  rebus,  long  before  he  died.  Some  anony- 
mous writer,  aware  of  a  new  sound  when  he 
heard  it,  addressed  to  him  an  apostrophe  not 
idle,  since  it  shows  that  the  sagacious  race  of 
mousers  abides  always  and  everywhere,  and 
that,  according  to  a  metaphysical  truism  made 
famous  by  President  Lincoln's  homely  adapta- 
tion of  it,  no  one  person  can  deceive  all:  — 

"  Various   and    curious   are    thy   strains,  O   Clarence 

Mangan, 

Rhyming  and  chim:ng  in  a  very  odd  way; 
Rhyming  and  chiming  !    and   the   like  of  them   no 

man  can 
Easily  find  in  a  long  summer's  day." 

Mangan's  shibboleth  is  the  refrain.  The  re- 
frain is  characteristic,  in  some  shape  or  other, 
of  all  old  poetry.  It  belongs  to  Judea  and 
Greece,  no  less  than  to  northern  France,  to 
the  England  of  the  Percy  Reliques,  and  the  Per- 
sianized  Germany  of  Mangan's  study.  After  a 
long  lapse,  it  had  its  first  full  modern  use  in 
The  Ancient  Mariner,  and  in  the  peculiar  cadence 
of  all  Coleridge's  stops  and  keys.  The  fact 
that  at  divers  periods,  fashions  of  thoughts  and 
speech  infect  the  air,  is  a  vindication  ot  many 
laurelled  heads;  for  it  is  a  theory  which  pinches 


A    STUDY  1 01 

nobody.  Almost  on  the  same  morning,  within 
twenty  years  of  Coleridge's  retirement  to  High- 
gate,  Mrs.  Browning,  Mangan,  and  Edgar  Allan 
Poe  were  involuntarily  conspiring  to  fix  and 
perpetuate  a  poetic  accident,  destined  to  its 
subtlest  and  not  wholly  unforeseen  collateral 
development  in  Rossetti.  Among  these,  Mrs. 
Browning  invented  and  foreshadowed  much, 
but  with  a  light  hand.  Poe's  ringing  of  the 
word-changes  is,  on  the  other  hand,  so  bold, 
that  any  successor  who  approximates  his  man- 
ner is  sure  now  of  smiling  detection  and  dis- 
couragement. Whatever  recalls 

"  Come,  let  the  burial  rite  be  read, 
The  funeral  song  be  sung  ! 
An  anthem  for  the  queenliest  dead 
That  ever  died  so  young ; 
A  dirge  for  her,  the  doubly  dead, 
In  that  she  died  so  young," 

is  all  very  fine,  we  say,  but  it  will  not  do ; 
the  thing  was  done  to  perfection  once :  we 
must  let  Poe  reign  in  his  own  kingdom.  Let 
us  have  a  care  lest  we  are  letting  Poe  reign  in 
Mangan's  kingdom.  The  unmistakable  mark 
of  Poe's  maturer  poetry,  the  employment  of 
sonorous  successive  lines  which  cunningly  fall 
short  ot  exact  duplication,  belong  also  to  Man- 
gan, in  the  same  degree.  There  is  this 


JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 


of  his,  for  instance,  in  the  reverie  of  the  way- 
farer beside  the  river  Mourne,  who  longs  for 
everlasting  rest  delayed,  and  who  hears,  in  an- 
swer, a  prophetic  voice  from  the  martyred  tree 
in  the  saw-mill  :  — 

"  '  For  this  grieve  not  ;  thou  knowest  what  thanks 
The  weary-souled  and  the  meek  owe 
To  Death!  '      I  awoke,  and  heard  four  planks 
Fall  down  with  a  saddening  echo, 
I  heard  four  planks 
Fall  down  with  a  hollow  echo  !  " 

And  one  verse  out  of  the  powerful  many  which 
bear  the  burden  of  "  Karaman  !  "  will  serve  to 
illustrate  the  point  yet  more  clearly  :  — 

"  I  was  mild  as  milk  till  then, 
I  was  soft  as  silk  till  then  ; 
Now  my  breast  is  like  a  den, 
Karaman  ! 

Foul  with  blood  and  bones  of  men, 
Karaman  ! 

With  blood  and  bones  of  slaughtered  men, 
Karaman,  O  Karaman  !  " 

Were  it  not  for  the  imperfect  rhyme  in  the 
Saw-Mill  stanza,  any  critic  would  attribute  all 
the  lines  cited  to  Poe,  both  for  manner,  and 
for  perfect  mastery  of  ghastly  detail. 

It   happens   that  the    Muse  over  in   Dublin 
has  the  advantage  of  priority.      Foe's  maiden 


A    STUDY  103 

work  has  not  the  lovely  tautology  which  has 
since  been  associated  with  his  name.  Judging 
by  the  pains  which  he  took  to  dissect  the  rain- 
bow of  his  genius  in  his  Philosophy  of  Corn-posi- 
tion^ he  would  have  us  assured  that  The  Raven 
was  his  earliest  experiment  in  the  values  of  that 
saying-over  or  singing-over  which,  like  a  looped 
ribbon,  flutters  about  the  close  of  so  many  of 
his  posthumous  verses.  Moreover,  The  Raven 
was  "only  that  and  nothing  more."  Poe's 
own  thrilling  tale  of  Ligeia,  dating  from  1838, 
provided  every  one  of  the  "  properties  "  essen- 
tial to  the  effect  of  The  Raven,  and  even  the 
same  psychological  situation.  It  is  not  incon- 
ceivable that  the  prose  was  converted  into 
poetry,  exclusively  for  the  purpose  of  trying  a 
rash  harmonic  experiment  on  an  approved  in- 
strument. At  any  rate,  the  element  in  the 
great  lyric  which  was  not  already  in  Ligeia,  is 
precisely  this  haunting  iteration  of  sweet  sounds. 
The  Raven  was  first  published  anonymously  in 
the  January  of  184^.  It  spread  like  wildfire  in 
America,  and  reached  London  the  next  year. 
In  a  letter  to  Foe,  dated  April,  1846,  Miss 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Barrett  says  :  "  Your  Raven 
has  produced  a  sensation,  a  'fit  of  horror,'  here 
in  England.  Some  ot  my  friends  are  taken  by 

c_ >  ,  , 

the  fear  ot  it,  and  some  by  the  music."  The 
English  parodies  of  it,  which  would  certify 


i o4  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

that  it  was  popular  and  familiar,  began  in 
1853.  Ulalume  appeared  in  Colt  on  s  Re-view, 
in  1847;  and  it  may  be  considered  as  the 
perfect  blossom  of  Poe's  acquired  tendencies. 
Lenore,  first  intoned  as  A  Pecan  (1831),  came 
out  in  Mr.  James  Russell  Lowell's  journal,  The 
Pioneer,  in  1843.  It  is  instructive  to  observe 
that  it  has  not,  there,  a  single  touch  of  the 
repetitions  which  now  give  it  such  memorable 
glamour  ;  the  repetitions  were  superadded  later 
and  on  second  thought.  Now  Mangan,  from 
1839  and  1840  on,  bestowed  on  almost  every- 
thing he  wrote  the  curious  involved  diction  in 
question.  Two  poems  of  his  in  particular, 
which  have  mere  extrinsic  value,  may  therefore 
yield  up  their  opening  stanzas  as  arch-speci- 
mens. The  Winniger  IVinebouse,  we  are  told, 
is  "slightly  improved  from  Hoffmann  of  Fall- 
ersleben."  The  Kiosk  of  Moostanzar-BUlah  has 
no  historv. 


"  Hurrah  for  the  Winnieer  Winchouse, 
The  sanded  Winniger  Winehouse  ! 
Eighteen  of  us  meet  in  a  circle,  and  treat 
Each  other  all  day  at  the  Winchouse. 
As  thinking  but  doubles  men's  troubles, 
'Tis  shirked  in  the  emerald  parlor  ; 
Tho'  banks  be  broken  and  war  lour, 
We've  eyes  alone  tor  such  bubbles 


A    STUDY  105 

As  wink  on  our  cups  in  the  Winehouse, 
Our  golden  cups  in  the  Winehouse, 
(As  poets  would  feign  !)  but  'tis  glasses  we  drain 
In  the  sanded  Winniger  Winehouse  !  " 


"  The  pall  of  the  sunset  fell 
Vermilioning  earth  and  water; 
The  bulbul's  melody  broke  from  the  dell, 
A  song  to  the  rose,  the  summer's  daughter  ! 
The  lulling  music  of  Tigris'  flow 
Was  blended  with  echoes  from  many  a  mosque 
As  the  muezzin  chanted  the  Allah-el-illah : 
Yet  my  heart  in  that  hour  was  low, 
For  I  stood  in  a  ruined  Kiosk: 

0  my  heart  in  that  hour  was  low 
For  I  stood  in  the  ruined  Kiosk 
Of  the  Caliph  Moostanzar-Billah; 

1  mused  alone  in  the  ruined  Kiosk 
Of  the  mighty  Moostanzar-Billah." 

The  same  emphatic  notes  occur  in  The  Three 
Talismans,  The  Wayfaring  Tree,  The  Saw-Mill, 
and  The  Karamanian  Exile ;  in  The  Last  Words 
of  Al  Hassan,  and  in  the  very  different  and  very 
beautiful  Time  of  the  Barmecides;  in  The  Wail 
and  Warning  of  the  Three  Khalendeers,  and  in 
My  Dark  Rosaleen ;  and  something  not  far 
from  them  in  Night  is  Neariug,  Twentv  Golden 
Tears  ago,  The  Time  ere  the  Roses  were  Blowing, 


106  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN 

and  The  Howling  Song.  Indeed,  it  is  difficult 
to  quote  from  him  at  all  and  not  detect  the  ac- 
cent associated  forever  with  Poe.  Under  cover 
of  his  spurious  Orientalism,  Mangan  allowed 
himself  much  autobiographical  utterance ;  and 
he  found  it  convenient,  as  an  Oriental  middle- 
man, to  introduce,  and  to  fully  develop,  with- 
out suspicion  from  outsiders,  his  ornate  original 
da  capo.  Indeed,  one  sometimes  feels  quite 
certain  that  he  was  a  practising  Mussulman 
only  for  the  sake  of  it.  In  The  Dervish  and 
the  Vizier,  Mangan  is  his  own  superexcellent 
parodist :  here  he  breaks  into  a  ridiculous  ex- 
aggeration of  the  refrain,  in  a  comic  narrative 
of  great  gusto.  Having  once  mastered  his  in- 
vention, Mangan,  in  the  end,  came  near  being 
mastered  by  it.  He  imported  a  sort  of  stam- 
mering into  many  of  his  renderings  from  foreign 
languages,  to  the  conceivable  amazement  of 
dead  authors  ;  and  the  catch-word  of  a  stanza 
was  often  multiplied  until  it  attained  the  nu- 
merical importance  of  Mozart's  triumphant 
Amens.  No  one  will  deny  that  the  Schwertlied 
itself  gains  by  this  vandalism.  Foe,  in  this  re- 
spect, is  merely  Manganesque.  In  The  Dublin 
University  Magazine,  during  the  years  when 
Poe  was  attaining  his  zenith  of  success,  figure 
successive  specimens  of  the  unchanged  art  of 
the  man  who  had  the  start  of  him  by  at  least 


A   STUDY  107 

five  years  ;  for  The  Barmecides  was  in  print  in 
1839,  and  The  Karamanian  Exile,  a  finished 
model  of  its  kind,  was  contemporary  with  the 
as  yet  cisatlantic  Raven,  and  the  predecessor  of 
Ulalume,  Lenore,  Eulalie,  For  Annie,  and  the 
rest.  Coleridge's  is  too  great  a  name  by  which 
to  measure,  and  Mrs.  Browning  is  an  influence 
apart,  when  one  comes  to  scrutinize  the  neck- 
and-neck  achievements  of  Mangan  and  Poe. 

Mr.  Joseph  Skipsey  openly  implies  that  Poe 
fell  across  Mangan's  experimental  measures 
during  his  own  editorial  and  journalistic  career. 
The  proposition  might  have  more  weight, 
coming  from  a  more  cautious  pen  ;  yet  it  is  a 
practicable  guess,  did  one  care  to  entertain  it. 
The  American's  thrift  and  hardihood,  his 
known  accomplishment  of  buccaneering,  benefi- 
cent as  it  chanced  to  be  in  the  application, 
helped  him  to  adopt  and  bring  into  notice  any 
reform  perishing  in  obscure  hands.  Thus  he 
supplemented  the  octosyllabic  cadences  of  Lady 
Geraldines  Courtship  in 

"  The  silken,  sad,   uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple 
curtain," 

with  a  patrician  aggressiveness  never  to  be  con- 
founded with  common  theft.  On  the  other 
side,  no  arraignment  of  this  sort  can  be  brought 
against  poor  chivalrous  Mangan  which  would 


io8  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN 

not  be  a  chronological  absurdity.  Coleridge 
the  forerunner  might  have  pushed  his  verbal 
practice  farther ;  but  he  lacked  the  sensational- 
ism which  is  a  noble  ingredient  if  used  spar- 
ingly and  in  season,  and  of  which  Mangan  and 
Poe,  beyond  all  doubt,  were  possessed.  Now, 
it  is  not  to  be  forgotten  that  one  of  these  two 
lived  and  died,  as  it  were,  in  a  hole  ;  that  at 
no  time  was  he  in  the  current  of  events,  or  so 
placed,  withdrawn  in  the  violet  shadow  of  the 
Wicklow  Hills,  that  he  could  and  would  scan 
even  the  near  English  horizon.  It  was  the 
business  of  the  other  to  sit  in  a  watch-tower, 

"Where  Helicon  breaks  down 
In  cliff  to  the  sea." 

Poe,  if  it  may  be  said  respectfully,  was  what  the 
Gypsies  call  a  jinney-mengro :  one-who-knows- 
what  -  is -up -and  -  cannot  -  be  -  gulled.  Under 
circumstances  comparatively  kind,  from  an  offi- 
cial chair,  and  with  the  bravery  which  is  half 
the  battle,  he  bequeathed  to  the  soil  of  Eng- 
lish literature  a  hitherto  exotic  beauty.  It  is 
unnecessary  to  ask  whether  he  learned  his  lyric 
latitude  of  phrase  from  The  Dublin  University 
Magazine.  But  Clarence  Mangan,  shrinking 
like  the  Thane  before  the  supernatural  "All 
hail  hereafter  !  "  is  the  true  founder,  neverthe- 


A    STUDY  109 

less,  of  the  most  picturesque  feature  in  modern 
verse. 

While  Poe  links  himself  for  good  with  his 
immediate  predecessors  in  The  Haunted  Palace^ 
The  City  by  the  Sea,  and  the  opening  of  Al 
Aaraaf,  and  so  falls  gracefully  into  his  dynastic 
place,  Mangan  has  wayward  secondary  leanings, 
sometimes  to  the  whimsical,  affectionate  temper 
of  Beranger,  sometimes  to  the  bare  strength 
of  the  Elizabethans  themselves,  as  in  his  lines 
where  Fate 

"Tolls  the  disastrous  bell  of  all  our  years," 
a  line  as  unlike  as  possible  to 

"  Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 
Like  those  Nicean  barks  of  yore." 

He  is  addicted  to  compound  words  ;  and  in 
such  mongrel  usages  as  "  youthhood,"  "gloom- 
somely,"  and  "  aptliest,"  he  makes  straight  for 
the  pitfalls  dug  for  the  radiant  intelligence 
of  Mrs.  Browning.  Poe  is  too  "  dainty,  airy, 
amber-bright,"  for  sophomoric  blunders,  for 
wretched  puns,  for  breathless  haste,  for  dactyls 
maimed  and  scarred  in  the  wars.  He  never 
makes  Mangan's  lunges;  his  every  oesural 
pause  is  fixed  by  conclave  of  the  Muses.  And 
there  is  over  all  his  entrancing  work  an  air  of 

O 


no  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN 

incomparable  self-attentiveness,  a  touch  of  sat- 
isfied completion,  as  of  a  coquette  blen  cbaussee, 
bien  gant'ee.  The  other's  charm  is  less  urban  : 

"A  winning  wave,  deserving  note, 
In  the  tempestuous  petticoat." 

The  two  Celts  had  much,  very  much,  in  com- 
mon ;  Poe's  Attic  taste,  sprung  from  his  fortu- 
nate training,  is  responsible  for  most  of  the 
difference.  To  affirm  of  him,  as  has  often 
been  done,  that  he  worshipped  beauty  with  his 
whole  soul ;  that  he  loved  the  occult  sciences, 
the  phrenologists,  and  the  old  mystics  ;  that  his 
existence  was  but  an  affecting  struggle  with  the 
adversaries  of  darkness ;  even  that  he  was  of  a 
frail  physique,  his  forehead  high  and  pale,  the 
lower  part  of  his  face  sensitive  and  dejected  ;  — 
this  is  to  describe  Mangan  equally  well.  They 
had  kindred  dreams  ;  they  were  haunted  by  the 
same  loathing  of  the  "  dishonor  of  the  grave  "  ; 
they  died,  under  almost  identical  circumstances 
of  pain  and  mystery,  in  the  same  year.  Their 
respective  sense  of  humor  was  unevenly  appor- 
tioned. In  point  of  achievement,  too,  or  of  the 
forces  which  make  achievement  possible,  they 
are  hardly  to  be  compared.  Poe  was  ever  the 
artist ;  his  imagination  was  not  only  sumptu- 
ous, but  steadfast ;  his  utterances  were  fewer, 
and  had  finality.  In  the  moral  contrast,  it  is 


A    STUDY  in 

the  Irish  poet  who  gains.  Poe,  with  his  mani- 
fold gifts  (if  we  may  pervert  the  terms  of  Lamb's 
theological  thesis  not  "  defended  or  oppugned, 
or  both,  at  Leipsic  or  Gottingen")  was  "  of  the 
highest  order  of  the  seraphim  illuminati  who 
sneer."  He  nursed  grudges  and  hungered  for 
homage  ;  he  was  seldom  so  happy  as  in  a  thriv- 
ing quarrel.  Mangan  was  a  pattern  of  sweet 
gratitude  and  deference,  and  left  his  art  to 
prosper  or  perish,  as  Heaven  should  please. 

In  1803,  the  year  of  Mangan's  birth,  Mrs. 
Hemans  printed  her  first  verses,  and  Moore, 
already  a  popular  young  minstrel,  was  commis- 
sioned to  be  Admiralty  Registrar  at  Bermuda. 
The  Lyrical  Ballads  had  sunk,  softly  as  a  snow- 
flake,  into  the  earth  one  twelvemonth  before. 
Mangan's  early  youth  was  the  flowering-time 
of  Keats,  Shelley,  and  Byron  ;  and  he  was 
writing  for  penny  journals  while  the  new  minor 
notes,  Hood's,  Praed's,  Moore's,  were  filling 
the  air.  He  died,  not  companionless,  with 
Emily  Bronte,  Hartley  Coleridge,  and  Thomas 
Lovell  Beddoes,  in  i  849  :  three  spirits  ot  lav- 
ish promise,  defrauded  and  unfulfilled  like  his 
own,  yet  happier  than  he,  inasmuch  as  they 
have  had  since  many  liegemen  and  remember- 
ers. Let  him  come  forward  at  last  in  a  quieter 
hour,  with  his  own  whimsical  misgiving  man- 


ii2  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN 

ner,  or  with  questions  pathetically  irrelevant,  as 
one  whom  the  fairies  had  led  astray  :  — 

"O  sayest  thou  the  soul  shall  climb 
The  magic  mount  she  trod  of  old, 
Ere  childhood's  time  ?  " 

He  has  been,  for  a  half-century,  wandering 
on  the  dark  marge  of  Lethe.  It  will  not  do, 
as  yet,  to  startle  him  with  gross  applause. 
Otherwise,  his  gratified  editor  would  like  to 
repeat,  introducing  Clarence  Mangan,  the  gal- 
lant words  with  which  Schumann  once  began  a 
review  of  the  young  Chopin  :  "  Hats  off,  gen- 
tlemen :  a  Genius  !  " 


My   Dark   Rosaleen 

And  Other  Translations  from  the  Gaelic 


MY   DARK    ROSALEEN1^) 

(TRADITIONAL) 

0  my  Dark  Rosaleen, 
Do  not  sigh,  do  not  weep  ! 

The  priests  are  on  the  ocean  green, 

They  march  along  the  deep. 

There's  wine  from  the  royal  Pope 

Upon  the  ocean  green ; 

And  Spanish  ale  shall  give  you  hope, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 

Shall  glad  your  heart,  shall  give  you  hope, 

Shall  give  you  health,  and  help,  and  hope, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen! 

Over  hills  and  thro'  dales, 
Have  I  roamed  for  your  sake; 
All  yesterday  I  sailed  with  sails 
On  river  and  on  lake. 
The  Erne  at  its  highest  flood 

1  dashed  across  unseen, 

1  This  impassioned  song,  entitled,  in  the  original,  Raisin  Dubb,  or  The 
Black-Haired  Little  Rose,  was  written  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  by  one  of  the 
poets  of  the  celebrated  Tyrconnellian  chieftain,  Hugh  the  Red  O'Donnell. 
It  purports  to  be  an  allegorical  address  from  Hugh  to  Ireland  on  the  subject 
of  his  love  and  struggles  for  her.  and  his  resolve  to  raise  her  again  to  the 
glorious  position  she  held  as  a  nation,  before  the  irruption  of  the  Saxon  and 
Norman  spoilers. 

[All  the  notes  at  the  bottom  of  the  page  in  this  book  are  Mangan's  own. 
Figures  in  parentheses  refer  to  rhe  Editor's  notes  at  the  end  of  the  book.] 


ii6  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

For  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 

O  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 

Red  lightning  lightened  thro'  my  blood, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

All  day  long,  in  unrest, 

To  and  fro,  do  I  move. 

The  very  soul  within  my  breast 

Is  wasted  for  you,  love! 

The  heart  in  my  bosom  faints 

To  think  of  you,  my  queen, 

My  life  of  life,  my  saint  of  saints, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

My  own  Rosaleen ! 

To  hear  your  sweet  and  sad  complaints, 

My  life,  my  love,  my  saint  of  saints, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

Woe  and  pain,  pain  and  woe, 

Are  my  lot,  night  and  noon, 

To  see  your  bright  face  clouded  so, 

Like  to  the  mournful  moon. 

But  yet  will  I  rear  your  throne 

Again  in  golden  sheen; 

'Tis  you  shall  reign,  shall  reign  alone, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen ! 

'Tis  you  shall  have  the  golden  throne, 

'Tis  you  shall  reign,  and  reign  alone, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  117 

Over  dews,  over  sands, 

Will  I  fly  for  your  weal  : 

Your  holy  delicate  white  hands 

Shall  girdle  me  with  steel. 

At  home  in  your  emerald  bowers, 

From  morning's  dawn  till  e'en, 

You'll  pray  for  me,  my  flower  of  flowers, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  fond  Rosaleen  ! 

You'll  think  of  me  thro'  daylight  hours, 

My  virgin  flower,  my  flower  of  flowers, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

I  could  scale  the  blue  air, 

I  could  plough  the  high  hills, 

O  I  could  kneel  all  night  in  prayer, 

To  heal  your  many  ills  ! 

And  one  beamy  smile  from  you 

Would  float  like  light  between 

My  toils  and  me,  my  own,  my  true, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  fond  Rosaleen  ! 

Would  give  me  life  and  soul  anew, 

A  second  life,  a  soul  anew, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

O  the  Erne  shall  run  red 

With  redundance  of  blood, 

The  earth  shall  rock  beneath  our  tread, 

And  flames  wrap  hill  and  wood, 

And  gun-peal  and  slogan-cry 

Wake  many  a  glen  serene, 


n8  JAMES   CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Ere  you  shall  fade,  ere  you  shall  die, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 

The  Judgment  Hour  must  first  be  nigh, 

Ere  you  can  fade,  ere  you  can  die, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 


PRINCE    ALDFRID'S    ITINERARY 
THROUGH    IRELAND1 

I  found  in  Innisfail  the  fair, 

In  Ireland,  while  in  exile  there, 

Women  of  worth,  both  grave  and  gay  men, 

Many  clerics  and  many  laymen. 

I  travelled  its  fruitful  provinces  round, 
And  in  every  one  of  the  five  I  found, 
Alike  in  church  and  in  palace  hall, 
Abundant  apparel,  and  food  for  all. 

Gold  and  silver  I  found  in  money  ; 
Plenty  of  wheat  and  plenty  of  honey  ; 
I  found  God's  people  rich  in  pity, 
Found  many  a  feast,  and  many  a  city. 

I  also  found  in  Armagh  the  splendid, 
Meekness,  wisdom,  and  prudence  blended, 

1  Amongst  the  Anglo-Saxon  students  resorting  to  Ireland  was  Prince 
Aldfrid,  afterwards  King  of  the  Northumbrian  Saxons.  His  having  been 
educated  there  about  the  year  684  is  corroborated  by  Venerable  Bedc  in  his 
Life  of  $>.  Cutbbert.  The  original  poem  of  which  this  is  a  translation, 
attributed  to  Aldfrid,  is  still  extant  in  the  Irish  language. 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  119 

Fasting,  as  Christ  hath  recommended, 
And  noble  councillors  untranscended. 

I  found  in  each  great  church  moreo'er, 
Whether  on  island  or  on  shore, 
Piety,  learning,  fond  affection, 
Holy  welcome  and  kind  protection. 

I  found  the  good  lay  monks  and  brothers 
Ever  beseeching  help  for  others, 
And,  in  their  keeping,  the  Holy  Word 
Pure  as  it  came  from  Jesus  the  Lord. 

I  found  in  Munster  unfettered  of  any, 
Kings,  and  queens,  and  poets  a  many, 
Poets  well-skilled  in  music  and  measure; 
Prosperous  doings,  mirth  and  pleasure. 

I  found  in  Connaught  the  just,  redundance 
Of  riches,  milk  in  lavish  abundance; 
Hospitality,  vigor,  fame, 
In  Cruachan's  *  land  of  heroic  name. 

I  found  in  the  country  of  Connall2  the  glorious, 
Bravest  heroes  ever  victorious  ; 
Fair-complexioned  men  and  warlike, 
Ireland's  lights,  the  high,  the  starlike  ! 

I  found  in  Ulster  from  hill  to  glen, 
Hardy  warriors,  resolute  men  ; 

1  Cruachan,  or  Croglian,  was  the  name  of"  the  royal  palace  of  Connaught. 

2  Tyrconnell,  the  present  Donegal. 


120  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Beauty  that  bloomed  when  youth  was  gone, 
And  strength  transmitted  from  sire  to  son. 

I  found  in  the  noble  district  of  Boyle, 
(MS.  here  illegible.) 
Brehons,  Erenachs,1  weapons  bright, 
And  horsemen  bold  and  sudden  in  fight. 

I  found  in  Leinster  the  smooth  and  sleek, 
From  Dublin  to  Slewmargy's  2  peak, 
Flourishing  pastures,  valor,  health, 
Long-living  worthies,  commerce,  wealth. 

I  found,  besides,  from  Ara  to  Glea, 
In  the  broad  rich  country  of  Ossorie, 
Sweet  fruits,  good  laws  for  all  and  each, 
Great  chess-players,  men  of  truthful  speech. 

I  found  in  Meath's  fair  principality 
Virtue,  vigor,  and  hospitality  ; 
Candor,  joyfulness,  bravery,  purity, 
Ireland's  bulwark  and  security. 

I  found  strict  morals  in  age  and  youth, 
I  found  historians  recording  truth  ; 
The  things  I  sing  of  in  verse  unsmooth, 
I  found  them  all.      I  have  written  sooth.3 

1  Brehon,  a  law  judge  ;   Erenach,  a  ruler,  an  archdeacon. 

1  Slewmargy,  a  mountain  in  the  (Queen's  County,  near  the  river  Barrow. 

8  "  Bede  assures  us  that  the  Irish  were  a  harmless  and  friendly  people. 
To  them  many  of  the  Angles  had  been  accustomed  to  resort  in  search  of 
knowledge,  and  on  all  occasions  had  been  received  and  supported  gratuitously. 
Aldfrid  lived  in  spontaneous  exile  among  the  Scots  ( Irish  )  through  his  de- 
sire of  knowledge,  and  was  called  to  the  throne  of  Northurnbria  after  the 
decease  of  his  brother  Egfrid  in  685."  —  Lingard* i  England,  vol.  i.  chap.  3. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  121 

KINKORA  i 

(MAC-LIAG) 

O  where,  Kinkora !   is  Brian  the  Great, 

And  where  is  the  beauty  that  once  was  thine  ? 

O  where  are  the  princes  and  nobles  that  sate 

At  the  feast  in  thy  halls,  and  drank  the  red  wine  ? 

Where,  O  Kinkora  ? 

O  where,  Kinkora!  are  thy  valorous  lords? 

O  whither,  thou  hospitable!   are  they  gone? 

O  where  are  the  Dalcassians  of  the  golden  swords  ? 2 

And  where  are  the  warriors  Brian  led  on  ? 

Where,  O  Kinkora  ? 

And  where  is  Morrough,  the  descendant  of  kings, 
The  defeater  of  a  hundred,  the  daringly  brave, 
Who  set  but  slight  store  by  jewels  and  rings, 
Who  swam  down  the  torrent  and  laughed  at  its  wave  ? 
Where,  O  Kinkora? 

And  where  is  Donogh,  King  Brian's,  worthy  son  ? 
And  where  is  Conaing,  the  beautiful  chief? 

1  This  poem  is  ascribed  to  Mac-Liag,  the  secretary  of  Brian  Boruimha, 
who  fell  at  the  battle  of  Clontarf,  in  1014;   ant^  the  subject  of  it  is  a  lamen- 
tation for  the  fallen  condition  of  Kinkora,  the  palace  of  that  monarch,  con- 
sequent on  his  death.     The  decease  of  Mac-Liag  is  recorded  in  the  ^'•Annah 
of  the  Four  Masters,'''  as  having  taken  place  in  1015.      A  great  number  of 
his   poems  are  still  in  existence,  but   none  of  them  has  obtained  a  popularity 
so   widely  extended   as   his   Larr-.tnt.      The   palace   of  Kinkora,   which   was 
situated  on  the  banks  of  the  Shannon,  near  Killaloe,  is  now  a  heap  of  ruins. 

2  C^lg  n-or,  or  the  swords  uf  Gold,  i.e.   of  the  Gijld-biltcd  Swords. 


122  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

And  Kian  and  Core?     Alas!   they  are  gone: 
They  have  left  me  this  night  alone  wkh  my  grief! 
Left  me,  Kinkora! 

And  where  are  the  chiefs  with  whom  Brian  went  forth  ? 
The  sons  never-vanquished  of  Evin  the  brave, 
The  great  King  of  Osnacht,  renowned  for  his  worth, 
And  the  hosts  of  Baskinn  from  the  western  wave  ? 
Where,  O  Kinkora  ? 

O  where  is  Duvlann  of  the  swift-footed  steeds  ? 
And  where  is  Kian  who  was  son  of  Molloy  ? 
And  where  is  King  Lonergan,  the  fame  of  whose  deeds 
In  the  red  battle-field  no  time  can  destroy  ? 
Where,  O  Kinkora  ? 

And  where  is  that  youth  of  majestic  height, 

The  faith-keeping  Prince  of  the  Scots  ?      Even  he, 

As  wide  as  his  fame  was,  as  great  as  was  his  might, 

Was  tributary,  Kinkora,  to  thee  ! 

Thee,  O  Kinkora  ! 

They  are  gone,  those  heroes  of  royal  birth 
Who  plundered  no  churches,  and  broke  no  trust ; 
'Tis  weary  for  me  to  be  living  on  earth 
When  they,  O  Kinkora,  lie  low  in  the  dust. 
Low,  O  Kinkora  ! 

O    never  again  will  princes  appear, 

To  rival  the  Dalcassians  *  of  the  cleaving  swords  ; 

1  The  Dalcassians  wi-re   Brian's  body-guard. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  123 

I  can  never  dream  of  meeting  afar  or  anear, 
In  the  east  or  the  west,  such  heroes  and  lords  ! 
Never,  Kinkora  ! 

0  dear  are  the  images  my  memory  calls  up 
Of  Brian  Boru  !    how  he  never  would  miss 

To  give  me  at  the  banquet,  the  first  bright  cup. 
Ah  !   why  did  he  heap  on  me  honor  like  this  ? 
Why,  O'  Kinkora  ? 

1  am  Mac-Liag,  and  my  home  is  on  the  lake  : 
Thither  often,  to  that  palace  whose  beauty  is  fled, 
Came  Brian  to  ask  me,  and  I  went  for  his  sake.  — 
O  my  grief!   that  I  should  live,  and  Brian  be  dead  ! 
Dead,  O  Kinkora  ! 


ST.    PATRICK'S    HYMN    BEFORE   TARA1 

At  Tara  to-day,  in  this  awful  hour, 

I  call  on  the  Holy  Trinity  ! 

Glorv  to  Him  who  reigneth  in  power, 

The  God  of  the  elements,  Eather,  and  Son, 

And  Paraclete  Spirit,  which  Three  are  the  One, 

The  ever-existing  Divinity  ! 

1  The  original  Irish  oi  this  hymn  was  published  by  Dr.  Petrie,  in  vol. 
xviii.,  "  Transactions  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy."  It  is  in  the  Bearla 
Feine,  the  most  ancient  dialect  of  the  Irish,  the  same  in  which  the  Brehon 
laws  were  written.  It  was  printed  from  the  Liber  JI\mnorum,  preserved 
in  the  Library  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  a  manuscript,  which,  as  Dr. 
Petrie  proves  by  the  authority  of  Usher  and  others,  must  be  nearly  twelve 
hundred  and  riftv  vears  old. 


i24  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

At  Tara  to-day  I  call  on  the  Lord, 

On  Christ,  the  Omnipotent  Word, 

Who  came  to  redeem  from  death  and  sin 

Our  fallen  race ; 

And  I  put  and  I  place 

The  virtue  that  lieth  and  liveth  in 

His  Incarnation  lowly, 

His  Baptism  pure  and  holy, 

His  Life  of  toil,  and  tears,  and  affliction, 

His  dolorous  Death,  his  Crucifixion, 

His  Burial,  sacred  and  sad  and  lone, 

His  Resurrection  to  life  again, 

His  glorious  Ascension  to  Heaven's  high  throne, 

And,  lastly,  his  future  dread 

And  terrible  Coming  to  judge  all  men, 

Both  the  living  and  dead  ;  — 

At  Tara  to-day  I  put  and  I  place 

The  virtue  that  dwells  in  the  Seraphim's  love, 

And  the  virtue  and  grace 

That  are  in  the  obedience 

And  unshaken  allegiance 

Of  all  the  Archangels  and  Angels  above, 

And  in  the  hope  of  the  Resurrection 

To  everlasting  reward  and  election, 

O 

And  in  the  prayers  of  the  Fathers  of  old, 
And  in  the  truths  the  Prophets  foretold, 
And  in  the  Apostles'  manifold  preachings, 
And  in  the  Confessors'  faith  and  teachings, 
And  in  the  purity  ever  dwelling 
Within  the  immaculate  Virgin's  breast, 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  125 

And  in  the  actions  bright  and  excelling 
Of  all  good  men,  the  just  and  the  blest ;  — 

At  Tara  to-day,  in  this  fateful  hour, 

I  place  all  Heaven  with  its  power, 

And  the  sun  with  its  brightness, 

And  the  snow  with  its  whiteness, 

And  fire  with  all  the  strength  it  hath, 

And  lightning  with  its  rapid  wrath, 

And  the  winds  with  their  swiftness  along  their  path, 

And  the  sea  with  its  deepness, 

And  the  rocks  with  their  steepness, 

And  the  earth  with  its  starkness  1 ;  — 

All  these  I  place, 

By  God's  almighty  help  and  grace, 

Between  myself  and  the  Powers  of  Darkness  ! 

At  Tara  to-day 

May  God  be  my  stay  ! 

May  the  strength  of  God  now  nerve  me! 

May  the  power  of  God  preserve  me  ! 

May  God  the  Almighty  be  near  me  ! 

May  God  the  Almighty  espy  me  ! 

May  God  the  Almighty  hear  me  ! 

May  God  give  me  eloquent  speech! 

May  the  arm  of  God  protect  me ! 

May  the  wisdom  of  God  direct  me! 

May  God  give  me   power  to  teach  and  to   preach  ! 

May  the  shield  of  God  defend  me  ! 


1  Properly,    "strength,"    "firmness,"    from    the    Anglo-Saxon 
'  strong,   stitl." 


126  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

May  the  host  of  God  attend  me, 
And  ward  me, 
And  guard  me 

Against  the  wiles  of  demons  and  devils, 
Against  the  temptations  of  vices  and  evils, 
Against  the  bad  passions  and  wrathful  will 
Of  the  reckless  mind  and  the  wicked  heart ; 
Against  every  man  who  designs  me  ill, 
Whether  leagued  with  others  or  plotting  apart ! 

In  this  hour  of  hours, 

I  place  all  those  powers 

Between  myself  and  every  foe 

Who  threatens  my  body  and  soul 

With  danger  or  dole, 

To  protect  me  against  the  evils  that  flow 

From  lying  soothsayers'  incantations, 

From  the  gloomy  laws  of  the  Gentile  nations, 

From  heresy's  hateful  innovations, 

From  idolatry's  rites  and  invocations  ; 

Be  those  my  defenders, 

Mv  guards  against  every  ban, 

And  spells  of  smiths,  and  Druids,  and  women  ; 

In  fine,  against  every  knowledge  that  renders 

The  li<j;ht  Heaven  sends  us  dim  in 

O 

The  spirit  and  soul  of  man  ! 

May  Christ,  I  pray, 

Protect  me  to-day 

Against  poison  and  fire, 

Against  drowning  and  wounding, 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  127 

That  so,  in  His  grace  abounding, 
I  may  earn  the  preacher's  hire  ! 

Christ,  as  a  light, 

Illumine  and  guide  me  ! 

Christ  as  a  shield,  o'ershadow  and  cover  me  ! 

Christ  be  under  me  !      Christ  be  over  me  ! 

Christ  be  beside  me 

On  left  hand  and  right ! 

Christ  be  before  me,  behind  me,  about  me  ! 

Christ  this  day  be  within  and  without  me  ! 

Christ,  the  lowly  and  meek, 

Christ,  the  All-Powerful,  be 

In  the  heart  of  each  to  whom  I  speak, 

In  the  mouth  of  each  who  speaks  to  me  ! 

In  all  who  draw  near  me, 

Or  see  me  or  hear  me  ! 

At  Tara  to-day,  in  this  awful  hour, 

I  call  on  the  Holy  Trinity  ! 

Glory  to  Him  who  reigneth  in  power, 

The  God  of  the  Elements,  Father,  and  Son, 

And  Paraclete  Spirit,  which  Three  are  the  One, 

The  ever-existing  Divinity  ! 

Salvation  dwells  with  the  Lord, 

With  Christ,  the  Omnipotent  Word  : 

From  generation  to  generation 

Grant  us,  C)  Lord,  thy  grace  and  salvation  ! 


iz8  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

O'DALY'S    KEEN    FOR    O'NEILL  (2) 

0  mourn,  Erin,  mourn  ! 
He  is  lost,  he  is  dead, 

By  whom  thy  proudest  flag  was  borne, 

Thy  bravest  heroes  led  : 

The  night-winds  are  uttering 

Their  orisons  of  woe, 

The  raven  flaps  his  darkling  wing 

O'er  the  grave  of  Owen  Roe, 

Of  him  who  should  have  been  thy  King, 

The  noble  Owen  Roe. 

Alas,  hapless  land, 

It  is  ever  thus  with  thee ; 

The  eternal  destinies  withstand 

Thy  struggle  to  be  free. 

One  after  one  thy  champions  fall, 

Thy  valiant  men  lie  low, 

And  now  sleeps  under  shroud  and  pall 

The  gallant  Owen  Roe, 

The  worthiest  warrior  of  them  all, 

The  princely  Owen  Roe ! 

Where  was  sword,  where  was  soul 
Like  to  his  below  the  skies  ? 
Ah,  many  a  century  must  roll 
Ere  such  a  chief  shall  rise! 

1  saw  him  in  the  battle's  shock  : 
Tremendous  was  his  blow  : 

As  smites  the  sledge  the  anvil  block, 
His  blade  smote  the  foe. 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  129 

He  was  a  tower;  a  human  rock 
Was  mighty  Owen  Roe. 

Woe  to  us  !   Guilt  and  wrong 

Triumph,  while,  to  our  grief, 

We  raise  the  keen,  the  funeral  song 

Above  our  fallen  chief. 

The  proud  usurper  sways  with  power, 

He  rules  in  state  and  show, 

While  we  lament  our  fallen  tower, 

Our  leader,  Owen  Roe ; 

While  we,  like  slaves,  bow  down  and  cower, 

And  weep  for  Owen  Roe. 

But  the  high  will  of  Heaven 

Be  fulfilled  evermore  ! 

What  tho'  it  leaveth  us  bereaven 

And  stricken  to  the  core, 

Amid  our  groans,  amid  our  tears, 

We  still  feel  and  know 

That  we  shall  meet  in  after  years 

The  sainted  Owen  Roe  : 

In  after  years,  in  brighter  spheres, 

Our  glorious  Owen  Roe  ! 


THE    FAIR    HILLS    OF    EIRE,   O 

(DONOGH   MAC  CON-MARA)  (3) 

Take  a  blessing   from   my  heart   to  the   land   of  my 

birth, 
And  the  fair  hills  of  Eire,  O  ! 

K 


1 3o  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

And  to  all  that  yet  survive  of  Eibhear's  tribe  on  earth, 
On  the  fair  hills  of  Eire,  O  ! 
In  that  land  so  delightful  the  wild  thrush's  lay, 
Seems  to  pour  a  lament  forth  for  Eire's  decay. 
Alas,  alas,  why  pine  I  a  thousand  miles  away 
From  the  fair  hills  of  Eire,  O  ! 

The  soil  is  rich  and  soft,  the  air  is  mild  and  bland, 

Of  the  fair  hills  of  Eire,  O  ! 

Her  barest  rock  is  greener  to  me  than  this  rude  land; 

O  the  fair  hills  of  Eire,  O  ! 

Her  woods  are  tall   and   straight,  grove    rising   over 

grove ; 
Trees  flourish  in  her  glens  below  and  on  her  heights 

above ; 

Ah,  in  heart  and  in  soul  I  shall  ever,  ever  love 
The  fair  hills  of  Eire,  O  ! 

A  noble  tribe,  moreover,  are  the  now  hapless  Gael, 

On  the  fair  hills  of  Eire,  O  ! 

A  tribe  in  battle's  hour  unused  to  shrink  or  fail 

On  the  fair  hills  of  Eire,  O  ! 

Eor  this  is  my  lament  in  bitterness  outpoured 

To  see  them  slain  or  scattered  by  the  Saxon  sword  : 

O  woe  of  woes  to  see  a  foreign  spoiler  horde 

On  the  fair  hills  of  Eire,  ()  ! 

Broad  and  tall  rise  the  cruachs  in  the  golden  morning 

glow 

On  the  fair  hills  of  Eire,  O  ! 
O'er  her  smooth  grass  for  ever  sweet  cream  and  honey 

flow 
On  the  fair  hills  of  Eire,  O  ' 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  131 

Oh,  I  long,  I  am  pining,  again  to  behold 
The  land  that  belongs  to  the  brave  Gael  of  old. 
Far  dearer  to  my  heart  than  a  gift  of  gems  or  gold 
Are  the  fair  hills  of  Eire,  O  ! 

The  dewdrops  lie  bright   mid  the  grass  and   yellow 

corn 

On  the  fair  hills  of  Eire,  O  ! 

The  sweet-scented  apples  blush  redly  in  the  morn 
On  the  fair  hills  of  Eire,  O  ! 
The  water-cress  and  sorrel  fill  the  vales  below, 
The   streamlets   are   hushed  till  the  evening  breezes 

blow, 

While  the  waves  of  the  Suir,  noble  river  !  ever  flow 
Neath  the  fair  hills  of  Eire,  O  ! 

A   fruitful  clime  is   Eire's,  through   valley,  meadow, 

plain, 

And  the  fair  hills  of  Eire,  O  ! 
The  very  bread  of  life  is  in  the  yellow  grain 
On  the  fair  hills  of  Eire,  O  ! 
Far  dearer  unto  me  than  the  tones  music  yields 
Is  the  lowing  of  the  kine  and  the  calves  in  her  fields, 
In  the  sunlight  that  shone  long  ago  on  the  shields 
Of  the  Gaels,  on  the  fair  hills  of  Eire,  O  ! 


THE    GERALDINE'S    DAUGHTER  (4) 

(T.GAN   O'RAHILLY) 

A  beauty  all  stainless,  a  pearl  of  a  maiden 

Has  plunged  me  in  trouble,  and  wounded  my  heart. 


132  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

With  sorrow  and  gloom  is  my  soul  overladen, 

An  anguish  is  there,  that  will  never  depart. 

I  could  voyage  to  Egypt  across  the  deep  water, 

Nor  care  about  bidding  dear  Eire  farewell, 

So  I  only  might  gaze  on  the  Geraldine's  daughter, 

And  sit  by  her  side  in  some  green  pleasant  dell ! 

Her  curling  locks  wave  round  her  figure  of  lightness, 
All  dazzling  and  long,  like  the  purest  of  gold  ; 
Her  blue  eyes  resemble  twin  stars  in  their  brightness, 
And  her  brow  is  like  marble  or  wax  to  behold. 
The  radiance  of  heaven  illumines  her  features 
Where    the  snows    and  the   rose   have  erected   their 

throne  ; 
It    would    seem     that     the     sun     had     forgotten    all 

creatures, 
To  shine  on  the  Geraldine's  daughter  alone. 

Her  bosom   is    swan-white,    her    waist    smooth    and 

slender, 

Her  speech  is  like  music,  so  sweet  and  so  free. 
The  feelings  that  glow  in  her  noble  heart  lend  her 
A  mien  and  a  majesty  lovely  to  see. 
Her  lips,  red  as  berries,  but  riper  than  any, 
Would  kiss  away  even  a  sorrow  like  mine  ! 
No  wonder  such  heroes  and  noblemen  many 
Should  cross  the  blue  ocean  to  kneel  at  her  shrine. 

She    is    sprung    from    the   Geraldine  race,   the   great 

Grecians, 
Niece  of  Mileadh's  sons  of  the  Valorous  Bands, 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  133 

Those  heroes,  the  seed  of  the  olden  Phoenicians, 
Though   now   trodden   down,  without  fame,  without 

lands  ; 

Of  her  ancestors  flourished  the  Barrys  and  Poers, 
To  the  Lords  of  Bunratty  she  too  is  allied, 
And  not  a  proud  noble  near  Cashel's  high  towers 
But  is  kin  to  this  maiden,  the  Geraldine's  pride. 

Of  Saxon  or  Gael  there  is  none  to  excel  in 
Her  wisdom,  her  features,  her  figure,  this  fair  ; 
In  all  she  surpasses  the  far-famous  Helen, 
Whose  beauty  drove  thousands  to  death  and  despair. 
Whoe'er  could  but  gaze  on  her  aspect  so  noble 
Would  feel  from  thenceforward  all  anguish  depart; 
Yet  for  me  'tis,  alas,  my  worst  woe  and  my  trouble 
That  her  image  must  always  abide  in  my  heart ! 


A  LAMENTATION  FOR  THE  DEATH  OF 
SIR  MAURICE  FITZGERALD,  KNIGHT 
OF  KERRY,  WHO  WAS  KILLED  IN 
FLANDERS,  IN  1642 

(PIERCE  FERRITER) 

There  was  lifted  up  one  voice  of  woe, 

One  lament  of  more  than  mortal  grief, 

Through  the  wide  south  to  and  fro, 

For  a  fallen  chief. 

In  the  dead  of  night  that  cry  thrilled  thro'  me; 

I  looked  out  upon  the  midnight  air. 


134  JAMES   CLARENCE   MANGAN 

Mine  own  soul  was  all  as  gloomy, 
As  I  knelt  in  prayer. 

O'er  Loch  Gur,  that  night,  once,  twice,  yea,  thrice, 

Passed  a  wail  of  anguish  for  the  brave, 

That  half  curdled  into  ice 

Its  moon-mirroring  wave. 

Then  uprose  a  many-toned  wild  hymn  in 

Choral  swell  from  Ogra's  dark  ravine, 

And  Mogeely's  phantom  women  l 

Mourned  the  Geraldine  ! 

Far  on  Carah  Mona's  emerald  plains 
Shrieks  and  sighs  were  blended  many  hours, 
And  Fermoy  in  fitful  strains 
Answered  from  her  towers. 
Youghal,  Kinalmeaky,  Imokilly, 
Mourned  in  concert,  and  their  piercing  keen 
Woke  to  wondering  life  the  stilly 
Glens  of  Inchiquin. 

From  Loughmoe  to  yellow  Dunanore 
There  was  fear;  the  traders  of  Ti alee 
Gathered  up  their  golden  store, 
And  prepared  to  flee  ; 

For  in  ship  and  hall,  from  night  till  morning 
Showed  the  first  faint  beamings  of  the  sun, 
All  the  foreigners  heard  the  warning 
Of  the  dreaded  one  ! 

1  Banshees. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  135 

"  This,"  they  spake,  u  portendeth  death  to  us, 
If  we  fly  not  swiftly  from  our  fate." 
Self-conceited  idiots,  thus 
Ravingly  to  prate  ! 

Not  for  base-born  higgling  Saxon  trucksters 
Ring  laments  like  these  by  shore  and  sea ; 
Not  for  churls  with  souls  of  hucksters 
Waileth  our  banshee  ! 

For  the  high  Milesian  race  alone 

Ever  flows  the  music  of  her  woe; 

For  slain  heir  to  bygone  throne, 

And  for  chief  laid  low  ! 

Hark  !   .   .   .  Again,  methinks,  I  hear  her  weeping 

Yonder.      Is  she  near  me  now,  as  then  ? 

Or  was  but  the  night-wind  sweeping 

Down  the  hollow  glen  ? 


ELLEN    BAWN  (5) 

(TRADITIONAL) 

Ellen  Bawn,  O  Ellen  Bawn,  you  darling,  darling 
dear,  you, 

Sit  awhile  beside  me  here  ;  I'll  die  unless  I'm  near 
you  ! 

'Tis  for  you  I'd  swim  the  Suir  and  breast  the  Shan- 
non's waters  ; 

For,  Ellen  dear,  you've  not  your  peer  in  Galway's 
blooming  daughters  ! 


136  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Had  I  Limerick's  gems  and  gold  at  will  to  meet  and 

measure, 
Were    Loughrea's    abundance     mine,    and    all    Por- 

tumna's  treasure, 
These  might    lure  me,  might  ensure  me  many  and 

many  a  new  love, 
But  ah  !   no  bribe  could  pay  your  tribe  for  one  like 

you,  my  true  love  ! 

Blessings  be  on   Connaught !    That's  the    place  for 

sport  and  raking ; 
Blessings,    too,    my    love,    on     you,    a-sleeping    and 

awaking  ! 
I'd  have  met  you,  dearest   Ellen,  when  the  sun  went 

under, 
But,  woe !    the  flooding    Shannon   broke   across    my 

path  in  thunder. 

Ellen  !   I'd  give  all  the  deer  in   Limerick's  parks  and 

arbors, 
Aye,  and  all  the  ships  that   rode  last  year  in  Munster 

harbors, 
Could  I  blot   from  time  the  hour  I  first  became  your 

lover ; 
For  O  !   you've  given  my  heart  a  wound  it  never  can 

recover! 

Were  to  God  that  in  the  sod  my  corpse  to-night  were 

lying, 
And   the   wild  birds   wheeling  o'er  it,  and  the   winds 

a-sighing  ! 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  137 

Since  your  cruel  mother  and  your  kindred  choose  to 

sever 
Two  hearts  that  Love  would   blend  in  one  for  ever 

and  for  ever. 


O'HUSSEY'S   ODE  TO  THE    MAGUIRE J  (6) 

Where    is    my   chief,   my  master,  this    bleak    night, 

mavrone  ? 
O  cold,  cold,  miserably  cold  is  this  bleak  night   for 

Hugh! 
Its  showery,  arrowy,  speary   sleet  pierceth  one  thro' 

and  thro', 

1  O'Hussey,  the  last  hereditary  bard  of  the  great  sept  of  Maguire,  of 
Fermanagh,  who  flourished  about  1630,  possessed  a  fine  genius.  He  com- 
menced his  vocation  when  quite  a  youth,  by  a  poem  celebrating  the  escape 
of  the  famous  Hugh  Roe  O'Donnell  from  Dublin  Castle,  in  1591,  into 
which  he  had  been  treacherously  betrayed.  The  noble  ode  which  O'Hussey 
addressed  to  Hugh  Maguire,  when  that  chief  had  gone  on  a  dangerous  expe- 
dition, in  the  depth  of  an  unusually  severe  winter,  is  as  interesting  an  example 
of  the  devoted  affection  of  the  bard  to  his  chief,  and  as  vivid  a  picture  of 
intense  desolation,  as  could  be  well  conceived.  Mr.  Fergusson,  in  a  fine 
piece  of  criticism  on  this  poem,  remarks:  "There  is  a  vivid  vigor  in  these 
descriptions,  and  a  savage  power  in  the  antithetical  climax,  which  claim  a 
character  almost  approaching  to  sublimity.  Nothing  can  be  more  graphic, 
yet  more  diversified,  than  his  images  of  unmitigated  horror  :  nothing  more 
grandly  startling  than  his  heroic  conception  of  the  glow  of  glory  triumphant 
over  frozen  toil.  We  have  never  read  this  poem  without  recurring,  and 
that  by  no  unworthy  association,  to  Napoleon  in  his  Russian  campaign. 
Yet,  perhaps,  O'Hussey  has  conjured  up  a  picture  of  more  inclement  desola- 
tion, in  his  rude  idea  of  northern  horrors,  than  could  be  legitimately  employed 
by  a  poet  of  the  present  day,  when  the  romance  of  geographical  obscurity 
no  longer  permits  us  to  imagine  the  Phlegrean  regions  of  endless  storm, 
where  the  snows  of  H;emus  fall  mingled  with  the  lightnings  of  Etna,  amid 
Bistonian  wilds  or  Hyrcanian  forests." — Dublin  University  Miiga-zinf, 


138  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Pierceth  one  to  the  very  bone. 

Rolls  real  thunder?      Or  was  that  red  livid  light 

Only  a  meteor  ?      I  scarce  know  •,    but  through  the 

midnight  dim 
The  pitiless  ice-wind  streams.      Except  the  hate  that 

persecutes  him, 
Nothing  hath  crueler  venomy  might. 

An  awful,  a  tremendous  night  is  this,  meseems  ! 
The  flood-gates  of  the  rivers  of  heaven,  I  think,  have 

been  burst  wide  ; 
Down  from  the  overcharged  clouds,  like  to  headlong 

ocean's  tide, 
Descends  gray  rain  in  roaring  streams. 

Tho'  he  were  even   a  wolf  ranging  the  round  green 

woods, 
Tho'    he   were   even    a    pleasant    salmon    in    the  un- 

chainable  sea, 
Tho'  he  were  a  wild  mountain  eagle,  he  could  scarce 

bear,  he, 
This  sharp  sore  sleet,  these  howling  floods. 

O  mournful  is  my  soul  this  night  for  Hugh  Maguire  ! 
Darkly   as   in   a  dream   he   strays.      Before    him    and 

behind 

Triumphs  the  tyrannous  anger  of  the  wounding  wind, 
The  wounding  wind  that  burns  as  fire. 

It  is  my  bitter  grief,  it  cuts  me  to  the  heart 
That  in  the  country  of  Clan  Darry  this  should  be  his 
fate  ! 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  139 

O  woe  is  me,  where  is  he  ?      Wandering,  houseless, 

desolate, 
Alone,  without  or  guide  or  chart ! 

Medreams  I  see  just  now  his  face,  the  strawberry- 
bright, 

Uplifted  to  the  blackened  heavens,  while  the  tempest- 
uous winds 

Blow  fiercely  over  and  round  him,  and  the  smiting 
sleet-shower  blinds 

The  hero  of  Galang  to-night ! 

Large,  large  affliction  unto  me  and  mine  it  is 
That  one  of  his  majestic  bearing,  his  fair  stately  form, 
Should  thus  be  tortured  and  o'erborne ;   that  this  un- 
sparing storm 
Should  wreak  its  wrath  on  head  like  his  ! 

That  his  great  hand,  so  oft  the  avenger  of  the  op- 
pressed, 

Should  this  chill  churlish  night,  perchance,  be  para- 
lyzed by  frost ; 

While  through  some  icicle-hung  thicket,  as  one  lorn 
and  lost, 

He  walks  and  wanders  without  rest. 

The  tempest-driven  torrent  deludes  the  mead, 

It  overflows  the  low  banks  of  the  rivulets  and  ponds  ; 

The   lawns  and    pasture-grounds    lie    locked    in    icy 

bonds, 
So  that  the  cattle  cannot  feed. 


1 4o  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

The  pale-bright  margins  of  the  streams  are  seen  by 

none ; 
Rushes   and    sweeps    along   the   untamable   flood   on 

every  side ; 
It  penetrates  and  fills  the  cottagers'  dwellings  far  and 

wide  : 
Water  and  land  are  blent  in  one. 

Through  some  dark  woods,  'mid  bones  of  monsters, 

Hugh  now  strays, 
As  he  confronts  the  storm  with  anguished  heart,  but 

manly  brow. 
O  what  a  sword-wound  to  that  tender  heart  of  his, 

were  now 
A  backward  glance  at  peaceful  days  ! 

But  other  thoughts  are  his,  thoughts  that  can  still  in- 
spire 

With  joy  and  an  onward-bounding  hope  the  bosom  of 
Mac-Nee  : 

Thoughts  of  his  warriors  charging  like  bright  billows 
of  the  sea, 

Borne  on  the  wind's  wings,  flashing  fire! 

And  tho'  frost  glaze  to-night  the  clear  dew  of  his 
eyes, 

And  white  ice-gauntlets  glove  his  noble  fine  fair  fin- 
gers o'er, 

A  warm  dress  is  to  him  that  lightning-garb  he  ever 
wore, 

The  lightning  of  the  soul,  not  skies. 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  141 

AVRAN  l 

Hugh  marched  forth  to  fight :   I  grieved  to  see  him  so 

depart. 
And  lo  !   to-night  he  wanders  frozen,  rain-drenched, 

sad,  betrayed  ; 
But  the  memory  of  the  lime-white  mansions  his  right 

hand  hath  laid 
In  ashes,  warms  the  hero's  heart ! 


A  LAMENT  FOR  THE  PRINCES  OF  TY- 
RONE AND  TYRCONNELL,  BURIED  IN 
SAN  PIETRO  MONTORIO  AT  ROME2 

(OWEN  ROE  MAC  AN  BHAIRD) 

O  woman  of  the  piercing  wail,  (7) 
Who  mournest  o'er  yon  mound  of  clay 
With  sigh  and  groan, 
Would  God  thou  wert  among  the  Gael ! 
Thou  wouldst  not  then  from  day  to  day 
Weep  thus  alone. 

1  A  concluding  stanza,  generally  intended  as  a  recapitulation  of  the  entire 
poem. 

2  This  is  an  elegy  on  the  death  of  the  princes  of  Tyrone  and  Tyrconnell, 
who,  having  rial  with  others  from  Ireland  in  the  year  1607,  and  afterwards 
dying  in  Rome,  were  interred  on  St.   Peter's  Hill  in  one  grave.      The  poem 
is  the  production  of  The  O'Donnell's  bard,  Owen   Roe  Mac  an  Bhaird,  or 
Ward,  who  accompanied   the  family  in  their  exile  ;    it  is  addressed  to  Nuala, 
The   O'Donnell's   sister,  who   was  also   one   of  the  fugitives.      As  the   cir- 
cumstances connected   with   the   flight   of  the   northern   earls,  which   led   to 
the  subsequent   confiscation  of  the   six    Ulster   counties  by  James   I.  may  not 
be  immediately  in   the  recollection  of  many  of   our  readers,  it  may  be  proper 
brieriy  to  state   that  it  was  caused  by  the  discovery  of  a  letter  directed  to   Sir 


i42  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

'Twere  long  before  around  a  grave 

In  green  Tyrconnell,  one  could  find 

This  loneliness ; 

Near  where  Beann-Boirche's  banners  wave, 

Such  grief  as  thine  could  ne'er  have  pined 

Companionless. 

William  Ussher,  Clerk  of  the  Council,  dropped  in  the  council-chamber 
on  the  seventh  of  May,  and  which  accused  the  northern  chieftains  gener- 
ally of  a  conspiracy  to  overthrow  the  government.  This  charge  is  now 
totally  disbelieved.  As  an  illustration  of  the  poem,  and  as  an  interesting 
piece  in  itself  of  hitherto  unpublished  literature,  we  extract  the  account  of 
the  flight  as  recorded  in  the  Annals  of  the  Four  Mastcrt  and  translated  by 
Mr.  O'Donovan  :  "  Maguire  (Cuconnaught),  and  Donogh,  son  of  Mahon, 
who  was  son  of  the  Bishop  O'Brien,  sailed  in  a  ship  to  Ireland,  and  put  in 
at  the  harbor  of  Swilly.  They  then  took  with  them  from  Ireland  the  earl 
O'Neill  (Hugh,  son  of  Ferdoragh)  and  the  Earl  O'Donnell  (Ron',  son  of 
Hugh,  who  was  son  of  Magnus)  and  many  others  of  the  nobles  of  the 
province  of  Ulster.  These  are  the  persons  who  went  with  O'Neill, 
namely  :  his  Countess  Catherina,  daughter  of  Magennis,  and  her  three 
sons,  Hugh,  the  Baron,  John,  and  Brian  ;  Art  Oge,  son  of  Cormac,  who 
was  son  of  the  Baron;  Ferdoragh,  son  of  Con,  who  was  son  of  O'Neill; 
Hugh  Oge,  son  of  Brian,  who  was  son  of  Art  O'Neill;  and  many  others 
of  his  most  intimate  friends.  These  were  they  who  went  with  the  Earl 
O'Donnell,  namely:  Caffer,  his  brother,  with  his  sister  Nuala;  Hugh,  the 
Earl's  child,  wanting  three  weeks  of  being  one  year  old  ;  Rose,  daughter  of 
O'Doherty  and  wife  of  Carter,  with  her  son  Hugh,  aged  two  years  and 
three  months;  his  (Rory's)  brother's  son  Donnell  Oge,  son  of  Donnell ; 
Naghtan,  son  of  Calvach,  who  was  son  of  Donogh  Cairbrcach  O'Donnell; 
and  many  others  of  his  intimate  friends.  They  embarked  on  the  festival  of 
the  Holy  Cross  in  autumn.  This  was  a  distinguished  company  ;  and  it  is 
certain  that  the  sea  has  not  borne  and  the  wind  has  not  wafted,  in  modem 
times,  a  number  of  persons  in  one  ship  more  eminent,  illustrious,  or  noble 
in  point  of  genealogy,  heroic  deeds,  valor,  feats  of  arms,  and  brave  achieve- 
ments than  they.  Would  that  God  had  but  permitted  them  to  remain  in 
their  patrimonial  inheritances  until  the  children  should  arrive  at  the  age  ot 
manhood  !  Woe  to  the  heart  that  meditated,  woe  to  the  mind  that  con- 
ceived, woe  to  the  council  that  recommended  the  project  of  this  expedition, 
without  knowing  whether  they  should,  to  the  end  of  their  lives,  be  able  to 
return  to  their  native  principalities  or  patrimonies."  The  Earl  of  Tyrone  was 
the  illustrious  Hugh  O'Neill,  the  Irish  leader  in  the  wars  against  Elizabeth. 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  143 

Beside  the  wave  in  Donegal, 

In  Antrim's  glens,  or  fair  Dromore, 

Or  Killillee, 

Or  where  the  sunny  waters  fall 

At  Assaroe,  near  Erna  shore, 

This  could  not  be. 

On  Derry's  plains,  in  rich  Drumclieff, 

Throughout  Armagh  the  Great,  renowned 

In  olden  years, 

No  day  could  pass  but  woman's  grief 

Would  rain  upon  the  burial-ground 

Fresh  floods  of  tears  ! 

O  no!  —  From  Shannon,  Boyne,  and  Suir, 

From  high  Dunluce's  castle-walls, 

From  Lissadill, 

Would  flock  alike  both  rich  and  poor: 

One  wail  would  rise  from  Cruachan's  halls 

To  Tara  hill ; 

And  some  would  come  from  Barrow-side, 

And  many  a  maid  would  leave  her  home 

On  Leitrim's  plains, 

And  by  melodious  Banna's  tide, 

And  by  the  Mourne  and  Erne,  to  come 

And  swell  thy  strains  ! 

Oh,  horses'  hoofs  would  trample  down 
The  mount  whereon  the  martyr-saint  ' 

1  St.  Peter.  This  passage  is  not  exactly  a  blunder,  though  at  first  it 
may  seem  one  :  the  poet  supposes  the  grave  itself  transferred  to  Ireland,  and 
he  naturally  includes  in  the  transference  the  whole  of  the  immediate  locality 
around  the  grave. 


i44  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Was  crucified ; 

From  glen  and  hill,  from  plain  and  town, 

One  loud  lament,  one  thrilling  plaint, 

Would  echo  wide. 

There  would  not  soon  be  found,  I  ween, 

One  foot  of  ground  among  those  bands 

For  museful  thought, 

So  many  shriekers  of  the  keen  l 

Would  cry  aloud,  and  clap  their  hands, 

All  woe-distraught ! 

Two  princes  of  the  line  of  Conn 

Sleep  in  their  cells  of  clay  beside 

O'Donnell  Roe  : 

Three  royal  youths,  alas  !   are  gone, 

Who  lived  for  Erin's  weal,  but  died 

For  Erin's  woe. 

Ah,  could  the  men  of  Ireland  read 

The  names  these  noteless  burial-stones 

Display  to  view, 

Their  wounded  hearts  afresh  would  bleed, 

Their  tears  gush  forth  again,  their  groans 

Resound  anew  ! 

The  youths  whose  relics  moulder  here 

Were  sprung  from  Hugh,  high  prince  and  lord 

Of  Aileach's  lands  ; 

Thy  noble  brothers,  justly  dear, 

Thy  nephew,  long  to  be  deplored 

By  Ulster's  bands. 

1  Ciioirtf,  the  funeral-wail,  pronounced  Keen. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  145 

Theirs  were  not  souls  wherein  dull  time 
Could  domicile  decay,  or  house 
Decrepitude  ! 

They  passed  from  earth  ere  manhood's  prime, 
Ere  years  had  power  to  dim  their  brows, 
Or  chill  their  blood. 

And  who  can  marvel  o'er  thy  grief, 
Or  who  can  blame  thy  flowing  tears, 
That  knows  their  source  ? 
O'Donnell,  Dunnasava's  chief, 
Cut  oft  amid  his  vernal  years, 
Lies  here  a  corse 
Beside  his  brother  Cathbar,  whom 
Tyrconnell  of  the  Helmets  mourns 
In  deep  despair : 

For  valor,  truth,  and  comely  bloom, 
For  all  that  greatens  and  adorns, 
A  peerless  pair. 

Oh,  had  these  twain,  and  he,  the  third, 

The  Lord  of  Mourne,  O'Niall's  son 

(Their  mate  in  death, 

A  prince  in  look,  in  deed  and  word), 

Had  these  three  heroes  yielded  on 

The  field  their  breath, 

Oh,  had  they  fallen  on  Criffan's  plain, 

There  would  not  be  a  town  nor  clan 

From  shore  to  sea, 

But  would  with  shrieks  bewail  the  slain, 

Or  chant  aloud  the  exulting  rann1 

Of  jubilee! 

1  Song. 


146  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

When  high  the  shout  of  battle  rose, 

On  fields  where  freedom's  torch  still  burned 

Thro'  Erin's  gloom, 

If  one,  if  barely  one  of  those 

Were  slain,  all  Ulster  would  have  mourned 

The  hero's  doom ! 

If  at  Athboy,  where  hosts  of  brave 

Ulidian  horsemen  sank  beneath 

The  shock  of  spears, 

Young  Hugh  O'Niall  had  found  a  grave, 

Long  must  the  north  have  wept  his  death, 

With  heart-wrung  tears  ! 

If  on  the  day  of  Ballachmyre 

The  Lord  of  Mourne  had  met,  thus  young, 

A  warrior's  fate, 

In  vain  would  such  as  thou  desire 

To  mourn,  alone,  the  champion  sprung 

From  Niall  the  Great ! 

No  marvel  this  :   for  all  the  dead, 

Heaped  on  the  field,  pile  over  pile, 

At  Mullach-brack, 

Were  scarce  an  eric1  for  his  head, 

If  Death  had  stayed  his  footsteps,  while 

On  victory's  track! 

If  on  the  Day  of  Hostages 

The  fruit  had  from  the  parent  bough 

Been  rudely  torn, 

In  sight  of  Munstcr's  bands,  Mac-Nee's, 

1  A  compensation  or  fine. 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  147 

Such  blow  the  blood  of  Conn,  I  trow, 

Could  ill  have  borne. 

If  on  the  day  of  Balloch-boy, 

Some  arm  had  laid,  by  foul  surprise, 

The  chieftain  low, 

Even  our  victorious  shout  of  joy 

Would  soon  give  place  to  rueful  cries 

And  groans  of  woe  ! 

If  on  the  day  the  Saxon  host 

Were  forced  to  fly,  a  day  so  great 

For  Ashanee,1 

The  chief  had  been  untimely  lost, 

Our  conquering  troops  should  moderate 

Their  mirthful  glee. 

There  would  not  lack  on  Lifford's  day, 

From  Galway,  from  the  glens  of  Boyle, 

From  Limerick  towers, 

A  marshalled  file,  a  long  array 

Of  mourners  to  bedew  the  soil 

With  tears  in  showers  ! 

If  on  the  day  a  sterner  fate 

Compelled  his  flight  from  Athcnry, 

His  blood  had  flowed, 

What  numbers  all  disconsolate 

Would  come  unasked,  and  share  with  thee 

Affliction's  load  ! 

If  Derry's  crimson  field  had  seen 

His  life-blood  offered  up,  though  'twere 


JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 


On  victory's  shrine, 
A  thousand  cries  would  swell  the  keen, 
A  thousand  voices  of  despair 
Would  echo  thine  ! 

Oh,  had  the  fierce  Dalcassian  swarm 

That  bloody  night  on  Fergus'  banks, 

But  slain  our  chief 

When  rose  his  camp  in  wild  alarm, 

How  would  the  triumph  of  his  ranks 

Be  dashed  with  grief! 

How  would  the  troops  of  Murbach  mourn 

If  on  the  Curlew  .Mountains'  day 

Which  England  rued, 

Some  Saxon  hand  had  left  them  lorn, 

By  shedding  there,  amid  the  fray, 

Their  prince's  blood  ! 

Red  would  have  been  our  warrior's  eyes 

Had  Roderick  found  on  Sligo's  field 

A  gory  grave  ; 

No  northern  chief  would  soon  arise 

So  sage  to  guide,  so  strong  to  shield, 

So  swift  to  save. 

Long  would  Leith-Cuinn  1  have  wept  if  Hugh 

Had  met  the  death  he  oft  had  dealt 

Among  the  foe  ; 

But,  had  our  Roderick  fallen  too, 

All  Erin  must,  alas,  have  felt 

The  deadly  blow. 

Lcith-Cuinn,  northern  half  of  Ireland.      Leith-Moga,  southern  half. 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  149 

What  do  I  say  ?     Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 

Already  we  bewail  in  vain 

Their  fatal  fall ! 

And  Erin,  once  the  great  and  free, 

Now  vainly  mourns  her  breakless  chain, 

And  iron  thrall. 

Then,  daughter  of  O'Donnell,  dry 

Thine  overflowing  eyes,  and  turn 

Thy  heart  aside, 

For  Adam's  race  is  born  to  die, 

And  sternly  the  sepulchral  urn 

Mocks  human  pride. 

Look  not,  nor  sigh,  for  earthly  throne, 

Nor  place  thy  trust  in  arm  of  clay, 

But  on  thy  knees 

Uplift  thy  soul  to  God  alone, 

For  all  things  go  their  destined  way 

As  He  decrees. 

Embrace  the  faithful  crucifix, 

And  seek  the  path  of  pain  and  prayer 

Thy  Saviour  trod  ; 

Nor  let  thy  spirit  intermix 

With  earthly  hope,  with  worldly  care, 

Its  groans  to  God  ! 

And  Thou,  O  mighty  Lord  !   whose  ways 

Are  far  above  our  feeble  minds 

To  understand, 

Sustain  us  in  these  doleful  clays, 

And  render  light  the  chain  that  binds 

Our  fallen  land  ! 


150  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Look  down  upon  our  dreary  state, 
And  thro'  the  ages  that  may  still 
Roll  sadly  on, 

Watch  thou  o'er  hapless  Erin's  fate, 
And  shield  at  least  from  darker  ill 
The  blood  of  Conn  ! 


A    LOVE   SONG  (8) 

(TRADITIONAL) 

Lonely  from  my  home  I  come, 

To  cast  myself  upon  your  tomb 

And  to  weep. 

Lonely  from  my  lonesome  home, 

My  lonesome  house  of  grief  and  gloom, 

While  I  keep 

Vigil  often  all  night  long, 

For  your  dear,  dear  sake, 

Praying  many  a  prayer,  so  wrong, 

That  my  heart  would  break  ! 

Gladly,  O  my  blighted  flower, 

Sweet  apple  of  my  bosom's  tree  ! 

Would  I  now 

Stretch  me  in  your  dark  death-bower 

Beside  your  corpse,  and  lovingly 

Kiss  your  brow. 

But  we'll  meet  ere  many  a  day 

Never  more  to  part, 

For  even  now  I  feel  the  clay 

Gathering  round  my  heart. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS 


In  my  soul  doth  darkness  dwell, 

And  thro'  its  dreary  winding  caves 

Ever  flows, 

Ever  flows  with  moaning  swell, 

One  ebbless  flood  of  many  waves 

Which  are  woes. 

Death,  love,  has  me  in  his  lures  ; 

But  that  grieves  not  me, 

So  my  ghost  may  meet  with  yours 

On  yon  moon-loved  lea. 

When  the  neighbors  near  my  cot 

Believe  me  sunk  in  slumber  deep, 

I  arise 

(For,  oh,  'tis  a  weary  lot, 

This  watching  aye,  and  wooing  sleep 

With  hot  eyes); 

I  arise,  and  seek  your  grave, 

And  pour  forth  my  tears, 

While  the  winds  that  nightly  rave 

Whistle  in  mine  ears. 

Often  turns  my  memory  back 

To  that  dear  evening  in  the  dell, 

When  we  twain 

Sheltered  by  the  sloe-bush  black, 

Sat,  laughed,  and  talked,  while  thick  sleet  fell, 

And  cold  rain. 

Thanks  to  God  !    no  guilty  leaven 

Dashed  our  childish  mirth  : 

You  rejoice-  for  this  in  Heaven, 

I  not  less  on  earth  ! 


152  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Love  !   the  priests  feel  wroth  with  me, 

To  find  I  shrine  your  image  still 

In  my  breast, 

Since  you  are  gone  eternally, 

And  your  fair  frame  lies  in  the  chill 

Grave  at  rest  ; 

But  true  love  outlives  the  shroud, 

Knows  nor  check  nor  change, 

And  beyond  time's  world  of  cloud 

Still  must  reign  and  range. 

Well  may  now  your  kindred  mourn 

The  threats,  the  wiles,  the  cruel  arts, 

Long  they  tried 

On  the  child  they  left  forlorn ! 

They  broke  the  tenderest  heart  of  hearts, 

And  she  died. 

Curse  upon  the  love  of  show  ! 

Curse  on  pride  and  greed  ! 

They  would  wed  you  "  high"  — and  woe  ! 

Here  behold  their  meed. 


A    LULLABY 

(OWEN   ROK   o' SULLIVAN)   (9) 

O  hushaby,  baby  !      Why  weepest  thou  ? 
The  diadem  yet  shall  adorn  thy  brow, 
And  the  jewels  thv  sires  had,  long  agone, 
In  the  regal  ages  of  Eoghan  and  Conn, 
Shall  all  be  thine. 
C)  hushaby,  hushaby,  child  of  mine  ! 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  153 

My  sorrow,  my  woe,  to  see  thy  tears, 
Pierce  into  my  heart  like  spears. 

I'll  give  thee  that  glorious  apple  of  gold 

The  three  fair  goddesses  sought  of  old, 

I'll  give  thee  the  diamond  sceptre  of  Pan, 

And  the  rod  with  which  Moses,  that  holiest  man, 

Wrought  marvels  divine  : 

O  hushaby,  hushaby,  child  of  mine  ! 

I'll  give  thee  that  courser,  fleet  on  the  plains, 

That  courser  with  golden  saddle  and  reins, 

Which  Falvey  rode,  the  mariner-lord, 

When  the  blood  of  the  Danes  at  Cushel-na-Nord 

Flowed  like  to  dark  wine  : 

O  hushaby,  hushaby,  child  of  mine  ! 

I'll  give  thee  the  dazzling  sword  was  worn 

By  Brian  on  Cluan-tarava's  morn, 

And  the  bow  of  Murrough,  whose  shaft  shot  gleams 

That  lightened  as  when  the  arrowy  beams 

Of  the  noon-sun  shine  : 

()  hushaby,  hushaby,  child  of  mine  ! 

And  the  hound  that  was  wont  to  speed  amain 

From  CasheFs  rock  to  Bunratty's  plain, 

And  the  eagle  from  gloomy  Aherlow, 

And  the  hawk  of  Skellig  ;  all  these  I'll  bestow 

On  thee  and  thy  line  : 

O  hushaby,  hushabv,  child  of  mine  ! 

And  the  golden  fleece  that  Jason  bore 
To  Hellas'  hero-peopled  shore. 


154  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

And  the  steed  that  Cuchullin  bought  of  yore 
With  cloak  and  necklet  and  golden  store 
And  meadows  and  kine  : 
O  hushaby,  hushaby,  child  of  mine  ! 

And  ConnaPs  unpierceable  shirt  of  mail, 

And  the  shield  of  Nish,  the  prince  of  the  Gael ; 

These  twain  for  thee,  my  babe,  shall  I  win, 

With  the  flashing  spears  of  Achilles  and  Finn, 

Each  high  as  a  pine  : 

O  hushaby,  hushaby,  child  of  mine  ! 

And  the  swords  of  Diarmuid  and  fierce  Fingal, 
The  slayers  on  heath  and  (alas  !)  in  hall ; 
And  the  charmed  helmet  that  Oscar  wore 
When  he  left  Mac  Treoin  to  welter  in  gore, 
Subdued  and  supine  : 
O  hushaby,  hushaby,  child  of  mine  ! 

And  the  jewel  wherewith  Queen  Eofa  proved 

The  valor  and  faith  of  the  hero  she  loved  ; 

The  magic  jewel  that  nerved  his  arm 

To  work  his  enemies  deadly  harm 

On  plain  and  on  brine  : 

O  hushaby,  hushaby,  child  of  mine  ! 

And  the  wondrous  cloak  renowned  in  song, 
The  enchanted  cloak  of  the  dark  Dubh-long, 
Hv  whose  powerful  aid  he  battled  amid 
The  thick  ot  his  toes,  unseen  and  hid. 
This,  too,  shall  be  thine  : 
O  hushaby,  hushaby,  child  of  mine  ! 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  155 

The  last,  not  least,  of  thy  weapons,  my  son, 
Shall  be  the  glittering  glaive  of  O'Dunn, 
The  gift  from  jEnghus'  powerful  hands, 
The  hewer-down  of  the  Fenian  bands 
With  edge  so  fine  ! 
O  hushaby,  hushaby,  child  of  mine  ! 

And  a  princess  too,  transcending  all 

Who  have  held  the  hearts  of  men  in  thrall, 

Transcending  Helen  of  history, 

Thy  bride  in  thy  palmier  years  shall  be; 

Thy  bride  heroine  : 

O  hushaby,  hushaby,  child  of  mine  ! 

Even  Hebe,  who  fills  the  nectar  up 
For  Love,  in  his  luminous  crystal  cup, 
Shall  pour  thee  out  a  wine  in  thy  dreams, 
As  bright  as  thy  poet-father's  themes 
When  inspired  by  the  Nine. 
O  hushaby,  hushaby,  child  of  mine  ! 

And  silken  robes,  and  sweet  soft  cates 
Shall  thou  wear  and  eat,  beyond  thy  mates. 
Ah,  sec,  here  comes  thy  mother,  Moirin  ! 
She,  too,  has  the  soul  of  an  Irish  queen  : 
She  scorns  to  repine  ! 
Then  hushaby,  hushaby,  child  of  mine  ! 
My  sorrow,  mv  woe,  to  see  thv  tears, 
Pierce  into  my  heart  like  spears. 


156  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

THE    EXPEDITION    AND    DEATH    OF 
KING   DATHY  (10) 

King  Dathy  assembled  his  Druids  and  Sages, 

And  thus  he  spake  to  them  :   "  Druids  and  Sages 

What  of  King  Dathy  ? 

What  is  revealed  in  destiny's  pages 

Of  him  or  his  ?      Hath  he 

Aught  for  the  future  to  dread  or  to  dree  ? 

Good  to  rejoice  in,  or  evil  to  flee  ? 

Is  he  a  foe  of  the  Gall 

Fitted  to  conquer,  or  fated  to  fall  ?  " 

And  Beirdra  the  Druid  made  answer  as  thus  : 

(A  priest  of  a  hundred  years  was  he.) 

"  Dathv  !   thy  fate  is  not  hidden  from  us  ! 

Hear  it  thro'  me  ! 

Thou  shalt  work  thine  own  will  : 

Thou  shalt  slay,  thou  shalt  prey, 

And  be  conqueror  still  ! 

Thee  the  earth  shall  not  harm  ! 

Thee  we  charter  and  charm 

From  all  evil  and  ill  •, 

Thee  the  laurel  shall  crown  ! 

Thee  the  wave  shall  not  drown  ! 

Thee  the  chain  shall  not  bind  ! 

Thee  the  spear  shall  not  find  ! 

Thee  the  sword  shall  not  slay  ! 

Thee  the  shaft  shall  not  pierce  ! 

Thou,  therefore,  be  fearless  and  fierce 

And  sail  with  thy  warriors  away 

To  the  lands  of  the  Gall, 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  157 

There  to  slaughter  and  sway, 
And  be  victor  o'er  all !  " 

So  Dathy  he  sailed  away,  away 

Over  the  deep  resounding  sea; 

Sailed  with  his  hosts  in  armor  gray 

Over  the  deep  resounding  sea, 

Many  a  night  and  many  a  day  ; 

And  many  an  islet  conquered  he, 

He  and  his  hosts  in  armor  gray. 

And  the  billow  drowned  him  not, 

And  the  fetter  bound  him  not, 

And  the  blue  spear  found  him  not, 

And  the  red  sword  slew  him  not, 

And  the  swift  shaft  knew  him  not, 

And  the  foe  o'crthrew  him  not. 

Till  one  bright  morn,  at  the  base 

Of  the  Alps,  in  rich  Ausonia's  regions, 

His  men  stood  marshalled  face  to  face 

With  the  mighty  Roman  legions. 

Noble  foes  ! 

Christian  and  heathen  stood  there  among  those, 

Resolute  all  to  overcome, 

Or  die  for  the  eagles  of  ancient  Rome  ! 

O 

When,  behold  !    from  a  temple  anear 
Came  forth  an  aged  priest-like  man 
Of  a  countenance  meek  and  clear  ; 
Who,  turning  to  Eire's  Ceann,1 
Spake  him  as  thus  :   "  King  Dathy,  hear  ! 

1  Ceurtn,  head,  king. 


158  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Thee  would  I  warn  ! 

Retreat,  retire  :   repent  in  time 

The  invader's  crime. 

Or  better  for  thee  thou  hadst  never  been  born  !  " 

But  Dathy  replied  :   "  False  Nazarene  ! 

Dost  thou,  then,  menace  Dathy,  thou  ? 

And  dreamest  thou  that  he  will  bow 

To  one  unknown,  to  one  so  mean, 

So  powerless  as  a  priest  must  be  ? 

He  scorns  alike  thy  threats  and  thee  ! 

On,  on,  my  men,  to  victory  !  " 

And,  with  loud  shouts  for  Eire's  King, 

The  Irish  rush  to  meet  the  foe, 

And  falchions  clash  and  bucklers  ring, — 

When,  lo  ! 

Lo  !   a  mighty  earthquake  shock  ! 

And  the  cleft  plains  reel  and  rock; 

Clouds  of  darkness  pall  the  skies ; 

Thunder  crashes, 

Liy-htninc-  flashes, 

O  O  ' 

And  in  an  instant  Dathy  lies 

On  the  earth,  a  mass  of  blackened  ashes  ! 

Then,  mournfully  and  dolefully, 

The  Irish  warriors  sailed  away 

Over  the  deep  resounding  sea, 

Till,  wearily  and  mournfully, 

They  anchored  in  Kblana's  Bay. 

Thus  the  Seanachies  1  and  Sages 

Tell  this  tale  of  long-gone  ages. 

1  &ar.ii<;bicst  historians. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS 


'59 


THE    WOMAN    OF    THREE    COWS1 


TRADITIONAL 


O   woman  of   three  cows,  agragh !     don't    let    your 

tongue  thus  rattle  : 
O  don't  be  saucy,  don't  be  stift,  because  you   may 

have  cattle. 
I've  seen   (and   here's   my   hand   to    you,  I   only  say 

what's  true  !) 
A   many  a  one  with  twice  your  stock   not    half   so 

proud  as  you. 

Good  luck  to  you,  don't  scorn   the   poor,  and   don't 

be  their  despiser, 
For  worldly  wealth  soon  melts   away,  and   cheats   the 

very   miser. 
And    death    soon    strips    the    proudest   wreath    from 

haughty    human   brows  : 
Then    don't    be    stift,    and     don't     be     proud,    good 

woman   of  three   cows  ! 

See    where     Momonia's     heroes     lie,     proud     Owen 

More's  descendants  ! 
'Tis   they  that   won   the   glorious   name   and    had   the 

<2;rand  attendants  : 


1  This  ballad,  which  is  of  homely  cast,  wa 
saucy  pride  of  a  woman  in  humble  lite  who  assu 
being  the  owner  ot  three  cows.  Its  author'.-,  nan 
can  be  determined  from  the  language,  as  bel 
seventeenth  century.  That  it  was  formerly  v 


concluded  from  the  fact  tli.it  the  phrase  "  Ka 
has  become  a  saying  in  that  province  on  any 
able  to  lower  the  pretensions  ot  a  boastful  or 


tended  as  a  rebuke  to  the 
ned  airs  of  consequence, 
e  is  unknown,  but  its  ay 
g  to  the  early  part  of  the 
ipul.ir  in  Minister  may  IK: 


,  O  woman  of  three  cows 
:casion  upon  which  it  is  desir- 
nsequential  person. 


160  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

If  they  were  forced   to  bow   to   fate,  as   every  mortal 

bows, 
Can  you   be  proud,  can   you  be  stiff,  my  woman   of 

three  cows  ? 

The  brave  sons  of  the  Lord  of  Clare,  they  left  the 

land  to  mourning, 
Mavrone  !  l   for  they  were  banished,  with  no  hope  of 

their  returning : 
Who   knows   in   what   abodes  of    want   those  youths 

were  driven   to   house  ? 
Yet  you  can   give  yourself  these  airs,  O   woman  of 

three  cows  ! 

O   think   of  Donnell   of  the  Ships,   the  chief  whom 

nothing  daunted  ! 
Sec    how    he    fell    in     distant     Spain,    unchroniclcd, 

unchanted. 
He    sleeps,    the    great     O'Sullivan,    whom     thunder 

cannot    rouse  : 
Then     ask    yourself,    should     you    be     proud,    good 

woman   of  three  cows  ! 

O'Ruark,  Maguirc,  those   souls  of  fire  whose   names 

are  shrined  in  story, 
Think  how  their  high  achievements  once  made  Erin's 

greatest   glory  ; 
Yet  now  their  bones  lie  mouldering  under  weeds   and 

cypress  boughs, 
And  so,  for  all   your   pride,  will   yours,  ()  woman   of 

three  cows  ! 

1  My  grief. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  161 

The  O'Carrolls,  also,  famed  when   fame  was  only  for 

the  boldest, 
Rest   in   forgotten    sepulchres   with    Erin's    best    and 

oldest ; 
Yet   who  so  great    as    they    of   yore    in    battle    and 

carouse  ? 
Just  think  of  that,  and  hide  your  head,  good   woman 

of  three  cows. 

Your    neighbor's   poor,  and    you,   it    seems,  are    big 

with   vain   ideas, 
Because,  inagh,1  you've  got  three  cows ;   one   more,  I 

see,  than  she  has  ! 
That   tongue    of   yours    wags    more,  at    times,  than 

charity   allows  : 
But   if  you're    strong,  be   merciful,  great   woman   of 

three  cows  ! 

Avran 

Now  there  you  go :   you  still,  of  course,  keep  up  your 

scornful  bearing ; 
And  I'm  too  poor  to  hinder  you.      But,  by  the   cloak 

I'm  wearing, 
If   I    had   but    four  cows    myself,    even    though    you 

were   my   spouse, 
I'd  thwack   you  well   to   cure   your   pride,  my  woman 

of  three  cows  ! 

1  Forsooth. 


162  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

A    FAREWELL    TO    PATRICK    SARSFIELD, 
LORD    LUC AN  (n) 

(TRADITIONAL) 

Farewell,  O  Patrick   Sarsfield  :   may   luck  be  on  your 

path  ! 
Your  camp   is   broken  up ;  your  work   is   marred   for 

years. 
But  you  go  to  kindle  into  flame  the  King  of  France's 

wrath, 

Though  you  leave  sick  Eire  in  tears. 
(Ocb,  ochone  /) 

May   the   white   sun    and    moon   rain    glory   on   your 

head, 

All  hero  as  you  are,  and  holy  man  of  God  ! 
To  you  the  Saxons  owe  a  many  an  hour  of   dread 
In  the  land  you  have  often  trod. 
(Ocb,  ochone  /) 

The   Son   of  Mary  guard    you,   and  bless  you   to    the 

end  ! 

'Tis  altered  is  the  time  when  your  legions  were  astir. 
When  at  Cullen  you  were    hailed  as  a  conqueror   and 

friend, 

And  you  crossed  Narrow-water,  near  Birr. 
(Ot/7,  oc hone  /) 

I'll   journey    to    the    north,   over    mount,    moor,    and 

wave  : 
'Twas  there  I  first  beheld,  drawn  up  in   hie  and    line, 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  163 

The  brilliant   Irish   hosts  ;   they  were  bravest  of  the 

brave, 

But,  alas,  they  scorned  to  combine. 
(  Och,  ochone  /) 

I  saw  the  royal  Boyne,  when  his  billows  flashed  with 

blood ; 
I  fought  at   Graine   Og,  where  a  thousand   horsemen 

fell; 
On   the  dark   empurpled    plain   of   Aughrim,   too,   I 

stood, 

On  the  plain  by  Tuberdonny's  well. 
(  Och,  ochone  /) 

To  the  heroes  of  Limerick,  the  city  of  the  fights, 
Be  my  best  blessing  borne  on  the  wings  of  the  air  ! 
We    had    card-playing    there   o'er   our   camp-fires    at 

night, 

And  the  Word  of  Life  too,  and  prayer. 
(  Och,  ochone  /) 

But    for    you,   Londonderry,   may    plague   smite   and 

slav 

Your  people,  may  ruin  desolate  you  stone  by  stone  ! 
Thro'  you  there's  many  a  gallant  youth  lies   coffinlcss 

to-day, 

With  the  winds  for  mourners  alone. 
(  Of/;,  ochone  !  } 

I  clomb  the  high  hill  on  a  fair  summer  noon, 
And  saw  the  Saxons   muster,  clad  in  armor   blinding- 
bright  : 


164  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Oh,  rage  withheld  my  hand,  or  gunsman  and  dragoon 
Should  have  supped  with  Satan  that  night ! 
(  Och,  ochone  /) 

How  many  a  noble  soldier,  how  many  a  cavalier 
Careered  along  this  road,  seven  fleeting  weeks  ago, 
With   silver-hiked   sword,  with   matchlock  and   with 

spear, 

Who  now,  mavrone  !   lieth  low. 
(  Ocb,  ochone  /) 

All  hail  to  thee,  Ben  Edir  !  l  but  ah,  on  thy  brow 
I  see  a  limping  soldier,  who  battled  and  who  bled 
Last  year  in  the  cause  of  the  Stuart,  though  now 
The  worthy  is  begging  his  bread. 
(  Och,  ochone  /) 

And    Diarmuid,   O    Diarmuid  !     he    perished   in   the 

strife  ; 

His  head  it  was  spiked  upon  a  halbert  high; 
His  colors  they  were   trampled  ;  he  had  no  chance  of 

life 

If  the  Lord  God  Himself  stood  by  ! 
(  Och,  ochone  /) 

But  most,  O  my  woe  !      I  lament  and  lament 

For  the  ten  valiant  heroes  who  dwell   nigh  the  Nore, 

And   my   three   blessed   brothers  ;   they   left   me,  and 

they  went 

To  the  wars,  and  returned  no  more. 
(Och,  ochone') 

1  Ben  Edir  :   the  beautiful  Hill  of  Howth,  near  Dublin. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  165 

On  the  bridge  of  the  Boyne  was  our  first  overthrow ; 
By  Slaney  the  next,  for  we  battled  without  rest ; 
The  third  was  at  Aughrim.      O  Eire,  thy  woe 
Is  a  sword  in  my  bleeding  breast. 
(  Och,  ochone  /) 

Oh,  the  roof  above  our  heads,  it  was  barbarously  fired, 

While  the  black  Orange  guns  blazed  and  bellowed 
around  ! 

And  as  volley  followed  volley,  Colonel  Mitchel l  in- 
quired, 

Whither  Lucan  still  stood  his  ground  ? 

(  Och,  ochone  /) 

But  O'Kelly  still  remains,  to  defy,  and  to  toil. 

He    has   memories    that     hell  won't    permit    him    to 

forget, 

And  a  sword  that  will  make  the  blue  blood  flow  like  oil 
Upon  many  an  Aughrim  yet ! 
(  Och,  ochone  /) 

And  I  never  shall  believe  that  my  fatherland  can  fall, 
With  the    Burkes,2  and   the   Decies,  and   the  son  of 

royal  James, 

And  Talbot  the  captain,  and  Sarsfield  above  all, 
The  beloved  of  damsels  and  dames. 
(  Och,  ochone  /) 

1  Colonel  Mitchclburne,  the  Governor  of  Deny,  in  the  Williamite  ser- 
vice. 

'•*  The  five  of  th»-  De  Burgo  or  Burke  family  who  were  loyal  to  James  11.: 
Lords  Clanrickanl,  Brittas,  Bophin,  Castleconnell,  and  Galway.  "  The 
son  of  royal  Jamrs  "  is  the  famous  James  Fir/  James,  Duke  of  Berwick, 
subseijuently  Marshal,  Duke,  and  Peer  of  France. 


1 66  [AMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 


THE    RUINS    OF    DONEGAL   CASTLE  (12) 


O  mournful,  O  forsaken  pile 

What  desolation  dost  thou  dree  ! 

How  tarnished  is  the  beauty  that  was  thine  erewhilc, 

Thou  mansion  of  chaste  melody. 

Demolished  lie  thy  towers  and  halls  ; 

A  dark,  unsightly  earthen  mound 

Defaces  the  pure  whiteness  of  thy  shining  walls, 

And  solitude  doth  gird  thee  round. 

Fair  fort,  thine  hour  has  come  at  length, 
Thine  older  glory  has  gone  by. 
Lo,  far  beyond  thy  noble  battlements  of  strength 
Thy  corner-stones  all  scattered  lie. 

Where  now,  O  rival  of  the  gold 

Emania,  be  thy  wine-cups  all  ? 

Alas,  for  these  thou  now  hast  nothing  but  the  cold, 

Cold  stream  that  from  the  heavens  doth  fall ! 

Thy  clay-choked  gateways  none  can  trace 

Thou  fortress  of  the  once  bright  doors  ; 

The  limestones  of  thy  summit  now  bestrew  thy  base, 

Bestrew  the  outside  of  thy  floors  ; 

Above  thy  shattered  window-sills 

The  music  that  to-day  breaks  forth 

Is  but  the  music  of  the  wild  winds  of  the  hills, 

The  wild  winds  of  the  stormv  north. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  167 

What  spell  o'er  came  thee,  mighty  fort, 
What  fatal  fit  of  slumber  strange, 
O  palace  of  the  wine,  O  many-gated  court ! 
That  thou  shouldst  undergo  this  change? 

Thou  wert,  O  bright-walled,  beaming  one 
Thou  cradle  of  high  deeds  and  bold  ! 
The  Tara  of  assemblies  to  the  sons  of  Conn, 
Clan  Council's  council-hall  of  old  ; 

Thou  wert  a  new  Emania,  thou, 

A  northern  Cruachan  in  thy  might, 

A    dome   like   that    which    stands    by    Boyne's   broad 

water  now, 
Thou  Erin's  Rome  of  all  delight  ! 

In  thee  were  Ulster's  tributes  stored, 
And  lavished  like  the  flowers  in  May. 
And  into  thee  were  Connaught's  thousand  treasures 

poured, 
Deserted  tho'  thou  art  to-day  ! 

How  often  from  thy  turrets  hi«;h, 

j  o      ' 

Thy  purple  turrets,  have  we  seen 

Long    lines    of    glittering   ships,    when    summer-time 

drew  nigh, 
With  masts  and  sails  of  snow-white  sheen  ! 

How  often  seen  when  u;a'/,ini2;  round 

From  thv  tall  towers,  the  hunting  trains 

The    blood-enlivening    chase,   the   horseman    and    the 

hound, 
rhou  fastness  of  a  hundred  plains  ! 


1 68  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

How  often  to  thy  banquet  bright 
We  have  seen  the  strong-armed  Gaels  repair, 
And  when  the  feast  was  over,  once  again  unite 
For  battle,  in  thy  basscourt  fair  ! 

Alas  for  thee,  thou  fort  forlorn ; 

Alas  for  thy  low,  lost  estate  : 

It  is  my  woe  of  woes,  this  melancholy  morn 

To  see  thee  left  thus  desolate. 

O  there  hath  come  of  ConnelFs  race 

A  many  and  many  a  gallant  chief 

Who,  if  he   saw   thee   now,  thou   of  the   once   glad 

face, 
Could  not  dissemble  his  deep  grief. 

Could  Manus  of  the  lofty  soul 

Behold  thee  as  this  day  thou  art, 

Thou  of  the  regal  towers  !   what  bitter,  bitter  dole 

What  agony  would  rend  his  heart  ! 

Could  Hugh  MacHugh's  imaginings 

Portray  for  him  the  rueful  plight, 

What  anguish,  ()  thou  palace  of  the  northern  kings! 

Were  his,  thro'  many  a  sleepless  night. 

Could  even  the  mighty  prince  whose  choice 

'Tvvas  to  o'erthrow  thee,  could  Hugh  Roe 

But    view    thee    now,  methinks,  he  would    not    much 

rejoice 
That  he  had  laid  thy  turrets  low. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  169 

Oh,  who  could  dream  that  one  like  him, 

One  sprung  of  such  a  line  as  his, 

Thou  of  the  embellished  walls  !   would  be  the  man  to 

dim 
Thy  glories  by  a  deed  like  this  ? 

From  Hugh  O'Donnell,  thine  own  brave 

And  far-famed  sovereign,  came  the  blow ; 

By  him,  thou  lonesome  castle  o'er  the  Esky's  wave! 

By  him  was  wrought  thine  overthrow. 

Yet  not  because  he  wished  thee  ill, 

Left  he  thee  thus  bercaven  and  void  : 

The  prince  of  the  victorious  tribe  of  Dalach  still 

Loved  thee,  yea,  thee  whom  he  destroyed. 

He  brought  upon  thee  all  this  woe, 

Thou  of  the  fair-proportioned  walls  ! 

Lest  thou  shouldst  ever  yield  a  shelter  to  the  foe, 

Shouldst  house  the  black  ferocious  Galls  ; 

Shouldst  yet  become,  in  saddest  truth, 

A  Dun-na-GallJ-  the  stranger's  own  : 

For  this  cause  only,  stronghold  of  the  Gaelic  youth  ! 

Lie  thy  majestic  towers  o'erthrown. 

It  is  a  drear,  a  dismal  si^ht, 
This  of  thy  ruin  and  decay, 
Now  that  our  kings,  and  bards,  and  men  of  mark  of 

might, 
Are  nameless  exiles  far  away. 

1  Fort  of   the  Furriiinrr. 


JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 


Yet  better  thou  shoulclst  fall,  meseems, 

By  thine  own  king  of  many  thrones, 

Than  that  the  truculent  Galls  should  rear  around  thy 

streams 
Dry  mounds,  and  circles  of  great  stones. 

As  doth  in  many  a  desperate  case 

The  surgeon  by  the  malady, 

So  hath,  O  shield  and  bulwark  of  great  Coftey's  race! 

Thy  royal  master  done  by  thce. 

The  surgeon,  if  he  be  but  wise, 
Examines  till  he  learns  and  sees 
Where  lies  the  fountain  of  his  patient's  health,  where 

lies 
The  germ  and  root  of  his  disease  ; 

Then  cuts  away  the  gangrened  part, 

That  so  the  sounder  may  be  freed 

Ere   the   disease   hath    power  to   reach   the  sufferer's 

heart, 
And  so  brino;  death  without  rcmead. 

O 

Now  thou  hast  held  the  patient's  place 

And  thy  disease  hath  been  the  foe  ; 

So  he,  thy  surgeon,  ()  proud  house  of  Dalach's  race  ! 

Who  should  he  be  if  not  Hugh  Roe? 

But  he,  thus  fated  to  destroy 

Thy  shining  walls,  will  yet  restore 

And  raise  thee  up  anew  in  beautv  and  in  joy, 

So  that  thou  shalt  not  sorrow  more. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  171 

By  God's  help,  he  who  wrought  thy  fall 
Will  reinstate  thee  yet  in  pride  ; 
Thy  variegated  halls  shall  be  rebuilded  all, 
Thy  lofty  courts,  thy  chambers  wide. 

Yes,  thou  shall  live  again,  and  see 

Thy  youth  renewed  ;  thou  shalt  outshine 

Thy  former  self  by  far,  ai.d  Hugh  shall  reign  in  thee, 

The  Tyrconnellian's  king,  and  thine. 


SANCTA    OPERA    DOMINI. 

(JOHN   MURPHY) 

Holy  are  the  works  of  Mary's  blessed  Son, 
Holy  are  His  mercies  unto  every  one. 
Holy  is  the  sun  that  lighteth  heaven  ; 
Holy  is  the  weather,  morn  and  even  ; 
Holy  is  the  wind  that  woos  the  flowers  ; 
Holy  are  the  gentle  April  showers; 
Holy  is  the  summer's  cheering  glow; 
Holy  is  the  rain  God  sends  below. 
Holy  are  all  in  His  abodes  of  love, 
Holy  is  every  Heaven  of  His  above, 
Holy  is  the  sun  and  every  star  : 
Holy  is  He  who  sends  their  light  afar. 
Holy  are  the  winds  that  fall  and  rise; 
Holy  are  the  waters  and  the  skies  ; 
Holy  is  all  outspread  beneath  His  eye. 
Holy  arc  the  birds  He  formed  to  fly  ; 
Holy  arc  the  ha/el  woodlands  green  ; 
Holy  arc  the  vineyards  in  their  sheen  : 


172  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Holy  are  the  fruits  they  bear  and  bring, 
Holy  is  the  earth  wherefrom  they  spring. 
Holy  is  the  ever-circling  Heaven ; 
Holy  is  every  thought  to  Jesus  given  ; 
Holy  is  all  that  He  hath  made,  and  sees, 
Holy  are  all  His  ways  and  His  decrees. 
Holy  are  the  ocean  strands  and  floods ; 
Holy  are  the  dark  umbrageous  woods ; 
Holy  are  the  herbs  and  plants  and  flowers  ; 
Holy  is  all  creation  with  her  powers  ; 
Holy  are  the  earth's  four-corner  bosoms ; 
Holy  are  the  mossy  rocks  and  blossoms. 
Holy  is  fire  that  giveth  light  and  cheer; 
Holy  is  all  that  I  have  written  here. 
Holy  is  the  sea's  voice,  calm  or  hoarse, 
Holy  are  the  streamlets  in  their  course  ; 
Holy  are  the  healthy  moorlands  bare, 
Holy  are  the  fishes,  and  the  air. 
Holy  are  the  Counsel  and  the  Will, 
Holy  are  God's  works,  and  most  pure  from  ill. 
Holy  are  His  laws,  His  faith  and  troth  ; 
Holy  are  His  wrath  and  patience  both. 
Holy  is  Heaven  with  its  nine  Orders  bright, 
Holy  is  Jesus,  its  great  Lord  and  light  : 
Holy  is  Heaven,  above  all  holiness, 
Holy  is  the  King  the  angels  bless. 
Holy  are  the  saints  in  Heaven  that  be  ; 
Holy  is  the  adorable  Trinity  : 
Holy  are  all  high  Heaven's  works  and  words, 
Holy  is  love,  the  saints'  love  and  the  Lords' ! 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  173 

KATHALEEN   NY-HOULAHAN  '  (13) 

(TRADITIONAL) 

Long  they  pine  in  weary  woe,  the  nobles  of  our  land, 
Long  they  wander  to  and   fro,  proscribed,  alas  !   and 

banned  ; 
Feastless,  houseless,  altarless,   they  bear    the    exile's 

brand  ; 
But  their  hope  is  in  the  coming-to  of  Kathaleen   Ny- 

Houlahan  ! 

Think  her  not  a  ghastly  hag  too  hideous  to  be  seen, 
Call     her     not      unseemly      names,    our      matchless 

Kathaleen  ! 
Young  she  is,  and  fair  she  is,  and  would  be   crowned 

a  queen, 
Were  the  king's  son   at  home  here  with   Kathaleen 

Ny-Houlahan  ! 

Sweet  and  mild  would  look  her  face,  O  none  so  sweet 

and  mild, 
Could  she  crush  the   foes    by   whom    her    beauty   is 

reviled  ; 
Woollen  plaids  would  grace  herself,  and  robes  of  silk 

her  child, 
If  the   king's  son   were   living    here   with    Kathaleen 

Ny-Houlahan  ! 

Sore  disgrace  it  is  to  sec  the  arbitrcss  of  thrones 
Vassal  to  a  Stixoncen  of  cold  and  sapless  bones  ! 

1  jlng/ice,    Catherine   O'Holohan,  a   name   by  which    Ireland    was   alL1- 
gorically  known. 


174  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Bitter  anguish  wrings  our  souls ;    with    heavy  sighs 

and  groans 
We    wait    the    y°ung    deliverer    of    Kathaleen    Ny- 

Houlahan  ! 

Let  us  pray  to   Him  who  holds  life's  issues  in   His 

hands, 
Him    who    formed    the    mighty    globe,   with    all    its 

thousand  lands  ; 
Girdling  them  with  seas  and  mountains,  rivers  deep, 

and  strands, 
To  cast  a  look  of  pity  upon  Kathaleen  Ny-Houlahan  ! 

He  who  over  sands  and  waves  led  Israel  along, 

He  who   fed   with  heavenly  bread   that  chosen  tribe 

and  throng, 
He  who  stood  by  iMoses   when   his   foes   were  fierce 

and  strong,— 
May  He  show  forth   His  might  in  saving   Kathaleen 

Ny-Houlahan  ! 


WELCOME    TO    THE    PRINCE 

(WILLIAM   HEFFERNAN)   (14) 

Lift  up  the  drooping  head, 

Mechal  Dubh  Mac-Giolla  Kierin  !  1 

Her  blood  yet  boundeth  red 

Through  the  myriad  veins  of  Erin. 

No,  no,  she  is  not  dead 

Medial  Dubh  Mac-Giolla  Kierin  ! 

1  Dark  Midi.icl  M'Gilla  Kcrin,   Piinct-  of  Ossory. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  175 

Lo  !   she  redeems 

The  lost  years  of  bygone  ages  : 

New  glory  beams 

Henceforth  on  h?r  history's  pages  ! 

Her  long  penitential  night  of  sorrow 

Yields  at  length  before  the  reddening  morrow  ! 

You  heard  the  thunder-shout, 

Meehal  Dubh  Mac-Giolla  Kierin  ! 

Saw  the  lightning  streaming  out 

O'er  the  purple  hills  of  Erin  ! 

And  bide  you  yet  in  doubt, 

Meehal  Dubh  Mac-Giolla  Kierin  ? 

O  doubt  no  more  ! 

Through  Ulidia's  voiceful  valleys, 

On  Shannon's  shore, 

Freedom's  burning  spirit  rallies. 

Earth  and  Heaven  unite  in  sign  and  omen  1 

Bodeful  of  the  downfall  of  our  foemcn. 

Thurot  commands  the  North, 
Meehal  Dubh  Mac-Giolla  Kierin  ! 
Louth  sends  her  heroes  forth 
To  hew  down  the  foes  of  Erin  ! 
Swords  gleam  in  field  and  gorth? 
Meehal  Dubh  Mac-Giolla  Kierin! 
Up,  up,  mv  friend  ! 
There's  a  glorious  goal  before  us  ; 


1  This  is  an  allusion  to  that  well-known  atmospherical  phenomenon  or" 
the  "cloud  armies,"  which  is  i'aid  to  have  been  so  common  about  this  period 
in  Scotland. 

'*  Gortb  literally  means  Garden. 


1 76  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Here  will  we  blend 

Speech  and  soul  in  this  grand  chorus  : 

"  By  the  Heaven  that  gives  us  one  more  token, 

We  will  die,  or  see  our  shackles  broken  !  " 

Charles  leaves  the  Grampian  Hills, 

Meehal  Dubh  Mac-Giolla  Kierin  ! 

Charles,  whose  appeal  yet  thrills 

Like  a  clarion-blast,  through  Erin. 

Charles,  he  whose  image  fills 

Thy  soul,  too,  Mac-Giolla  Kierin  ! 

Ten  thousand  strong, 

His  clans  move  in  brilliant  order, 

Sure  that  ere  long 

He  will  march  them  o'er  the  border, 

While  the  dark-haired  daughters  of  the  Highlands 

Crown  with  wreaths  the  Monarch  of  three  islands. 

Fill,  then,  the  ale-cup  high, 

Meehal  Dubh  Mac-Giolla  Kierin  ! 

Fill  !   the  bright  hour  is  nigh 

That  shall  give  her  own  to  Erin. 

Those  who  so  sadly  sie;h, 

Even  as  you,  Mac-Giolla  Kierin, 

Henceforth  shall  sing. 

Hark  !      O'er  heathery  hill  and  dell  come 

Shouts  for  the  King  ! 

Welcome,  our  deliverer,  welcome  ! 

Thousands  this  glad  night,  ere  turning  bedward, 

Will  with  us  drink  "  Victorv  to  Charles  Edward  !  " 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  177 

THE   SONG    OK    GLADNESS 

(WILLIAM   HEFFERNAN) 

It  was  on  a  balmy  evening,  as  June  was  departing  fast, 
That  alone,  and  meditating  in  grief  on  the  times  a-past, 
I  wandered  through  the  gloomsome  shades 
Of  bosky  Aherlow, 
A  wilderness  of  glens  and  glades. 
When  suddenly,  a  thrilling  strain  of  song 
Broke  forth  upon  the  air  in  one  incessant  flow, 
Sweeter  it  seemed  to  me,  (both  voice  and  word,) 
Than  harmony  of  the  harp,  or  carol  of  the  bird, 
For  it  foretold  fair  Freedom's  triumph,  and  the  doom 
of  Wrong. 

The  celestial   hymns   and   anthems,  that    far  o'er  the 

sounding  sea 
Come  to   Erin    from  the  temples   of  bright-bosomed 

Italy  ; 

The  music  which  from   hill  and  rath 
The  playful  fairy  race 
Pour  on  the  wandering  warrior's  path, 
Bewildering  him  with  wonder  and  delight, 
Or   the   cuckoo's  full    note    from    some  green  sunless 

place, 

Some  sunken  thicket  in  a  stilly  wood, 
Had  less  than  that  rich  melody  made  mine  Irish  blood 
Bound  in  its  veins  tor   ecstasy,  or  given  my  soul    new 

might  ! 


178  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGA N 

And  while  so  I  stood  and   listened,  behold,  thousand 

swarms  of  bees, 
All  arrayed  in  gay  gold  armor,  shone   red  through  the 

dusky  trees  ! 

I  felt  a  boding  in  my  soul, 
A  truthful  boding  too, 
That  Erin's  days  of  gloom  and  dole 
Will  soon  be  but  remembered  as  a  dream, 
And  the  olden  glory  show  eclipsed  by  the  new. 
Where  will  the  Usurper1  then  be?      Banished  far! 
Where  his  vile  hireling  henchmen  ?      Slaughtered  all 

in  war  ! 
For    blood   shall    rill   down    every   hill,  and    blacken 

every  stream. 

I   am   HefFernan  of  Shronehill :   my   land   mourns   in 

thraldom  long ; 
And  I  see  but  one  sad   sight   here,  the  weak  trampled 

by  the  strong. 

Yet  if  to-morrow,  underneath 
A  burial  stone  I  lay, 
Clasped  in  the  skeleton  arms  of  death, 
And  if  a  pilgrim  wind  again  should  waft 
Over  my  noteless  grave  the  song  I  heard  to-day, 
I  would  spring  up  revivified,  reborn, 
A  living  soul  again,  as  on  my  birthday  morn, 
Ay  !   even   though   coffined,  over-earthed,  tombed-in, 

and  cpitaphed  ! 

1  George  I. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  179 

THE    DREAM    OF   JOHN    MAC   DONNELL 

(JOHN     MAC    DONNELL,    USUALLY    CALLED    MAC    DONNELL    CLARAGH  ) 

I  lay  in  unrest.      Old  thoughts  of  pain, 
That  I  struggled  in  vain  to  smother, 
Like  midnight  spectres  haunted  my  brain  ; 
Dark  fantasies  chased  each  other ; 
When,  lo  !   a  figure  —  who  might  it  be? 
A  tall  fair  figure  stood  near  me  ! 
Who  might  it  be  ?      An  unreal  Banshee, 
Or  an  angel  sent  to  cheer  me  ? 

Though  years  have  rolled  since  then,  yet  now 

My  memory  thrillingly  lingers 

On  her  awful  charm,  her  waxen  brow, 

Her  pale  translucent  fingers, 

Her  eyes  that  mirrored  a  wonder-world, 

Her  mien  of  unearthly  mildness, 

And  her  waving  raven  tresses  that  curled 

To  the  ground  in  beautiful  wildness. 

"  Whence  comest  thou,  spirit  r  "   I  asked,  methou^ht, 

"  Thou  art  not  one  of  the  banished  ?  " 

Alas,  for  me,  she  answered  nought, 

But  rose  aloft  and  evanished  ; 

And  a  radiance,  like  to  a  glory,  beamed 

In  the  light  she  left  behind  her. 

Long  time  I  wept,  and  at  last,  medrcamed, 

I  left  my  shieling  to  find  her.  (15) 


i So  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

And  first  I  turned  to  the  thunderous  north, 
To  Gruagach's  mansion  kingly  ; 
Untouching  the  earth,  I  then  sped  forth 
To  Inver-lough,  and  the  shingly 
And  shining  strand  of  the  fishful  Erne, 
And  thence  to  Cruachan  the  golden, 
Of  whose  resplendent  palace  ye  learn 
So  many  a  marvel  olden. 

I  saw  the  Mourna's  billows  flow ; 

I  passed  the  walls  of  Shenady, 

And  stood  in  the  hero-thronged  Ardroe, 

Embosked  amid  greenwoods  shady  ; 

And  visited  that  proud  pile  that  stands 

Above  the  Boyne's  broad  waters, 

Where  ./Engrius  dwells  with  his  warrior-bands 

And  the  fairest  of  Ulster's  daughters. 

To  the  halls  of  Mac  Lir,  to  Creevroe's  height, 

To  Tara,  the  glory  of  Erin, 

To  the  fairy  palace  that  glances  bright 

On  the  peak  of  the  blue  Cnocfeerin, 

I  vainly  hied.      I  went  west  and  east ; 

I  travelled  seaward  and  shoreward  ; 

But  thus  was  I  greeted  at  field  and  at  feast : 

"Thy  way  lies  onward  and  forward  !" 

At  last  I  reached,  I  wist  not  how, 
The  royal  towers  of  Ival, 
Which  under  the  clifi's  gigantic  brow 
Still  rise  without  a  rival. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  181 

And  here  were  Thomond's  chieftains  all 
With  armor  and  swords  and  lances, 
And  here  sweet  music  filled  the  hall, 
And  damsels  charmed  with  dances. 

And  here,  at  length,  on  a  silver  throne 
Half-seated,  half-reclining, 
With  forehead  white  as  the  marble  stone, 
And  garments  starrily  shining, 
And  features  beyond  a  poet's  pen, 
The  sweetest,  saddest  features, 
Appeared  before  me  once  again 
The  fairest  of  living  creatures  ! 

"  Draw  near,  O  mortal !  "  she  said  with  a  sigh, 

"  And  hear  my  mournful  story. 

The  guardian  spirit  of  Erin  am  I, 

But  dimmed  is  mine  ancient  glory. 

My  priests  are  banished,  my  warriors  wear 

No  longer  victory's  garland, 

And  my  child,  my  son,  my  beloved  heir, 

Is  an  exile  in  a  far  land." 

I  heard  no  more,  I  saw  no  more ; 

The  bonds  of  slumber  were  broken  : 

And  palace  and  hero,  and  river  and  shore 

Had  vanished  and  left  no  token. 

Dissolved  was  the  spell  that  had  bound  my  will 

And  my  fancy  thus,  for  a  season. 

But  a  sorrow  therefore  hangs  over  me  still 

Despite  the  teachings  of  reason. 


1 82  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

THE  SORROWS    OF    INNISFAIL 

(GEOFFREY   KEATING)  (16) 

Through   the  long  drear  night   I   lie  awake,  for  the 

sorrows  of  Innisfail. 
My  bleeding  heart  is   ready  to  break ;   I   cannot  but 

weep  and  wail. 
O    shame  and  grief  and    wonder  !    her  sons    crouch 

lowly  under 

The  footstool  of  the  paltriest  foe 
That  ever  yet  hath  wrought  them  woe. 

How  long,  O   Mother  of  light  and   song,  how   long 

will  they  fail  to  see 
That  men  must  be  bold,  no   less  than   strong,  if  they 

truly  will  to  be  free  ? 
They    sit    but   in   silent   sadness,   while   wrongs   that 

should  rouse  them  to  madness, 
Wrongs  that  might  wake  the  very  dead, 
Are  piled  on  thy  devoted  head  ! 

Thy  castles,  thy  towers,  thy  palaces  proud,  thy  stately 

mansions  all, 
Are  held   by   the   knaves   who   crossed  the   waves   to 

lord  it  in  Brian's  hall. 
Britannia,    alas !    is   portress    in    Cobhthach's    golden 

fortress, 

And  Ulster's  and  Momonia's  lands 
Are  in  the  robber  stranger's  hands. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  183 

The  tribe  of  Eoghan  is  worn  with  woe  ;   the  O'Don- 

nell  reigns  no  more  ; 
O'Niall's   remains   lie  mouldering  low,  on  Italy's  far- 

ofF  shore ; 
And  the  youths  of  the  pleasant   valley   are   scattered, 

and  cannot  rally, 
While  foreign  despotism  unfurls 
A  flag  'mid  hordes  of  base-born  churls. 

The  chieftains  of  Naas  were  valorous  lords,  but 
their  valor  was  crushed  by  craft : 

They  fell  beneath  envy's  butcherly  dagger,  and  cal- 
umny's poisoned  shaft. 

A  few  of  their  mighty  legions  yet  languish  in  alien 
regions, 

But  most  of  them,  the  frank,  the  free, 

Were  slain  through  Saxon  perfidy. 

Ah,    lived    the    princes    of    Ainy's    plains,    and    the 

heroes  of  green  Domgole, 
And  the  chiefs  of  the  Mauigc,  we  still  might  hope  to 

baffle  our  doom  and  dole. 
Well  then  might  the  dastards  shiver  who  herd  by  the 

blue  Bride  river  ! 

But  ah,  those  great  and  glorious  men 
Shall  draw  no  glaive  on  earth  again  ! 

All-powerful    God  !     look    down    on    the   tribes    who 

mourn  throughout  the   hind, 
And    raise   them   some  deliverer  up,  of  a    strong    and 

smitini.r  hand. 


184  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Oh !   suffer  them  not  to  perish,  the  race  Thou   wert 

wont  to  cherish, 

But  soon  avenge  their  fathers'  graves, 
And  burst  the  bonds  that  keep  them  slaves  ! 


LEATHER   AWAY   WITH    THE 
WATTLE,  O!  (17) 

(THOMAS  COTTER) 

Last  night,  while  stars  did  glisten 

By  a  hillside  near  the  cove, 

I  sat  awhile  to  listen 

The  sweet  bird's  pleasant  lays  of  love. 

A  damsel  tall  of  stature 

With  golden  tresses  long  and  low, 

Which,  (joveliest  sight  in  Nature  !) 

Down  to  the  bright  green  grass  did  flow, 

And  breast  as  fair  as  snow  in  air, 

Without  compare  for  beauteous  show, 

Stood  near,  and  sang  me  sweetly  : 

"  Come,  Leather  Away  with  the  Wattle,  O  ! 

Her  eyebrows  dark  and  slender 

Were  each  bended  like  a  bow; 

Her  eyes  beamed  love  as  tender 

As  only  poets  feel  and  know  ; 

Her  face  where  rose  and  lily 

Were  both  portrayed  in  brightest  glow, 

Her  mien  so  mild  and  stilly, 

All  made  my  full  heart  overflow  ! 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  185 

A  tale  she  told  of  that  Prince  bold 
Whose  crown  of  gold  the  Gael  doth  hold. 
I  hearkened,  all-delighted, 
To  "  Leather  Away  with  the  Wattle,  O  !  " 

I  asked  this  lovely  creature 

Was  she  Helen  famed  of  yore, 

(So  like  she  seemed  in  feature  !) 

Whose  name  will  live  forevermore ; 

Or  Dierdre,  meekest,  fairest, 

Whom  Uisneach's  sons  wrought  direful  woe  ; 

Or  Cearnaid,  richest,  rarest, 

Who  first  made  mills  on  water  go ; 

Or  Meadhbh  the  young,  of  ringlets  long  ? 

So  sweet  her  song  along  did  flow, 

Her  song  so  rich  and  charming 

Of  "  Leather  Away  with  the  Wattle,  O  !  " 

And  thus  in  tones  unbroken, 

While  sweet  music  filled  her  eye, 

In  accents  blandly  spoken 

The  damsel  warbled  this  reply  : 

u  Albeit  I  know  and  blame  not 

Your  marvellous  poetic  lore, 

You  know  mine  ancient  name  not, 

Tho'  once  renowned  from  shore  to  shore  ; 

I  am  Innis  famed,  of  Heroes  named, 

Forsaken,  lost  in  pain  and  woe, 

But  waiting  for  a  chorus 

To  '  Leather  Away  with  the  Wattle,  O  !  ' 

They  died  in  war,  for  ages, 

The  brave  sons  of  Art  and  Eo^han, 


1 86  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Mute  are  the  bards  and  sages, 

And  ah,  the  priests  are  sad  and  lone. 

But  Charles,  despising  danger, 

Shall  soon  ascend  green  Eire's  throne, 

And  drive  the  Saxon  stranger 

Afar  from  hence  to  seek  his  own. 

Then,  full  of  soul  and  freed  from  dole, 

Without  control  the  wine  shall  flow, 

And  we  will  sing  in  chorus  : 

'  Come,  Leather  Away  with  the  Wattle,  O  !  ' 

LAMENT    FOR    BANBA1 

(EGAN  O'RAHILLY) 

O  my  land,  O  my  love  ! 

What  a  woe,  and  how  deep, 

Is  thy  death  to  my  long-mourning  soul  ! 

God  alone,  God  above, 

Can  awake  thee  from  sleep, 

Can  release  thce  from  bondage  and  dole  ! 

(Alas,  alas,  and  alas, 

For  the  once  proud  people  of  Banba  !) 

As  a  tree  in  its  prime, 

Which  the  axe  laycth  low, 

Didst  thou  fall,  O  unfortunate  land  ! 

Not  by  time,  nor  thy  crime, 

Came  the  shock  and  the  blow  : 

They  were  given  by  a  false  felon  hand  ! 

1  Banba  (Banva)  was  one  of  the  most  ancient  names  given  by  the  Bards 
to  Ireland. 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  187 

(Alas,  alas,  and  alas, 

For  the  once  proud  people  of  Banba  !) 

O  my  grief  of  all  griefs 

Is  to  see  how  thy  throne 

Is  usurped,  whilst  thyself  art  in  thrall  ! 

Other  lands  have  their  chiefs, 

Have  their  kings  ;   thou  alone 

Art  a  wife,  yet  a  widow  withal. 

(Alas,  alas,  and  alas, 

For  the  once  proud  people  of  Banba  !) 

The  high  house  of  O'Niall 

Is  gone  down  to  the  dust, 

The  O'Brien  is  clanless  and  banned; 

And  the  steel,  the  red  steel, 

May  no  more  be  the  trust 

Of  the  faithful  and  brave  in  the  land. 

(Alas,  alas,  and  alas, 

For  the  once  proud  people  of  Banba  !) 

True,  alas  !   wrong  and  wrath 

Were  of  old  all  too  rife. 

Deeds  were  done  which  no  good  man  admires. 

And  perchance  Heaven  hath 

Chastened  us  for  the  strife 

And  the  blood-shedding  ways  of  our  sires  ! 

(Alas,  alas,  and  alas, 

For  the  once  proud  people  ot  Banba  !) 

But,  no  more  !      This  our  doom, 
While  our  hearts  yet  are  warm, 


1 38  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Let  us  not  oven-weakly  deplore ; 

For  the  hour  soon  may  loom 

When  the  Lord's  mighty  hand 

Shall  be  raised  for  our  rescue  once  more  ! 

And  our  grief  shall  be  turned  into  joy 

For  the  still  proud  people  of  Banba  ! 


THE    DAWNING    OF   THE    DAY* 

(O'DORAN) 

'Twas  a  balmy  summer  morning, 

Warm  and  early, 

Such  as  only  June  bestows  ; 

Everywhere,  the  earth  adorning, 

Dews  lay  pearly 

In  the  lily-bell  and  rose. 

Up  from  each  green  leafy  bosk  and  hollow 

Rose  the  blackbird's  pleasant  lay. 

And  the  soft  cuckoo  was  sure  to  follow. 

'Twas  the  dawning  of  the  day  ! 

Through  the  perfumed  air  the  golden 
Bees  flew  round  me; 
Bright  fish  dazzled  from  the  sea; 
Till  medreamt  some  faery  olden 

1  The  following  song,  translated  from  the  Irish  of  O'Doran,  refers  to  a 
singular  atmospherical  phenomenon  said  to  be  sometimes  observed  at  Black- 
rock,  near  Dundalk,  at  daybreak,  by  the  fishermen  of  that  locality.  Many 
similar  narratives  are  to  be  met  with  in  the  poetry  of  almost  all  countries ; 
but  O'Doran  has  endeavored  to  give  the  legend  a  political  coloring,  of  which, 
I  apprehend,  readers  in  general  will  hardly  deem  it  susceptible. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  189 

V/orld-spell  bound  me 

In  a  trance  of  witchery  ! 

Steeds  pranced  round  anon  with  stateliest  housings, 

Bearing  riders  pranked  in  rich  array, 

Like  flushed  revellers  after  wine-carousings  : 

'Twas  the  dawning  of  the  day  ! 

Then  a  strain  of  song  was  chanted, 

And  the  lightly 

Floating  sea-nymphs  drew  anear. 

Then  again  the  shore  seemed  haunted 

By  hosts  brightly 

Clad,  and  wielding  shield  and  spear  ! 

Then  came  battle-shouts,  an  onward  rushing, 

B' 

Swords,  and  chariots,  and  a  phantom  fray. 

Then  all  vanished.      The  warm  skies  were  blushing 

In  the  dawning  of  the  day  ! 

Cities  girt  with  glorious  gardens, 

(Whose  immortal 

Habitants,  in  robes  of  light, 

Stood,  methought,  as  angel-wardens 

Nigh  each  portal,) 

Now  arose  to  da'/e  my  sight. 

Eden  spread  around,  revived  and  blooming; 

When    .    .    .    lo  !    as  I  gazed,  all  passed  away. 

I  saw  but  black  rocks  and  billows  looming 

In  the  dim  chill  dawn  of  dav. 


190  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 


DIRGE  FOR  THE  O'SULLIVAN  BEARE(iS) 

In  Ivera  there  is  darkness, 

(Darkness,  darkness;) 

In  Ivera  there  is  darkness. 

And  the  laughing  dancer's  tread, 

And  joyous  music,  and  the  voice  of  song 

Are  heard  no  more;  the  day  it  weareth  long, 

For  O'Sullivan  lies  dead, 

Dead  in  stifFest  starkness, 

(StifFest  starkness  !) 

O  the  false,  false  traitor  Scully, 

(Scully,  Scully!) 

O  the  false,  false  traitor  Scully ! 

He  who  should  have  helped  his  chief, 

He  basely  sold  him,  basely  sold  the  good 

Great  man  to  whom  he  owed  his  life  and  blood. 

Perfidy  beyond  belief! 

God  requite  him  fully, 

(Well  and  fully.) 

O  may  all  earth's  blackest  evils, 

(Evils,  evils,) 

O  may  all  earth's  blackest  evils 

Haunt  him  on  life's  briary  path  ! 

May  sickness  waste  him  to  and  thro'  the  bone! 

And  when  he  stands  before  God's  judgment  throne, 

May  that  just  God,  in  His  wrath, 

(jive  him  up  to  devils, 

(Up  to  devils!) 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  191 

Never  will  we,  O  no,  never, 

(Never,  never,) 

Never  will  we,  O  no,  never 

Pardon  him  who  thus  could  sell 

His  generous  chief  to  death  and  foul  disgrace! 

May  heaven's  fair  light  grow  black  upon  his  face ! 

May  the  burning  marl  of  hell 

Be  his  bed  for  ever, 

(And  for  ever!) 

Didst  thou  fall  by  sword  and  slaughter, 

(Slaughter,  slaughter.) 

Had  they  slain  thee  in  fair  slaughter, 

Tho'  thy  corpse  were  one  red  wound, 

I  would  not  weep  :   but  ah,  the  woe  to  kill, 

To  rack,  to  butcher  thee;   and,  ghastlier  still, 

Drag  thee,  like  a  fish  harpooned, 

Thro'  the  blood-streaked  water, 

(Thro'  the  water!) 

And  thy  headless  trunk  was  buried, 

(Buried,  buried,) 

And  thy  headless  trunk  was  buried 

Distant  from  thy  fathers'  graves; 

In  no  green  spot  of  holy  Christian  ground 

They  laid  thee,  'neath  no  consecrated  mound. 

To  a  pit,  by  ruffian  slaves, 

Wert  thou  darkly  hurried, 

(Darkly  hurried.) 

And  they  spiked  thy  head  so  gory, 
(Gory,  gory,) 


1 92  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Yes  !   they  spiked  thy  head  so  gory, 

As  thine  were  a  felon's  end, 

High,  high  above  the  jail.     Tempest  and  rain 

Alone  shall  wave  those  long  black  locks  again, 

Lightning  only  ever  lend 

Those  dimmed  eyes  a  glory, 

(Lend  a  glory.) 

There  is  keening,  there  is  weeping, 
(Weeping,  weeping.) 
There  is  keening,  there  is  weeping 
Thro'  the  once  glad  haunts  of  song ; 
Ivera's  broken  heart  is  bleeding  now ; 
Funeral  gloom  has  darkened  every  brow, 
And  the  chill  day  waxeth  long, 
For  our  chief  lies  sleeping, 
(Ever  sleeping.) 

O  thou  ocean  of  blue  billows! 

(Billows,  billows,) 

O  thou  ocean  of  blue  billows! 

From  Cork  harbor  to  Bearhaven 

A  curse  this  blessed  night  lies  on  thy  flood. 

For  with  its  wave  is  blent  the  pure  heart-blood 

Of  that  chief  whose  head,  whose  raven 

Locks,  the  storm-wind  pillows. 

(Storm-wind  pillows !) 


Translations,    Chiefly    from    the    German 


THE    MAID    OF    ORLEANS 

(SCHILLER) 

At  thee  the  mocker1  sneers  in  cold  derision, 
Thro'  thee  he  seeks  to  desecrate  and  dim 
Glory  for  which  he  hath  no  soul  nor  vision, 
For  God  and  angel  are  but  sounds  with  him. 
He  makes  the  jewels  of  the  heart  his  booty, 
And  scoffs  at  man's  belief  and  woman's  beauty. 

Yet  thou,  a  lowly  shepherdess,  descended 
Not  from  a  kingly  but  a  godly  race, 
Art  crowned  by  Poesy  :   amid  the  splendid 
Of   Heaven's    high   stars   she  builds  thy  dwelling- 
place, 

Garlands  thy  temples  with  a  wreath  of  glory^ 
And  swathes  thy  memory  in  eternal  story. 

The  base  of  this  weak  world  exult  at  seeing 

O 

The  fair  defaced,  the  lofty  in  the  dust  ; 

Yet  grieve  not :   there  are  godlike  hearts  in  being 

Which  worship  still  the  beautiful  and  just. 

Let  iMomus  and  his  mummers  please  the  crowd  ! 

Of  nobleness  alone  a  noble  mind  is  proud. 

1  Voltaire. 
'95 


196  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

THE    FISHERMAN 

(GOETHE) 

The   waters   rush,  the  waters   roll ;   a  fisherman    sits 

angling  by. 
He  gazes  o'er  their  glancing  floor  with  sleepy  brow 

and  listless  eye  ; 
And  while   he  looks  and  while  he  lolls,  the  flood  is 

moved  as  by  a  storm 
And   slowly  from  its  heaving  depth  ascends  a  humid 

woman's  form. 

She  sings,  she  speaks  :   u  Why   lure,  why  wile,  with 

human  craft,  with  human  snare 
My  little  brood,  my  helpless   brood,  to   perish  in  this 

fiery  air  ? 
Ah,   couldst    thou    guess    the    dreamy   bliss    we    feel 

below  the  purple  sea, 
Thou   wouldst    forsake    the   earth    and    all,   to   dwell 

beneath  with  them  and  me. 

The  moon,  the  sun,  their  travel  done,  come   down  to 

sleep  in  ocean  caves  ; 
They   reascend    their  glorious    thrones   with   doubled 

beauty  from  the  waves. 
Ah,  sure  the   blue   ethereal    dew,   the   shining   heaven 

these  waters  show, 
Nay,  e'en  thine   own    reflected    face,  must   draw  thcc, 

win  dice,  down  below." 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  197 

The  waters  rush,  the  waters  roll ;  about  his  naked 
feet  they  move. 

An  aching  longing  fills  his  soul,  as  when  we  look  on 
her  we  love. 

She  sings  to  him,  she  speaks  to  him  :  alas,  he  feels 
that  all  is  o'er; 

She  drags  him  down ;  his  senses  swim  :  the  fisher- 
man is  seen  no  more. 


MIGNON'S    SONG 

(GOETHE) 

O  dost  thou  know  the  clime  where  citron   fruits  are 

blooming  fair  ? 
The  gold-hued  orange  burns  amid  the  dusky  greenery 

there ; 
From  skies  of  spcckless  blue  arc  wafted   airlets  warm 

and  soft ; 
There   sleepy    myrtles    grow ;    there   trees   of    laurel 

stand  aloft. 

That  bright  land  dost  thou  know  ? 
Thither  with  thee,  my  love,  I  long  to  go. 

And  dost  thou  know  the  pile,  with  roof  on  colon- 
nades reclining  ? 

The  broad  saloon  is  bright,  the  chambers  there  are 
darkly  shining  ; 

And  alabaster  forms  look  down  upon  me  pityingly  : 

"  Alas,  unhappy  child,  what  ill  the  world  has  done  to 
thee  !  " 


198  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

That  dwelling  dost  thou  know  ? 

Thither,  protector  mine,  with  thee  I'll  go. 

Knowest  thou  the  mountain's  brow  ?  Its  pathway 
clouds  and  shadows  cover  : 

Amid  the  darkling  mist,  the  mule  pursues  his  blind 
way  over. 

The  dragon  and  his  brood  lurk  in  a  thousand  cavern- 
hollows  ; 

The  rent  rock  topples  down  ;  the  headlong  sweep  of 
water  follows. 

That  mountain  dost  thou  know  ? 

Thither  our  way  lies.      Father!   let  us  go. 


NATURE    MORE   THAN  SCIENCE 


I  have  a  thousand  thousand  lays, 

Compact  of  myriad  myriad  words, 

And  so  can  sing  a  million  ways, 

Can  play  at  pleasure  on  the  chords 

Of  tuned  harp  or  heart ; 

Yet  is  there  one  sweet  song 

Eor  which  in  vain  I  pine  and  long  ; 

I  cannot  reach  that  song,  with  all  my  minstrel-art 

A  shepherd  sits  within  a  dell 
O'ercanopied  from  rain  and  heat : 
A  shallow  but  pellucid  well 
Doth  ever  bubble  at  his  feet. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  199 

His  pipe  is  but  a  leaf, 

Yet  there,  above  that  stream, 

He  plays  and  plays,  as  in  a  dream, 

One  air,  that  steals  away  the  senses  like  a  thief. 

A  simple  air,  it  seems  in  truth, 
And  who  begins  will  end  it  soon  ; 
Yet,  when  that  hidden  shepherd  youth 
So  pours  it  in  the  ear  of  noon, 
Tears  flow  from  those  anear. 
All  songs  of  yours  and  mine 
Condensed  in  one,  were  less  divine 
Than  that  sweet  air  to  sing,  that  sweet,  sweet  air  to 
hear  ! 

'Twas  yesternoon  he  played  it  last: 

The  hummings  of  a  hundred  bees 

Were  in  mine  ears  ;   yet,  as  I  passed, 

I  heard  him  through  the  myrtle  trees. 

Stretched  all  along  he  lay 

Mid  foliage  half-decayed  ; 

His  lambs  were  feeding  while  he  played  ; 

And  sleepily  wore  on  the  stilly  summer-day.  (19) 


THE    DYING    FLOWER 

(RUCKERT) 

u  Drop  not,  poor  flower  !    There's  hope  for  thee. 
The  spring  again  will  breathe  and  burn, 
And  glory  robe  the  kii^ly  tree 
Whose  lite  is  in  the  sun's  return  ; 


JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 


And  once  again  its  buds  will  chime 
Their  peal  of  joy  from  viewless  bells, 
Though  all  the  long  dark  winter-time 
They  mourned  within  their  dreary  cells." 

"  Alas,  no  kingly  tree  am  I, 

No  marvel  of  a  thousand  years  : 

I  cannot  dream  a  winter  by, 

And  wake  with  song  when  spring  appears  ! 

At  best,  my  life  is  kin  to  death  ; 

My  little  all  of  being  flows 

From  summer's  kiss,  from  summer's  breath, 

And  sleeps  in  summer's  grave  of  snows." 

"Yet,  grieve  not !     Summer  may  depart, 
And  beauty  seek  a  brighter  home  : 
But  thou  that  bearest  in  thy  heart 
The  germ  of  many  a  life  to  come, 
Mayst  lightly  reck  of  autumn's  storms  ; 
Whate'er  thy  individual  doom 
Thine  essence,  blent  with  other  forms, 
Will  still  shine  out  in  radiant  bloom." 

"  Yes  :    moons  will  wane  ;   and  bluer  skies 

Breathe  blessing  forth  for  Bower  and  tree. 

I  know  that  while  the  unit  dies, 

The  myriad  live  immortally  ; 

But  shall  my  soul  survive  in  them  ? 

Shall  I  be  all  I  was  before  ? 

Vain  dream  !    1  wither,  soul  and  stem  : 

I  die,  and  know  mv  place  no  more. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS 


The  sun  may  lavish  life  on  them  ; 
His  light,  in  summer  morns  and  eves, 
May  color  every  dewy  gem 
That  sparkles  on  their  tender  leaves  ; 
But  this  will  not  avail  the  dead  : 
The  glory  of  his  wondrous  face 
Who  now  rains  lustre  on  my  head, 
Can  only  mock  my  burial-place. 

And  woe  to  me,  fond  foolish  one, 
To  tempt  an  all-consuming  ray, 
To  think  a  flower  could  love  a  sun, 
Nor  feel  her  soul  dissolve  away  ! 

0  could  I  be  what  once  I  was 
How  should  I  shun  his  fatal  beam  ! 
Wrapt  in  myself,  my  life  should  pass 
But  as  a  still  dark  painless  dream. 

But  vainly  in  my  bitterness 

1  speak  the  language  of  despair : 
In  life,  in  death,  1  still  must  bless 
The  sun,  the  light,  the  cradling  air. 
Mine  early  love  to  them  I  gave, 
And  now  that  yon  bright  orb  on  high 
Illumines  but  a  wider  grave, 

For  them  1  breathe-  my  final  sigh. 

How  often  soared  my  soul  aloft 
In  balmy  bliss  too  deep  to  speak, 
When  Zephyr  came-,  and  kissed  with  suit 
Sweet  incense-breath  my  blushing  cheek, 


202  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

When  beauteous  bees  and  butterflies 
Flew  round  me  in  the  summer  beam, 
Or  when  some  virgin's  glorious  eyes 
Bent  o'er  me  like  a  dazzling  dream  ! 

Ah,  yes  !      I  know  myself  a  birth 

Of  that  all-wise  Almighty  Love 

Which  made  the  flower  to  bloom  on  earth, 

And  sun  and  stars  to  burn  above; 

And  if,  like  them,  I  fade  and  fail, 

If  I  but  share  the  common  doom, 

Let  no  lament  of  mine  bewail 

My  dark  descent  to  Hades'  gloom. 

Farewell,  thou  lamp  of  this  green  globe  ! 
Thy  light  is  on  my  dying  face, 
Thy  glory  tints  my  faded  robe, 
And  clasps  me  in  a  death-embrace. 
Farewell,  thou  balsam-dropping  spring  ! 
Farewell,  ye  skies  that  beam  and  weep  ! 
Unhoping,  and  unmurmuring, 
I  bow  my  head  and  sink  to  sleep." 


GONE    IN    THE   WIND 

(RUCKERT) 

Solomon,  where  is  thy  throne  ?  It  is  gone  in  the  wind. 
Habylon,  where  is  thy  might  ?  It  is  gone  in  the  wind. 
Like  the  swift  shadows  of  noon,  like  the  dreams  of 

the  blind, 
Vanish  the  glories  and  pomps  of  the  earth  in  the  wind. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  203 

Man,  canst  thou  build  upon  aught  in  the  pride  of  thy 

mind  ? 

Wisdom  will  teach  thee  that  nothing  can  tarry  behind  : 
Tho'  there  be  thousand  bright  actions  embalmed  and 

enshrined, 
Myriads  and  millions  of  brighter  are  snow  in  the  wind. 

Solomon,  where  is  thy  throne  ?  It  is  gone  in  the  wind. 
Babylon,  where  is  thy  might  ?  It  is  gone  in  the  wind. 
All  that  the  genius  of  man  hath  achieved  or  designed 
Waits  but  its  hour  to  be  dealt  with  as  dust  by  the 
wind. 

Say,  what  is  pleasure  ?      A  phantom,  a  mask  undefined ; 
Science  ?     An  almond,  whereof  we  can  pierce  but  the 

rind ; 
Honor   and   affluence  ?      Firmans    that    Fortune    hath 

signed, 
Only  to  glitter  and  pass  on  the  wings  of  the  wind. 

Solomon,  where   is   thy   throne?      It   is   gone   in   the 

wind. 
Babylon,  where    is    thy  might?      It    is    gone    in  the 

wind. 
Who   is    the    fortunate?      He    who   in    anguish    hath 

pined  ! 
He  shall  rejoice  when  his  relics  are  dust  in  the  wind. 

Mortal,  be  careful  with  what  thy  best  hopes  are  en- 
twined ; 

Woe  to  the  miners  for  Truth,  where  the  lampless 
have  mined  ! 


204  JAMES   CLARENCE   MANGAN 

Woe  to  the  seekers  on  earth  for  what  none  ever  find : 
They  and  their  trust  shall  be  scattered  like  leaves  on 
the  wind. 

Solomon,  where  is  thy  throne  ?      It   is   gone   in   the 

wind. 
Babylon,   where   is    thy   might  ?      It    is  gone   in    the 

wind. 
Happy   in   death   are    they  only   whose    hearts    have 

consigned 
All  earth's  affections  and   longings  and  cares  to  the 

wind. 

Pity  thou,  reader,  the  madness  of  poor  humankind 
Raving  of  knowledge  ;   (and  Satan  so  busy  to  blind  !) 
Raving  of  glory,  like  me;   for  the  garlands  I  bind, 
Garlands  of  song,  are  but  gathered,  and  strewn  in  the 
wind. 

Solomon,  where   is   thy   throne  r      It    is   gone   in  the 

wind. 
Babylon,   where   is    thy    might  ?      It    is    gone    in   the 

wind. 

I,  Abul-Namez,  must  rest ;   for  my  fire  is  declined, 
And  I  hear  voices  from  Hades  like  bells  on  the  wind. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  205 

THE   GLAIVE   SONG 

(THEODOR  KORNER1) 

"  Glaive  that  lightenest  by  my  side, 

What  may  mean  thy  bright  sheen  ? 

Glaive  that  lightenest  by  my  side, 

Wouldst  thou  woo  me  as  a  bride, 

To  the  red  battle-ground, 

Hurrah ! 

Where  the  thunders  of  the  cannon  resound  ? 

Hurrah! 

Where  the  thunders  of  the  cannon  resound  ? " 

"  Gallant  master,  valiant  knight ! 
I  rejoice  in  thy  voice  ! 
Gallant  master,  valiant  knight  ! 
I  so  shine,  so  lighten  bright, 

1  "  Korner,  as  most  of  my  readers  are  aware,  was  one  of  the  most  enthu- 
siastic and  heroic  of  those  young  German  patriots  who  so  nobly  rose  up  in 
the  year  1813,  to  protect  the  liberties  of  their  fatherland  against  foreign 
aggression.  He  was  gifted  with  both  genius  and  courage  of  a  high  degree; 
and  the  character  of  his  short  life,  which  terminated  at  the  early  age  of 
twenty-two,  is  faithfully  symbolized  by  the  lyre  and  sword  which  stand 
t-'>ssed  upon  his  tomb  at  Babelow,  in  Mecldenburgh-Schwerin.  The  fol- 
lowing song,  which  lie  is  said  to  have  written  a  few  hours  before  his  death 
on  the  battle-plain  of  Gadebusch,  in  August,  1813,  has  long  held  rank 
among  the  young  Germanists  as  their  Marseillaise  ;  but  no  translation  of  it 
worth  looking  at,  so  far  as  I  am  aw.ire,  has  as  yet  appeared  in  English,  and 
perhaps  I  may  not  have  succeeded  bitter  than  others  in  my  attempt  to  trans- 
pose the  spirit  of  it  into  that  language.  To  be  thoroughly  understood  and 
felt  it  should  be  heard  in  the  Burschfnsaal  at  ffna,  where  the  students  sing  it 
in  chorus,  crossing  their  swords  with  each  other  at  the  recurrence  of  each 
'Hurrah  !  '  It  L-,  needli-:..,  to  ...M  that  Mangan  never  so  heard  it. 


206  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

I,  thy  bride  and  thy  glaive, 

Hurrah  ! 

Because  wedded  to  a  hero  so  brave, 

Hurrah ! 

Because  wedded  to  a  hero  so  brave !  " 

"  True  !  my  joyous  brilliant  steel, 

I  am  brave,  am  no  slave ; 

True  !   my  joyous  brilliant  steel  ! 

And  to-day,  for  woe  or  weal, 

Here  I  plight  thee  my  troth, 

Hurrah! 

It  is  victory  or  death  for  us  both  ! 

Hurrah  ! 

It  is  victory  or  death  for  us  both  !  " 

"  O  thy  bride  delights  to  hear 

That  glad  shout  thus  rung  out ! 

O  thy  bride  delights  to  hear 

That  proud  peal  so  clarion-clear  ! 

When,  O  when  dawns  the  day, 

Hurrah  ! 

When  thou  bearest  thy  beloved  away, 

Hurrah  ! 

When  thou  bearest  thy  beloved  away  ?  " 

u  When  the  drums  beat  loud  to  arms 
Then  is  born  that  bright  morn  ! 
When  the  drums  beat  loud  to  arms, 
When  the  thrilling  bugle  warms 
The  quick  blood  in  all  veins  ; 
Hurrah  ! 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  207 

Then  I  bear  thee  to  the  red  battle-plains, 

Hurrah  ! 

Then  I  bear  thee  to  the  red  battle-plains  !  " 

"  O  that  glorious  day  of  days, 

May  its  noon  shine  out  soon, 

Shine  out  soon  with  blood-red  rays  ! 

O  that  glorious  day  of  days  ! 

May  it  dawn  and  expire, 

Hurrah  ! 

Amid  trumpet-blasts  and  thunder  and  fire, 

Hurrah  ! 

Amid  trumpet-blasts  and  thunder  and  fire  !  " 

"  Why  so  restless,  bride  of  mine  ? 

Why  just  now  startedst  thou  ? 

Why  so  restless,  bride  of  mine, 

In  that  iron  room  of  thine  ? 

Thou  art  restless  and  wild, 

Hurrah  ! 

Thou  art  wild  in  thy  delight  as  a  child, 

Hurrah  ! 

Thou  art  wild  in  thy  delight  as  a  child  !  " 

"  Wild  I  am  in  my  delight  — 

Wild  and  glad,  wild  and  mad  ! 

Wild  I  am  in  my  delight  — 

Thirsting,  burning  for  the  fight, 

When  the  glaive  and  the  gun, 

Hurrah  ! 

Blend  the  lightning  and  the  earthquake  in  one, 

Hurrah  ! 

Blend  the  lightning  and  the  earthquake  in  one  !  " 


2o8  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

"  Quiet  thee,  my  hope,  my  heart : 

Bear  the  gloom  of  thy  room  ! 

Quiet  thee,  my  hope,  my  heart : 

Bide  a  season  where  thou  art. 

Thou  shalt  soon  be  released, 

Hurrah  ! 

And  shalt  banquet  at  the  great  battle-feast, 

Hurrah  ! 

And  shalt  banquet  at  the  great  battle-feast  !  " 

"  I  must  forth  !      O  let  us  rove, 

Hand  in  hand,  o'er  the  land. 

I  must  forth  !      I  burn  to  rove 

Through  the  gardens  of  my  love, 

Where  the  roses,  blood-red, 

Hurrah  ! 

Bloom  in  brilliantest  array  o'er  the  dead, 

Hurrah  ! 

Bloom  in  brilliantest  array  o'er  the  dead  !  " 

"  As  thou  wilt,  then,  faithful  one  ! 

South  or  north,  we'll  go  forth  ! 

As  thou  wilt,  then,  faithful  one. 

Let  us  follow  fortune  on 

Over  hill,  dell,  and  heath, 

Hurrah  ! 

Till  I  deck  thee  with  my  first  laurel-wreath, 

Hurrah  ! 

Till  I  deck  thee  with  my  first  laurel-wreath  ! 

"  O  joy  !  joy  !      Lead  on,  O  lead  ! 
Now  are  we  truly  free. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  209 

O  joy  !  joy  !      Lead  on,  O  lead  ! 

Onward,  forward,  will  we  speed 

To  the  broad  nuptial-plain, 

Hurrah  ! 

Where  we'll  wed  amid  the  tempest  and  red  rain, 

Hurrah  ! 

Where  we'll  wed  amid  the  tempest  and  red  rain  !  " 

So  spake  out,  in  joy  and  pride, 

On  their  way  to  the  fray, 

So  spake  out,  in  joy  and  pride 

One  young  bridegroom  and  his  bride. 

Up,  then,  youth  of  the  land  ! 

Hurrah  ! 

Up,  and  proffer  your  beloved  the  hand  ! 

Hurrah  ! 

Up  and  proffer  your  beloved  the  hand. 

Let  her  not  hang  down  her  head, 

Her,  your  bride,  by  your  side  ! 

Let  her  not  hang  down  her  head, 

By  your  side,  as  one  half-dead  : 

Let  her  feel  your  embrace, 

Hurrah  ! 

Let  her  glory  shed  its  rays  on  your  face, 

Hurrah  f 

Let  her  glory  shed  its  rays  on  your  face  ! 

Press  her  bright  mouth  unto  yours  ! 
Cold  it  seems,  but  its  beams 
Arc  the  brave  man's  warmest  lures. 
Press  her  bright  mouth  unto  yours  ! 


210  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

She  should  not  be  denied, 

Hurrah! 

Cursed  is  he  who  basely  turns  from  the  bride, 

Hurrah  ! 

Cursed  is  he  who  basely  turns  from  the  bride. 

Brothers,  look  !      The  morning  breaks. 

Up,  arise  !   for  time  flies  : 

Brothers,  look  !     The  morning  breaks, 

The  sky  reddens,  the  earth  shakes. 

Are  you  true  men  and  good  ? 

Hurrah  ! 

Then  be  foremost  at  the  Bridal  of  Blood  ! 

Hurrah ! 

Stand  up  foremost  at  the  Bridal  of  Blood  ! 


ALEXANDER  THE  GREAT  AND  THE 
TREE 

(DE  LA  MOTTE  FOUQUE) 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  air  is  bland, 
The  heavens  wear  that  stainless  blue 
Which  only  in  an  orient  land 
The  eye  of  man  may  view  ; 
And  lo !   around,  and  all  abroad 
A  glittering  host,  a  mighty  horde; 
And  at  their  head  a  demigod 
Who  slays  with  lightning  sword. 

The  bright  noon  burns,  but  idly  now 
Those  warriors  rest  by  vale  and  hill, 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  21 1 

And  shadows  on  their  leader's  brow 
Seem  ominous  of  ill. 
Spell-bound,  he  stands  beside  a  tree ; 
And  well  he  may,  for,  through  its  leaves 
Unstirred  by  wind,  come  brokenly 
Moans,  as  of  one  that  grieves. 

How  strange  !  he  thought :   life  is  a  boon 
Given  and  resumed  ;  but  how,  and  when  ? 
E'en  now,  I  asked  myself  how  soon 
I  should  go  home  again  ; 
How  soon  I  might  again  behold 
My  mourning  mother's  tearful  face, 
How  soon  my  kindred  might  enfold 
Me  in  their  dear  embrace  ! 

There  was  an  Indian  magian  there, 

And,  stepping  forth,  he  bent  his  knee. 

"  O  King  !  "   he  said,  "  be  wise  :   beware 

This  too  prophetic  tree." 

-'  Ha  !  "  cried  the  King,  "  thou  knowest,  then,  seer, 

What  yon  strange  oracle  reveals  ?  " 

"  Alas  !  "   the  magian  said,  "  I  hear 

Deep  words  like  thunder-peals. 

I  hear  the  groans  of  more  than  man, 
Hear  tones  that  warn,  denounce,  beseech  ; 
Hear,  woe  is  me  !    how  darkly  ran 
That  strain  of  thrilling  speech. 
'  C)  King,'  it  spake,  'all-trampling  King, 
I  hou  leadest  legions  from  afar, 
But  battle  droops  his  clotted  wing,  (20) 
Ni^ht  menaces  thy  star  ! 


ziz  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Fond  visions  of  thy  boyhood's  years 
Dawn  like  dim  light  upon  thy  soul ; 
Thou  seest  again  thy  mother's  tears 
Which  love  could  not  control. 
Ah,  thy  career  in  sooth  is  run, 
Ah,  thou  indeed  returnest  home ; 
The  mother  waits  to  clasp  her  son 
Low  in  her  gloomful  dome ! 

Yet  go  rejoicing :   he  who  reigns 
O'er  earth  alone,  leaves  worlds  unscanned ; 
Life  binds  the  spirit  as  with  chains  : 
Seek  thou  the  phantom-land  ! 
Leave  conquest  all  it  looks  for  here ; 
Leave  willing  slaves  a  bloody  throne ; 
Thine  henceforth  is  another  sphere  : 
Death's  realm,  the  dark  unknown  ! ' ' 

The  magian  ceased.      The  leaves  were  hushed, 

Rut  wailings  broke  from  all  around  ; 

Until  the  chief,  whose  red  blood  flushed 

His  cheek  with  hotter  bound, 

Spake  in  the  tones  of  one  with  whom 

Fear  never  yet  had  been  a  guest : 

"  And  when  doth  Fate  achieve  my  doom  ? 

And  where  shall  be  my  rest?  " 

"  O  noble  heart  !  "   the  magian  said, 
And  tears  unbidden  filled  his  eyes, 
"We  should  not  weep  for  thee;   the  dead 
Change  but  their  home  and  skies  ; 
The  moon  shall  beam,  the  myrtles  bloom 
For  thee  no  more  ;   yet,  sorrow  not  ! 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  213 

The  immortal  pomp  of  Hades'  gloom 
Best  consecrates  thy  lot. 

In  June,  in  June,  in  laughing  June, 
And  where  the  dells  show  deepest  green, 
Pavilioned  overhead  at  noon 
With  gold  and  silver  sheen, 
These  be  for  thee  the  place,  the  time. 
Trust  not  thy  heart,  trust  not  thine  eyes  : 
Beyond  the  mount  thy  warm  hopes  climb 
The  land  of  darkness  lies  !  " 

Unblenching  at  the  fateful  words, 
The  hero  turned  around  in  haste. 
"  On,  on  !  "   he  cried,  "  ye  million  swords  : 
Your  course,  like  mine,  is  traced. 
Let  me  but  close  life's  narrow  span 
Where  weapons  clash  and  banners  wave  ! 
I  would  not  live  to  mourn  that  man 
But  conquers  for  a  grave." 


STREW    THE    WAY    WITH    FLOWERS 

(HOLTY) 

O  strew  the  way  with  rosy  flowers, 

And  dupe  with  smiles  thy  grief  and  gloom  ! 

For  tarnished  leaves  and  songless  hours 

Await  thee  in  the  tomb. 

Lo,  in  the  brilliant  festal  hall 

How  lightly  youth  and  beauty  tread  ! 


JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 


Yet,  gaze  again  :   the  grass  is  tall 
Above  their  charnel  bed. 

In  blaze  of  noon  the  jewelled  bride 
Before  the  altar  plights  her  faith  : 
Ere  weep  the  skies  of  eventide 
Her  eyes  are  dulled  in  death. 
Then  sigh  no  more.      If  life  be  brief, 
So  are  its  woes  ;   and  why  repine  ? 
Pavilioned  by  the  linden  leaf, 
We'll  quaff  the  chaliced  wine. 

Wild  music  from  the  nightingale 
Comes  floating  on  the  loaded  breeze, 
To  mingle  in  the  bowery  vale 
With  hum  of  summer  bees  ; 
Then  taste  the  joys  that  God  bestows, 
The  beaded  wine,  the  faithful  kiss! 
For  while  the  tide  of  pleasure  flows, 
Death  bares  his  black  abyss. 

In  vain  the  zephyr's  breath  perfumes 
The  house  of  death  ;   in  vain  its  tones 
Shall  mourn  at  midnight  round  the  tombs 
Where  sleep  our  blackening  bones. 
The  star-bright  bowl  is  broken  there, 
The  witchery  of  the  lute  is  o'er, 
And,  wreck  of  wrecks  !   there  lie  the  fair 
Whose  beauty  wins  no  more. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  215 

THE    ERL-KING'S    DAUGHTER  (21) 

(HERDER) 

Sir  Olf  rode  fast  toward  Thurlston's  walls 
To  meet  his  bride  in  his  father's  halls. 

He  saw  blue  lights  flit  over  the  graves; 
The  elves  came  forth  from  their  forest  caves. 

They  dance  anear  on  the  glossy  strand, 

And  the  erl-king's  daughter  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Oh,  welcome,  Sir  Olf!   to  our  jubilee  : 
Step  into  the  circle,  and  dance  with  me." 

"  I  dare  not  dance,  I  dare  not  stay  : 
To-morrow  will  be  my  nuptial  day  !  " 

"  Two  golden  spurs  will  I  give  to  thee ; 
And  I  pray  thee,  Sir  Olf,  to  tarry  with  t/ie." 

" 1  dare  not  tarry,  I  dare  not  delay  : 
To-morrow  is  fixed  for  my  nuptial  day  ! 

"  IV ill  give  thee  a  shirt  so  white  and  fine 
ll^as  bleached  yestreen  in  the  neiv  moonshine" 

" 1  dare  not  hearken  to  elf  nor  fay  ! 
To-morrow  is  fixed  for  my  nuptial  day." 

"  A  measure  of  gold  I  will  give  unto  thee  ; 
And  I  pray  thee,  Sir   Olf,  to  dance  -with  ///<'." 


216  JAMES   CLARENCE    MANGAN 

u  The  measure  of  gold  will  I  carry  away, 
But  I  dare  not  dance,  and  I  dare  not  stay." 

u  Then,  since  tbou  wilt  go,  even  go  with  a  blight  ! 
A  true-lover's  token  I  leave  thee,  sir  knight" 

She  lightly  struck  with  her  wand  on  his  heart, 

And  he  swooned  and  swooned  from  the  deadly  smart ; 

She  lifted  him  up  on  his  coal-black  steed: 
u  Now  hie  thee  away  with  a  fatal  speed !  " 

Then  shone  the  moon,  and  howled  the  wolf, 
And  the  sheen  and  the  howl  awoke  Sir  Olf. 

He  rode  over  mead,  he  rode  over  moor; 
He  rode  till  he  rode  to  his  own  house  door. 

Within  sat,  white  as  the  marble,  his  bride; 

But  his  gray-haired  mother  stood  watching  outside. 

"  My  son,  my  son,  thou  art  haggard  and  wan ! 
Thy  brow  is  the  brow  of  a  dying  man." 

"  And  haggard  and  wan  I  well  may  be, 

For  the  erl-king's  daughter  hath  wounded  me." 

"  I  pray  thee,  my  son,  dismount,  and  bide. 
There  is  mist  on  the  eyes  of  thy  pining  bride." 

"O  mother!    I  should  but  drop  dead  from  my  steed. 
I  will  wander  abroad  for  the  strength  I  need." 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  217 

"  And  what  shall  I  tell  thy  bride,  my  son, 

When  the  morning  dawns,  and  the  tiring  is  done  ? " 

"  Oh,  tell  my  bride  that  I  rode  to  the  wood 

With  my  hounds  in  leash,  and  my  hawk  in  hood." 

When  morning  dawned  with  crimson  and  gray, 
The  bride  came  forth  in  her  wedding  array. 

They  poured  out  mead,  they  poured  out  wine: 
"Now,  where  is  thy  son,  O  gold-mother  mine?" 

"  My  son,  gold-daughter,  rode  into  the  wood, 
With  his  hounds  in  leash,  and  his  hawk  in  hood." 

Then  the  bride  grew  sick  with  an  ominous  dread : 
"  Ah,  woe  is  me!   for  Sir  Olf  is  dead." 

She  drooped  like  a  lily  that  feels  the  blast; 
She  drooped,  and  drooped,  till  she  died ;  at  last 

They  rest  in  the  charnel  side  by  side, 
The  stricken  Sir  Olf  and  his  faithful  bride. 

But  the  erl-king's  daughter  dances  still 

Where  the  moonlight  sleeps  on  the  frosted  hill. 


2i 8  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

THE    GRAVE,  THE    GRAVE 

(MAHLMANN) 

Blest  are  the  dormant 

In  death  :   they  repose 

From  bondage  and  torment, 

From  passions  and  woes, 

From  the  yoke  of  the  world  and   the  snares  of  the 

traitor. 
The  grave,  the  grave  is  the  true  liberator ! 

Griefs  chase  one  another 

Around  the  earth's  dome  ; 

In  the  arms  of  the  mother 

Alone  is  our  home. 

Woo  pleasure,  ye  triflers  !     The  thoughtful  are  wiser: 

The  grave,  the  grave  is  their  one  tranquillizer  ! 

Is  the  good  man  unfriended 

On  life's  ocean-path, 

Where  storms  have  expended 

Their  turbulent  wrath  ? 

Are  his  labors  requited  by  slander  and  rancor? 

The  grave,  the  grave  is  his  sure  bower-anchor  ! 

To  gaze  on  the  faces 

Of  lost  ones  anew, 

To  lock  in  embraces 

The  loved  and  the  true, 

Were  a  rapture  to  make  even  Paradise  brighter. 

The  grave,  the  grave  is  the  great  reumter  ! 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  219 

Crown  the  corpse  then  with  laurels, 

The  conqueror's  wreath, 

Make  joyous  with  carols 

The  chamber  of  death, 

And  welcome  the  victor  with  cymbal  and  psalter : 

The  grave,  the  grave  is  the  only  exalter  ! 


A   SONG 

(CONRAD  WETZEL) 

When  the  roses  blow, 

Man  looks  out  for  brighter  hours ; 

When  the  roses  glow, 

Hope  relights  her  lampless  bowers. 

Much  that  seemed,  in  winter  gloom, 

Dark  with  heavy  woe, 

Wears  a  gladsome  hue  and  bloom 

When  the  roses  blow, 

When  the  roses  blow ; 

Wears  a  gladsome  hue  and  bloom 

When  the  roses  blow  ! 

When  the  roses  blow, 

Love  that  slept  shall  wake  anew; 

Merrier  blood  shall  flow 

Through  the  springald's  veins  of  blue. 

And  if  sorrow  wrung  the  heart, 

Even  that  shall  go : 

Pain  and  mourning  must  depart 

When  the  roses  blow, 

When  the  roses  blow; 


JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 


Pain  and  mourning  must  depart 
When  the  roses  blow  ! 

When  the  roses  blow,  (22) 

Look  to  heaven,  my  fainting  soul : 

There,  in  stainless  show, 

Spreads  the  veil  that  hides  thy  goal. 

Not  while  winter  breathes  his  blight, 

Burst  thy  bonds  below  : 

Let  the  earth  look  proud  and  bright, 

Let  the  roses  blow, 

Let  the  roses  blow. 

O  let  earth  look  proud  and  bright, 

Let  the  roses  blow  ! 


TO   LUDWIG   UHLAND   ON  THE   LAST 
VOLUME   OF    HIS    POEMS  (23) 

(JUSTINUS  KERNER) 

As  a  headlong  stream  that  winter  had  bound, 
When  spring  re-showers  her  beams  on  the  plains 
Breaks  loose  with  a  fierce  impatient  sound 
From  its  icy  chains  : 

As  a  tree,  despoiled  by  the  axe  of  the  north 
Of  his  leaves  of  green,  and  fruits  of  gold, 
New  leaves,  new  fruits,  afresh  puts  forth, 
As  bright  as  the  old  : 

As  riotous  wine,  whose  fiery  strength 

By  the  walls  of  the  flask  was  prisoned  long, 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  221 

Out-gushes  in  purple  pride  at  length, 
A  bubbling  song : 

As  the  pealing  of  some  vast  organ  floats 
On  the  air  to  the  ear  of  him  who  has  heard, 
In  many  long  days,  but  the  piping  notes 
Of  the  coppice  bird  : 

So  rushes,  Uhland  !   so  streams  and  rolls 
The  flood  of  thy  song,  a  flood  of  fire  ! 
So  thrills  thro'  the  depths  of  all  hearts  and  souls 
The  might  of  thy  lyre  ! 


THE    POET'S    CONSOLATION  (24) 

(JUSTINUS  KERNER) 

What  tho'  no  maiden's  tears  ever  be  shed 
O'er  my  clay  bed, 

Yet  will  the  generous  night  never  refuse 
To  weep  its  dews. 

And  tho'  no  friendly  hand  garland  the  cross 
Above  my  moss, 

Still  will  the  dear,  dear  moon  tenderly  shine- 
Down  on  that  sign. 

And  if  the  saunterer-by  songlessly  pass 
Thro'  the  long  grass, 

There  will  the  noontide  bee  pleasantly  hum, 
And  warm  winds  come. 


222  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Yes,  you  at  least,  ye  dells,  meadows,  and  streams, 
Stars  and  moonbeams, 

Will  think  on  him  whose  weak  meritless  lays 
Teemed  with  your  praise  ! 


THE   LOVE-ADIEU 

(UHLAND) 

Fare  thee  well,  fare  thee  well,  my  dove ! 
Thou  and  I  must  sever; 
One  fond  kiss,  one  fond  kiss  of  love, 
Ere  we  part  for  ever : 

And  one  rose,  one  red  rose,  Marie, 
Choose  me  from  the  bowers ; 
But  no  fruit,  ah  !   no  fruit  for  me, 
Naught  but  fragile  flowers. 

A    DRINKING-SONG 

(ALOYS  SCHREIBF.R) 

Look,  look  !   this  wine  is  German. 
Therefore  streams  it  full  and  flowing, 
Therefore  beams  it  bold  and  glowing; 
Therefore,  like  a  thirsty  merman, 
(^uaffthe  brilliant  cup  divine: 
Brother,  this  is  German  wine  ! 

Fill,  till  a  bumper  goblet  ! 

Fill  it  high,  and  toast  our  olden 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  223 

Fatherland,  and  them,  the  golden 
Maids  and  men  who  aye  ennoble  it. 
Fill  the  purple  cup  divine  : 
Brother,  this  is  German  wine ! 

Drink,  drink  to  ancient  usage  : 
May  their  memory  greenly  flourish, 
Who  of  yore  were  first  to  nourish 
Flesh  and  soul  with  this,  and  grew  sage, 
Quaffing  such  immortal  wine. 
Drink  the  Fathers  of  the  vine  ! 

Toast,  toast  the  resurrection 
Of  our  country  from  her  torpor  ! 
We  have  spurned  the  French  usurper; 
Freedom  binds  us  and  affection, 
Me  with  thee,  and  mine  with  thine  : 
Toast  our  triumph  here  in  wine  ! 

German  worth  and  German  wine, 
German  speech  and  German  manners, 
Be  the  motto  on  our  banners  ! 
None  can  tremble,  none  can  pine, 
While  he  drinks  of  German  wine. 


SWABIAN    POPULAR   SONG 

Where  are  they,  the  beloved, 
The  gladsome,  all  ? 
Where  are  they,  the  beloved, 
The  gladsome,  all  ? 


224  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

They  left  the  festal  hearth  and  hall. 

They  pine  afar  from  us  in  alien  climes. 

O,  who  shall  bring  them  back  to  us  once  more  ? 

Who  shall  restore 

Life's  fairy  floral  times  ? 

Restore 

Life's  fairy  floral  times  ? 

Where  are  they,  the  beloved, 

The  gallant,  all  ? 

Where  are  they,  the  beloved, 

The  gallant,  all  ? 

At  freedom's  thrilling  clarion-call 

They  went  forth  in  the  pride  of  youthhood's  powers. 

O,  who  shall  give  them  back  to  us  once  more  ? 

Who  shall  restore 

Long-buried  hearts  and  hours  ? 

Restore 

Long-buried  hearts  and  hours  ? 

Where  are  they,  the  beloved, 

The  gifted,  all  ? 

Where  are  they,  the  beloved, 

The  gifted,  all  ? 

They  would  not  yield  their  souls  the  thrall 

Of  gold,  nor  sell  the  glory  of  their  lays. 

O,  who  shall  give  them  back  to  us  once  more  ? 

Who  shall  restore 

The  bright  young  songful  days  ? 

Restore 

The  bright  young  songful  days  ? 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  225 

God  only  can  restore  us 

The  lost  ones  all, 

But  God  He  will  restore  us 

The  lost  ones  all ! 

What  tho'  the  future's  shadows  fall 

Dark  o'er  their  fate,  seen  darker  through  our  tears, 

Our  God  will  give  them  back  to  us  once  more. 

He  can  restore 

The  vanished  golden  years  ; 

Restore 

The  vanished  golden  years  ! 

HOLINESS    TO    THE    LORD 

(OTTO  RUNGE) 

There  blooms  a  beautiful  Flower,  it  blooms  in  a  far- 
off  land  ; 

Its  life  has  a  mystic  meaning  for  few  to  understand. 

Its  leaves  illumine  the  valley,  its  odor  scents  the 
wood  ; 

And  if  evil  men  come  near  it,  they  grow  for  the 
moment  good. 

When  the  winds  are  tranced  in  slumber,  the  rays  of 

this  luminous  Flower 
Shed  glory  more  than  earthly  o'er  lake  and   hill  and 

bower ; 
The  hut,  the  hall,  the  palace,  yea,  earth's  forsakenest 

sod, 
Shine  out  in  the  wondrous  lustre  that  fills  the  heaven 

of  God. 


226  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Three   Kings  came  once  to  a  hostel   wherein   lay  the 

Flower  so  rare  : 

A  star  shone  over  its  roof,  and  they  knelt  adoring  there. 
Whenever   thou   seest   a  damsel    whose   young   eyes 

dazzle  and  win, 
O   pray  that  her  heart  may  cherish  this  Flower  of 

Flowers  within  ! 


THE    RIDE    AROUND    THE    PARAPET  (25) 

(RUCKERT) 

She  said  :  "  I  was  not  born  to  mope  at  home  in  lone- 
liness," 

The  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 

She  said  :  "  I  was  not  born  to  mope  at  home  in  lone- 
liness. 

When  the  heart  is  throbbing  sorest,  there  is  balsam  in 
the  forest, 

There  is  balsam  in  the  forest  for  its  pain," 

Said  the  Lady  Eleanora, 

Said  the  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 

She  doffed   her  silks   and   pearls,  and   donned   instead 

her  hunting-gear, 
The  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 
She   doffed   her  silks   and   pearls,  and  donned   instead 

her  hunting-gear, 

And,  till  summer-time  was  over,  as  a  huntress  and  a  rover 
Did  she  couch  upon  the  mountain  and  the  plain, 
She,  the  Lady  Eleanora, 
Noble  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  227 

Returning  home  again,  she  viewed  with  scorn  the 
tournaments, 

The  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 

Returning  home  again,  she  viewed  with  scorn  the 
tournaments  ; 

She  saw  the  morions  cloven,  and  the  crowning  chap- 
lets  woven, 

And  the  sight  awakened  only  the  disdain 

Of  the  Lady  Eleanora, 

Of  the  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 


"My  feeling  towards  man  is  one  of  utter  scornful- 
ness," 

Said  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 

"  My  feeling  towards  man  is  one  of  utter  scornful- 
ness  ; 

And  he  that  would  o'ercome  it,  let  him  ride  around 
the  summit 

Of  my  battlemented  castle  by  the  Maine  !  " 

Said  the  Lady  Eleanora, 

Said  the  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 

So  came  a  knight  anon  to  ride  around  the  parapet 
For  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 
So  came  a  knight  anon  to  ride  around  the  parapet : 
Man  and   horse  were  hurled  together  o'er  the  crags 

that  beetled  nether. 

Said  the  lady,  "There,  I  fancy,  they'll  remain  !  " 
Said  the  Lady  Eleanora, 
Queenly  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne  ! 


zz8  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Then  came  another  knight  to  ride  around  the  parapet 
For  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 

Then  came  another  knight  to  ride  around  the  parapet. 
Man  and  horse  fell  down,  asunder,  o'er  the  crags  that 

beetled  under. 

Said  the  lady,  u  They'll  not  leap  the  leap  again !  " 
Said  the  Lady  Eleanora, 
Lovely  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 

Came  other  knights  anon  to  ride  around  the  parapet 
For  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 

Came  other  knights  anon  to  ride  around  the  parapet  ; 
Till  six  and   thirty  corses  of  both  mangled   men   and 

horses 

Had  been  sacrificed  victims  at  the  fane 
Of  the  Lady  Eleanora, 
Stately  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne  ! 

That  woeful  year  was  by,  and  Ritter  none  came  after- 
wards 

To  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 

That  woeful  year  was  by,  and  Ritter  none  came  after- 
wards ; 

The  castle's  lonely  basscourt  looked  a  wild  o'er-grown- 
with-grass  court  ; 

'Twas  abandoned  by  the  Rittcrs  and  their  train 

To  the  Lady  Eleanora, 

Haughty  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne  ! 

She  clomb  the  silent  wall,  she  gazed  around  her  sovran- 
like, 
The  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne  ! 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  229 

She  c/omb  the  silent  wall,  she  gazed  around  her  sovran- 
like. 

u  And  wherefore  have  departed  all  the  brave,  the  lion- 
hearted, 

Who  have  left  me  here  to  play  the  castellaine  ? " 

Said  the  Lady  Eleanora, 

Said  the  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 

41  And  is  it  fled  for  aye,  the  palmy  time  of  chivalry?" 
Cried  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 
"  And  is  it  fled  for  aye,  the  palmy  time  of  chivalry  ? 
Shame  light  upon  the  cravens  !      May  their  corpses 

gorge  the  ravens, 

Since  they  tremble  thus  to  wear  a  woman's  chain," 
Said  the  Lady  Eleanora, 
Said  the  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 

The  story  reached,  at   Gratz,  the  gallant   Margrave 

Gondibert 

Of  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 
The  story   reached,  at   Gratz,  the  gallant   Margrave 

Gondibert. 
Quoth  he  :  "I  trow  the  woman  must  be  more  or  less 

than  human  ; 

She  is  worth  a  little  peaceable  campaign, 
Is  the  Lady  Eleanora, 
Is  the  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne  !  " 

He  trained  a  horse  to   pace  round   narrow  stones  laid 

mcrlon-wisc, 
For  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 


230  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

He  trained  a  horse  to  pace  round  narrow  stones  laid 
merlon-wise. 

"  Good  gray  !  do  thou  thy  duty ;  and  this  rocky- 
bosomed  beauty 

Shall  be  taught  that  all  the  vauntings  are  in  vain 

Of  the  Lady  Eleanora, 

Of  the  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne." 

He  left  his  castle-halls,  he  came  to  Lady  Eleanor's, 
The  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 
He  left  his  castle-halls,  he  came  to  Lady  Eleanor's. 
"  O  lady  best  and  fairest,  here  am  I !   and,  if  thou 

carest, 

I  will  gallop  round  the  parapet  amain, 
Noble  Lady  Eleanora, 
Noble  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne  !  " 

She  saw  him  spring  to  horse,  that  gallant   Margrave 

Gondibert, 

The  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 
She  saw  him  spring  to  horse,  that  gallant   Margrave 

Gondibert. 
"  O    bitter,   bitter    sorrow !      I    shall    weep    for    this 

to-morrow  ; 

It  were  better  that  in  battle  he  were  slain," 
Said  the  Lady  P^leanora, 
Said  the  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 

Then    rode   he    round    and    round    the    battlemented 

parapet, 
For  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  231 

Then    rode   he    round    and    round    the    battlemented 

parapet : 
The    lady    wept    and    trembled,   and    her    paly   face 

resembled, 

As  she  looked  away,  a  lily  wet  with  rain ; 
Hapless  Lady  Eleanora, 
Hapless  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne  ! 

So  rode  he  round  and  round  the  battlemented  parapet, 
For  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne; 
So  rode  he  round  and  round  the  battlemented  parapet. 
"  Accursed  be  my  ambition  !      He  but  rideth  to  perdi- 
tion, 

He  but  rideth  to  perdition  without  rein  !  " 
Wept  the  Lady  Eleanora, 
Wept  the  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 

Yet  rode  he  round  and  round  the  battlemented  parapet, 
For  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 

Yet  rode  he  round  and  round  the  battlemented  parapet. 
Meanwhile  her  terror  shook  her,  yea,  her  breath  well 

nigh  forsook  her ; 

Fire  was  burning  in  the  bosom  and  the  brain 
Of  the  Lady  Eleanora, 
Of  the  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne  ! 

Then  rode  he  round  and  off  the  battlemented  parapet, 
To  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 

Then  rode  he  round  and  oft  the  battlemented  parapet  ! 
u  Now  blest  be  God  for  ever  !      This   is   marvellous  ! 
I  never 


23 2  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Cherished  hope  of  laying  eyes  on  thee  again  !  " 

Cried  the  Lady  Eleanora, 

Joyous  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 

"  The  man  of  men  thou  art,  for  thou  hast  fairly  con- 
quered me, 

The  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne  ! 

The  man  of  men  thou  art,  for  thou  hast  fairly  con- 
quered me  : 

I  greet  thee  as  my  lover,  and,  ere  many  days  be 
over, 

Thou  shalt  wed  me  and  be  lord  of  my  domain  !  " 

Said  the  Lady  Eleanora, 

Said  the  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 

Then  bowed  the  graceful  knight,  the  gallant  Mar- 
grave Gondibert, 

To  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 

Then  bowed  that  graceful  knight,  the  gallant  Mar- 
grave Gondibert, 

And  thus  he  answered  coldly  :  "  There  be  many  who 
as  boldly 

Will  adventure  an  achievement  they  disdain 

Eor  the  Lady  Eleanora, 

For  the  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 

Mayest  bide  until  they  come,  O  stately  Lady 
Eleanor  ! 

O  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne  ! 

Mayest  bide  until  they  come,  O  stately  Lady  Elea- 
nor ! 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  233 

And  thou  and  they  may  marry  ;  but,  for  me,  I  must 

not  tarry  : 

I  have  won  a  wife  already  out  of  Spain, 
Virgin  Lady  Eleanora, 
Virgin  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne  !  " 

Thereon  he  rode  away,  the  gallant   Margrave  Gondi- 

bert, 

From  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 
Thereon  he  rode  away,  the  gallant   Margrave  Gondi- 

bert, 
And  long  in  shame  and  anguish  did  that  haughty  lady 

languish, 

Did  she  languish  without  pity  for  her  pain, 
She,  the  Lady  Eleanora, 
She,  the  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne  ! 

And  year  went  after  year,  and  still  in  barren  maiden- 
hood 

Lived  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 

And  wrinkled  eld  crept  on,  and  still  her  lot  was 
maidenhood. 

And,  woe  !  her  end  was  tragic  :  she  was  changed,  at 
length,  by  magic, 

To  an  ugly  wooden  image,  they  maintain  ! 

She,  the  Lady  Eleanora, 

She,  the  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne. 

And  now,  before  the  gate,  in  sight  of  all,  transmog- 
rified, 

Stands  Lady  Eleanora  von  Allevne. 
Before   her  castle-gate,  in  sight  of  all,  transmogrified  ! 


234  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

And  he  that  won't  salute  her  must  be  fined  in  foam- 
ing pewter, 

If  a  boor;   but,  if  a  burgher,  in  champagne, 
For  the  Lady  Eleanora, 
Wooden  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne  ! 


MY    HOME  (26) 

(CONRAD  WETZEL) 

Morn  and  eve  a  star  invites  me, 

One  imploring  silver  star, 

Woos  me,  calls  me,  lures  me,  lights  me 

To  the  desert  deeps  afar, 

To  a  lovely  orient  land, 

Where  the  sun  at  morning  early 

Rises  fresh,  and  young,  and  glowing ; 

Where  the  air  is  light  and  bland, 

And  the  falling  raindrops  pearly  : 

Therefore  am  I  going,  going 

Home  to  this  my  lovely  land, 

Where  the  sun  at  morning  early 

Rises  fresh,  and  young,  and  glowing; 

Where  the  airs  are  light  and  bland, 

And  the  rain  is  warm  and  pearly  : 

All  unheeding,  all  unknowing, 

I  am  speeding,  I  am  going, 

Going  home  to  my,  to  my  land, 

To  my  only  lonely  island 

In  the  desert  deeps  afar; 

Yet  unknowing,  and  undreaming 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  235 

Why  I  go,  or  how,  or  whither, 
Save  that  one  imploring  star, 
Ever-burning,  ever-beaming, 
Woos  me,  lures  me,  lights  me  thither. 


THE    FAIRIES'    PASSAGE  (27) 

(KOPISCH) 

Tap,  tap,  rap,  rap !     "  Get  up,  gaffer  Ferryman." 

"  Eh  !     Who  is  there  ?  "     The  clock  strikes  three. 

"  Get  up,  do,  gaffer  !      You  are  the  very  man 

We  have  been  long,  long,  longing  to  see." 

The  ferryman  rises,  growling  and  grumbling, 

And  goes  fum-fumbling,  and  stumbling,  and  tumbling 

Over  the  wares  on  his  way  to  the  door. 

But  he  sees  no  more 

Than  he  saw  before, 

Till  a  voice  is  heard  :   "  O  Ferryman  dear  ! 

Here  we  are  waiting,  all  of  us,  here. 

We  are  a  wee,  wee  colony,  we ; 

Some  two  hundred  in  all,  or  three. 

Ferry  us  over  the  river  Lee 

Ere  dawn  of  day, 

And  we  will  pay 

The  most  we  may 

In  our  own  wee  way  !  " 

"  Who  are  vou  ?      Whence  came  you  ? 
What  place  are  you  going  to  ?  " 


236  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN 

"  Oh,  we  have  dwelt  over-long  in  this  land  : 

The  people  get  cross,  and   are  growing  so   knowing, 

too  ! 

Nothing  at  all  but  they  now  understand. 
We  are  daily  vanishing  under  the  thunder 
Of  some  huge  engine  or  iron  wonder; 
That  iron,  ah  !   it  has  entered  our  souls." 
"  Your  souls  ?   O  gholes, 
You  queer  little  drolls, 
Do   you    mean ?  "      "  Good    gaffer,   do    aid    us 

with  speed, 

For  our  time,  like  our  stature,  is  short  indeed  ! 
And  a  very  long  way  we  have  to  go  : 
Ei«;ht  or  ten  thousand  miles  or  so. 

O  ' 

Hither  and  thither,  and  to  and  fro, 
With  our  pots  and  pans 
And  little  gold  cans  ; 
But  our  light  caravans 
Run  swifter  than  man's." 

"  Well,    well,   you    may    come,"    said    the    ferryman 

affably  : 

"  Patrick,  turn  out,  and  get  ready  the  barge." 
Then    again    to    the    little    folk:    "  Tho'    you    seem 

laughably 

Small,  I  don't  mind,  if  your  coppers  be  large." 
Oh,    dear !     what    a    rushing,    what     pushing,    what 

crushing, 

(The  watermen  making  vain  efforts  at  hushing 
The  hubbub  the  while,)  there  followed  these  words  ! 
What  clapping  of  boards, 
What  strapping  of  cords, 


HIS   SELECTED   POEMS  237 

What  stowing  away  of  children  and  wives, 

And  platters,  and  mugs,  and  spoons,  and  knives  ! 

Till  all  had  safely  got  into  the  boat, 

And  the  ferryman,  clad  in  his  tip-top  coat, 

And  his  wee  little  fairies  were  safely  afloat. 

Then  ding,  ding,  ding, 

And  kling,  kling,  kling, 

How  the  coppers  did  ring 

In  the  tin  pitcherling  ! 

Off,  then,  went  the  boat,  at  first  very  pleasantly, 

Smoothly,  and  so  forth  ;  but  after  a  while 

It    swayed   and   it    swagged    this   and    that    way,    and 

presently 

Chest  after  chest,  and  pile  after  pile, 
Of  the  little  folk's  goods  began  tossing  and  rolling, 
And  pitching  like  fun,  beyond  fairy  controlling. 
O  Mab  !   if  the  hubbub  were  great  before, 
It  was  now  some  two  or  three  million  times  more. 
Crash  !   went  the  wee  crocks  and  the  clocks  ;   and  the 

locks 

Of  each  little  wee  box  were  stove  in  by  hard  knocks  ; 
And  then  there  were  oaths,  and  prayers,  and  cries  : 
"  Take  care  !  "      -    "  See  there  !  "      •    "  Oh,  dear,  my 

eyes  !  " 
"  I  am  killed  !  "     -  "  I  am  drowned  !  "  —  with  groans 

and  sighs, 

Till  to  land  they  drew. 
"  Yeo-ho  !      Pull  to  ! 
Tiller-rope,  thro'  and  thro'  !  " 
And  all's  ri<rht  anew. 


238  JAMES   CLARENCE   MANGAN 

u  Now  jump  upon  shore,  ye  queer  little  oddities. 

(Eh,  what  is  this  ?   .   .   .  Where  are  they,  at  all  ? 

Where  are  they,  and  where  are  their  tiny  commodi- 
ties ? 

Well,  as  I  live  !"...)      He  looks  blank  as  a  wall, 

Poor  ferryman  !  Round  him  and  round  him  he 
gazes, 

But  only  gets  deeplier  lost  in  the  mazes 

Of  utter  bewilderment.      All,  all  are  gone, 

And  he  stands  alone, 

Like  a  statue  of  stone, 

In  a  doldrum  of  wonder.      He  turns  to  steer, 

And  a  tinkling  laugh  salutes  his  ear, 

With  other  odd  sounds  :  "  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Fol  lol  !   zidzizzle  !   quee  quee  !   bah  !   bah  ! 

Fizzigigiggidy  !   pshee  !   sha  sha  !  " 

"  O  ye  thieves,  ye  thieves,  ye  rascally  thieves  !  " 

The  good  man  cries.      He  turns  to  his  pitcher, 

And  there,  alas,  to  his  horror  perceives 

That  the  little  folk's  mode  of  making  him  richer 

Has  been  to  pay  him  with  withered  leaves  ! 


THE    LAST   WORDS    OF    AL-HASSAN  (28) 

(FRIEDRICH  AUGUST  VON   HEVDEN) 

Farewell  for  ever  to  all  I  love, 

To  river  and  rock,  farewell  ; 

To  Zoumlah's  gloomful  cypress-grove, 

And  Shaarmal's  tulipy  dell  ! 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  239 

To  Deenween-Kullaha's  light  blue  bay, 

And  Oreb's  lonely  strand  ! 

My  race  is  run  ;  I  am  called  away : 

I  go  to  the  lampless  land. 

'Llah  Hu  ! 

I  am  called  away  from  the  light  of  day 

To  my  tent  in  the  dark  dark  land ; 

I  have  seen  the  standard  of  Ali  stained 
With  the  blood  of  the  brave  and  free, 
And  the  Kaaba's  venerable  stone  profaned 
By  the  truculent  Wahabee. 

0  Allah,  for  the  light  of  another  sun, 
With  my  Bazra  sword  in  hand  ! 

But  I  rave  in  vain  ;   my  course  is  run  : 

1  go  to  the  lampless  land. 
'Llah  Hu  ! 

My  course  is  run,  my  goal  is  won, 
I  go  to  the  dark  dark  land  ! 

Yet,  why  should  I  live  a  day,  an  hour  ? 

The  friends  I  valued  lie  low  ; 

My  sisters  dance  in  the  halls  of  the  Giaour, 

My  brethren  fight  for  the  foe. 

None  stood  by  the  banner  this  arm  unfurled 

Save  Kharada's  mountain-band  ! 

'Tis  well  that  I  leave  so  base  a  world, 

Tho'  to  dwell  in  the  lampless  land. 

'Llah  Hu  ! 

'Tis  well  that  I  leave  so  false  a  world, 

Tho'  to  dwell  in  the  dark  dark  land  ! 


24o  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Even  she,  my  loved  and  lost  Ameen, 

The  moon-white  pearl  of  my  soul, 

Could  pawn  her  peace  for  the  show  and  sheen 

Of  silken  Istambol. 

How  little  did  I  bode  what  a  year  would  see 

When  we  parted  at  Sarmarcand; 

My  bride  in  the  harem  of  the  Osmanlee, 

Myself  in  the  lampless  land. 

'Llah  Hu ! 

My  bride  in  the  harem  of  the  Osmanlee, 

Myself  in  the  dark  dark  land  ! 

We  weep  for  the  noble  who  perish  young, 

Like  flowers  before  their  bloom  ; 

The  great-souled  few,  who,  unseen  and  unsung, 

Go  down  to  the  charnel's  gloom  ; 

But,  written  on  the  brow  of  each,  if  man 

Could  read  it  and  understand, 

Is  the  changeless  decree  of  Heaven's  divan  : 

We  are  born  for  the  lampless  land  ! 

'Llah  Hu! 

By  the  dread  firman  of  Heaven's  divan, 

All  are  born  for  the  dark  dark  land  ! 

The  wasted  moon  has  a  marvellous  look 

Amiddle  of  the  starry  hordes  ; 

The  heavens,  too,  shine  like  a  mystic  book 

All  bright  with  burning  words. 

The  mists  of  the  dawn  begin  to  dislimn 

Zahara's  castles  of  sand. 

Farewell  !   farewell  !      Mine  eyes  feel  dim  : 

They  turn  to  the  lampless  land. 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  241 

'Llah  Hu  ! 

My  heart  is  weary,  mine  eyes  are  dim, 

I  would  rest  in  the  dark  dark  land  ! 


AND    THEN    NO    MORE 

(RUCKERT) 

I  saw  her  once,  one  little  while,  and  then  no  more : 
'Twas  Eden's  light  on  earth  awhile,  and  then  no  more. 
Amid  the  throng,  she  passed  along  the  meadow-floor: 
Spring  seemed  to  smile  on  earth  awhile,  and  then  no 

more. 
But  whence  she  came,  which  way  she    went,  what 

garb  she  wore, 
I  noted  not ;  I  gazed  awhile,  and  then  no  more. 

I  saw  her  once,  one  little  while,  and  then  no  more  : 
'Twas  Paradise  on  earth  awhile,  and  then  no  more  : 
Ah  !  what  avail  my  vigils  pale,  my  magic  lore  ? 
She  shone  before  mine  eyes  awhile,  and  then  no  more. 
The  shallop  of  my  peace  is  wrecked  on  Beauty's  shore  ; 
Near  Hope's  fair  isle  it  rode  awhile,  and  then  no  more  ! 

I  saw  her  once,  one  little  while,  and  then  no  more  : 
Earth  looked  like  Heaven  a  little  while,  and  then  no 

more. 

Her  presence  thrilled  and   lightened  to  its  inner  core, 
My  desert  breast,  a  little  while,  and  then  no  more. 
So    may,    perchance,    a    meteor    glance    at    midnight 

o'er 
Some  ruined  pile  a  little  while,  and  then  no  more. 

R 


242  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

1  saw  her  once,  one  little  while,  and  then  no  more. 
The  earth  was  Peri-land  awhile,  and  then  no  more. 
O  might  I  see  but  once  again,  as  once  before, 
Through  chance  or  wile,  that  shape  awhile,  and  then 

no  more  ! 
Death  soon  would  heal  my  griefs  :  this  heart,  now  sad 

and  sore, 
Would  beat  anew  a  little  while,  and  then  no  more  ! 


MOTHER    AND    SON 

(HANDRIC  TZVELK) 

"  Hie  to  the  wood,  and  seek  thy  sister, 

Son  for  ever  gay  ! 

Hie  to  the  wood,  and  tell  thy  sister 

She  bring  home  her  mother's  breast-knot, 

Son  for  ever  gay." 

"  Wandering  in  the  wood  I  missed  her, 
Golden  mother  gray  ! 
In  the  wood  I  lost  and  missed  her. 
Where  she  bides  I  guess  and  guess  not, 
Golden  mother  gray." 

"Fare  to  the  mill  and  seek  thy  brother, 

Son  for  ever  gay  ! 

Fetch  him  home  to  his  mourning  mother. 

See,  the  eve  gets  dark  and  darker, 

Son  for  ever  gay." 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  243 


"  Mother  now  he  hath  found  another, 
Golden  mother  gray, 
Even  the  holy  Virgin  Mother ! 
Stark  as  death  he  lies  ;   none  starker, 
Golden  mother  gray." 

"  Hence,  and  find  thy  staffless  father, 
Son  for  ever  gay  ! 

Green  herbs  went  he  forth  to  gather 
Mid  the  dews  of  morning  early, 
Son  for  ever  gay." 

"Vainly  might  I  seek  my  father, 
Golden  mother  gray  ! 
Heavenly  herbs  he  now  doth  gather 
Where  the  dews  shine  bright  and  pearly, 
Golden  mother  gray." 

"  When  shall  I  again  behold  them, 
Son  for  ever  gay  ? 
When  again  shall  I  behold  them, 
Ah,  when  fold  them  to  my  bosom, 
Son  for  ever  gay  ?  " 

"  To  thy  bosom  shall  thou  fold  them, 
Golden  mother  gray  ! 
Thou  shalt  once  again  behold  them 
When  the  blighted  tree  shall  blossom, 
Golden  mother  gray." 

"  When  shall  blossom  tree  that's  blighted, 

Son  for  ever  gay  ? 

When  can  blossom  tree  that's  blighted  : 


244  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Blighted  tree  may  naught  and  none  raise, 
Son  for  ever  gay." 

"  When  the  morn  shall  first  be  lighted, 
Golden  mother  gray  ! 
When  the  morn  shall  first  be  lighted 
In  the  west,  by  western  sun-rays, 
Golden  mother  gray." 

"  When  shall  dawn  that  wondrous  morning, 

Son  for  ever  gay  ? 

When  shall  break  that  wondrous  morning  ? 

When  be  seen  the  western  sunrise, 

Son  for  ever  gay  ?  " 

"  When  the  Archangel's  trump  gives  warning, 
Golden  mother  gray  ! 
When  the  Judgment  peal  gives  warning; 
When  the  dead  shall  every  one  rise, 
Golden  mother  gray." 

TWO   SONNETS    FROM   VINCENZO    DA 
FILICAJA 

I 

Where  is  thine  arm,  Italia  ?   why  shouldst  thou 
Fight  with  the  stranger's  ?      Fierce  alike  to  me 
Seem  thy  defender  and  thine  enemy  : 
Both  were  thy  vassals  once,  tho'  victors  now.  (29) 
Thus  dost  thou  guard  the  wreath  that  bound  thy  brow, 
The  wreck  of  perished  empire  ?      When  to  thee 
Virtue  and  valor  pledged  their  fealty 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  245 

Was  this  thy  glorious  promise,  this  thy  vow? 
Go,  then  :   reject  thine  ancient  worth,  and  wed 
Degenerate  sloth ;  mid  blood,  and  groans,  and  cries, 
Sleep  on,  all  heedless  of  the  loud  alarms, 
Sleep,  vile  adulteress  !      From  thy  guilty  bed 
Too  soon  the  avenging  sword  shall  bid  thee  rise, 
Or  pierce  thee,  slumbering  in  thy  minion's  arms. 

II 

Here  on  the  spot  where  stately  cities  rose, 

No  stone  is  left,  to  mark  in  letters  rude 

Where  earth  did  her  tremendous  jaws  unclose, 

Where  Syracuse,  or  where  Catania  stood. 

Along  the  silent  margin  of  the  flood 

I  seek,  but  cannot  find  ye  !   Naught  appears 

Save  the  deep-settled  gloom  of  solitude, 

That  checks  my  step,  and  fills  mine  eyes  with  tears. 

O  Thou  whose  mighty  arm  the  blow  hath  dealt, 
Whose  justice  gave  the  judgment  !   shall  not  I 
Adore  that  power  which  I  have  seen  and  felt  ? 
Rise  from  the  depths  of  darkness  where  ye  lie, 
Ye  ghosts  of  buried  cities  ;   rise,  and  be 
A  sad  memorial  to  futurity. 

THE    MARINER'S    BRIDE 

(LUIS   DE  CAMOENS) 

Look,  mother  !   the  mariner's  rowing 
His  galley  adown  the  tide  ; 
I'll  go  where  the  mariner's  going, 
And  be  the  mariner's  bride! 


246  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

I  saw  him  one  day  through  the  wicket, 

I  opened  the  gate  and  we  met ; 

As  a  bird  in  the  fowler's  net, 

Was  I  caught  in  my  own  green  thicket. 

O  mother,  my  tears  are  flowing, 

I've  lost  my  maidenly  pride  : 

I'll  go  if  the  mariner's  going, 

And  be  the  mariner's  bride  ! 

This  Love  the  tyrant  evinces, 
Alas  !   an  omnipotent  might ; 
He  darkens  the  mind  like  night, 
He  treads  on  the  necks  of  princes ! 
O  mother,  my  bosom  is  glowing! 
I'll  go,  whatever  betide, 
I'll  go  where  the  mariner's  going, 
And  be  the  mariner's  bride. 

Yes,  mother,  the  spoiler  has  reft  me 
Of  reason  and  self-control ; 
Gone,  gone  is  my  wretched  soul, 
And  only  my  body  is  left  me. 
The  winds,  O  mother  !   arc  blowing, 
The  ocean  is  bright  and  wide  : 
I'll  go  where  the  mariner's  going, 
And  be  the  mariner's  bride. 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  247 


TO    DON    RODRIGO   AFTER   HIS  FINAL 
DEFEAT 

(FROM  THE  ROMANCERO  GENERAL) 

O  turn  those  eyes,  unhappy  King, 

O  turn  those  eyes  on  ruined  Spain ! 

Behold  that  glory  vanishing 

That  shone  so  long  undimmed  by  stain  • 

See  how  her  heroes  bleed  in  vain  ; 

See  how  the  conquering  Arabs  trample 

Her  golden  fields,  her  vineyards  ample; 

See  this,  and  curse  thy  reckless  reign  ! 

(Alas,  most  wretched  land, 

Lost  for  La  Cava's  lips  and  hand  !) 

The  memories  of  a  thousand  years, 

The  lustre  of  the  Gothic  name, 

So  wronged,  that  never  blood  nor  tears 

Can  wipe  away  the  blighting  shame; 

And  this,  to  feed  thy  guilty  flame  ! 

O  King,  thy  woes  are  but  beginning  : 

O  King,  thou  losest  by  thy  sinning 

Thy  soul  and  body,  crown  and  fame. 

(Alas,  most  wretched  land, 

Lost  for  La  Cava's  lips  and  hand  !) 


248  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 


DIES   IRAE  (30) 

The  day  of  wrath,  the  day  of  woe 
Shall  lay  the  world  in  ashes  low : 
As  David  and  the  Seers  foreshow. 

What  awe  must  e'en  archangels  feel 
When  earth  shall  make  her  dread  appeal 
To  God,  her  Judge  for  woe  or  weal ! 

The  marvellous  trumpet's  mighty  tone 
Shall  thrill  the  graves  from  zone  to  zone, 
And  wake  the  dead  to  face  the  Throne. 

The  whole  dark  ocean  of  the  Past 
Shall  answer  to  that  earthquake  blast, 
Till  Death  and  Nature  stand  aghast. 

The  accusing  record  lies  unrolled  : 

And  all  man  thought  and  wrought  of  old, 

And  hidden  sins  and  shames,  are  told. 

Woe  !   when  the  rended  veil  shall  fall ! 

When  Truth,  in  Heaven's  own  judgment-hall, 

Lays  bare  the  shrinking  souls  of  all. 

Where  then  can  crime  dare  turn  in  trust  ? 
What  stay  remains  for  sinful  dust, 
When  fear  shall  prostrate  even  the  just  ? 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS 


Ah,  great  good  God  so  long  withstood  ! 
I  clasp  Thy  Son's  redeeming  rood  : 
My  fount  of  hope  is  Jesus'  blood. 

On  that  dread  day,  just  Judge  of  men, 
Let  me  not  wake  for  Hell's  dark  den ; 
But  be,  O  God  !  my  Saviour  then. 


Original   Poems 

I.    Those  purporting  to  be  Translations 
from  the  Oriental   Languages 


THE    KARAMANIAN   EXILE  (31) 

I  see  thee  ever  in  my  dreams, 

Karaman  ! 

Thy  hundred  hills,  thy  thousand  streams, 

Karaman,  O  Karaman  ! 

As  when  thy  gold-bright  morning  gleams, 

As  when  the  deepening  sunset  seams 

With  lines  of  light  thy  hills  and  streams, 

Karaman ! 

So  thou  loomest  on  my  dreams, 

Karaman  ! 

On  all  my  dreams,  my  homesick  dreams, 

Karaman,  O  Karaman  ! 

The  hot  bright  plains,  the  sun,  the  skies, 

Karaman  ! 

Seem  death-black  marble  to  mine  eyes, 

Karaman,  O  Karaman  ! 

I  turn  from  summer's  blooms  and  dyes ; 

Yet  in  my  dreams  thou  dost  arise 

In  welcome  glory  to  mine  eyes, 

Karaman  ! 

In  thee  my  life  of  life  yet  lies, 

Karaman  ! 

Thou  still  art  holy  in  mine  eyes, 

Karaman,  O  Karaman  ! 

Ere  my  fighting  years  were  come, 
Karaman  ! 

253 


254  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Troops  were  few  in  Erzerome, 

Karaman,  O  Karaman  ! 

Their  fiercest  came  from  Erzerome, 

They  came  from  Ukhbar's  palace  dome, 

They  dragged  me  forth  from  thee,  my  home, 

Karaman  ! 

Thee,  my  own,  my  mountain  home, 

Karaman  ! 

In  life  and  death,  my  spirit's  home, 

Karaman,  ()  Karaman  ! 

0  none  of  all  my  sisters  ten, 
Karaman  ! 

Loved  like  me  my  fellow-men, 
Karaman,  ()  Karaman  ! 

1  was  mild  as  milk  till  then, 
I  was  soft  as  silk  till  then  ; 
Now  my  breast  is  as  a  den, 
Karaman  ! 

Foul  with  blood  and  bones  of  men, 
Karaman  ! 

With  blood  and  bones  of  slaughtered  men, 
Karaman,  O  Karaman  ! 

My  boyhood's  feelings  newly  born, 

Karaman  ! 

Withered  like  young  flowers  uptorn, 

Karaman,  O  Karaman  ! 

And  in  their  stead  sprang  weed  and  thorn  ; 

What  once  I  loved  now  moves  my  scorn  ; 

My  burning  eyes  arc  dried  to  horn, 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  255 

I  hate  the  blessed  light  of  morn, 
Karaman  ! 

It  maddens  me,  the  face  of  morn, 
Karaman,  O  Karaman ! 

The  Spahi  wears  a  tyrant's  chains, 

Karaman  ! 

But  bondage  worse  than  this  remains, 

Karaman,  O  Karaman  ! 

His  heart  is  black  with  million  stains  : 

Thereon,  as  on  Kaf 's  blasted  plains, 

Shall  nevermore  fall  dews  and  rains, 

Karaman  ! 

Save  poison-dews  and  bloody  rains, 

Karaman  ! 

Hell's  poison-dews  and  bloody  rains, 

Karaman,  O  Karaman ! 

But  life  at  worst  must  end  ere  long, 

Karaman  ! 

Azrael  1  avengeth  every  wrong, 

Karaman,  O  Karaman  ! 

Of  late  my  thoughts  rove  more  among 

Thy  fields ;  o'ershadowing  fancies  throng 

My  mind,  and  texts  of  bodeful  song, 

Karaman  ! 

Azrael  is  terrible  and  strong, 

Karaman  ! 

His  lightning  sword  smites  all  ere  long, 

Karaman,  O  Karaman  ! 

1  The  angel  of  death. 


256  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN 

There's  care  to-night  in  Ukhbar's  halls, 

Karaman  ! 

There's  hope,  too,  for  his  trodden  thralls, 

Karaman,  O  Karaman  ! 

What  lights  flash  red  along  yon  walls  ? 

Hark  !   hark  !   the  muster-trumpet  calls  ! 

I  see  the  sheen  of  spears  and  shawls, 

Karaman  ! 

The  foe  !  the  foe  !  —  they  scale  the  walls. 

Karaman  ! 

To-night  Murad  or  Ukhbar  falls, 

Karaman,  O  Karaman  ! 


THE   WAIL    AND    WARNING    OF   THE 
THREE    KHALANDEERS 

THE    WAIL 

La'  laha,  il  Allah  !  l 

Here  we  meet,  we  three,  at  length, 

Amrah,  Osman,  Perizad : 

Shorn  of  all  our  grace  and  strength, 

Poor,  and  old,  and  very  sad. 

We  have  lived,  but  live  no  more; 

Life  has  lost  its  gloss  for  us, 

Since  the  days  we  spent  of  yore 

Boating  down  the  Bosphorus ! 

La'  laha,  il  Allah  ! 

1  God  alone  is  all-merciful  ! 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  257 

The  Bosphorus,  the  Bosphorus ! 
Old  time  brought  home  no  loss  for  us; 
We  felt  full  of  health  and  heart 
Upon  the  foamy  Bosphorus ! 

La'  /aha,  il  Allah  ! 

Days  indeed !      A  shepherd's  tent 

Served  us  then  for  house  and  fold; 

All  to  whom  we  gave  or  lent, 

Paid  us  back  a  thousand  fold. 

Troublous  years,  by  myriads  wailed, 

Rarely  had  a  cross  for  us, 

Never,  when  we  gaily  sailed 

Singing  down  the  Bosphorus. 

La'  laha,  il  Allah  ! 

The  Bosphorus,  the  Bosphorus! 

There  never  came  a  cross  for  us, 

While  we  daily,  gaily  sailed 

Adown  the  meadowy  Bosphorus. 

La'  laha,  il  Allah  ! 
Blithe  as  birds  we  flew  along, 
Laughed  and  quaffed  and  stared  about; 
Wine  and  roses,  mirth  and  song, 
Were  what  most  we  cared  about. 
Fame  we  left  for  quacks  to  seek, 
Gold  was  dust  and  dross  for  us, 
While  we  lived  from  week  to  week 
Boating  clown  the  Bosphorus. 
La'  laha,  il  Allah  ! 
The  Bosphorus,  the  Bosphorus  ! 
And  gold  was  dust  and  dross  for  us, 


258  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

While  we  lived  from  week  to  week 
Boating  down  the  Bosphorus. 

La'  /aha,  il  Allah  / 

Friends  we  were,  and  would  have  shared 

Purses,  had  we  twenty  full. 

If  we  spent,  or  if  we  spared, 

Still  our  funds  were  plentiful. 

Save  the  hours  we  passed  apart, 

Time  brought  home  no  loss  for  us; 

We  felt  full  of  hope  and  heart 

While  we  clove  the  Bosphorus. 

La*  /aha,  il  Allah  ! 

The  Bosphorus,  the  Bosphorus! 

For  life  has  lost  its  gloss  for  us 

Since  the  days  we  spent  of  yore 

Upon  the  pleasant  Bosphorus ! 

La'  /aha,  it  Allah  ! 

Ah!    for  youth's  delirious  hours, 

Man  pays  well  in  after-days, 

When  quenched  hopes  and  palsied  powers 

Mock  his  love-and-laughter  days. 

Thorns  and  thistles  on  our  path 

Took  the  place  of  moss  for  us, 

Till  false  fortune's  tempest-wrath 

Drove  us  from  the  Bosphorus. 

La'  /aha,  il  Allah  ! 

The  Bosphorus,  the  Bosphorus  ! 

When  thorns  took  place  of  moss  for  us, 

Gone  was  all!      Our  hearts  were  graves 

Deep,  deeper  than  the  Bosphorus. 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  259 

La    laha,  II  Allah  ! 

Gone  is  all!      In  one  abyss 

Lie  health,  youth,  and  merriment! 

All  we've  learned  amounts  to  this: 

I/ife's  a  sad  experiment! 

What  it  is  we  trebly  feel 

Pondering  what  it  was  for  us, 

When  our  shallop's  bounding  keel 

Clove  the  joyous  Bosphorus. 

La'  laha,  II  Allah  ! 

The  Bosphorus,  the  Bosphorus! 

We  wail  for  what  life  was  for  us, 

When  our  shallop's  bounding  keel 

Clove  the  joyous  Bosphorus  ! 


THE    WARNING 

La'  laha,  il  Allah  ! 

Pleasure  tempts,  yet  man  has  none 

Save  himself  t'  accuse,  if  her 

Temptings  prove,  when  all  is  done, 

Lures  hung  out  by  Lucifer. 

Guard  your  fire  in  youth,  ()  friends! 

Manhood's  is  but  phosphorus, 

And  bad  luck  attends  and  ends 

Boatings  down  the  Bosphorus ! 

La'  laha,  il  Allah  ! 

The  Bosphorus,  the  Bosphorus  ! 

Youth's  fire  soon  wanes  to  phosphorus, 

And  slight  luck  or  grace  attends 

Your  boaters  down  the  Bosphorus  ! 


260  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 


RELIC    OF   PRINCE   BAYAZEED ' 

Slow  thro'  my  bosom's   veins  their  last  cold  blood  is 

flowing ; 
Above    my    heart    even    now    I    feel    the    rank   grass 

growing.  (32) 

Hence  to  the  land  of  naught  the  caravan  is  starting; 
Its  bell  already  tolls  the  signal  for  departing. 
Rejoice,  my  soul,  poor  bird  !   thou  art  at  last  delivered  : 
Thy   cage    is   crumbling  fast,  the   bars   will   soon  be 

shivered. 
Farewell   this  troubled   world,   where   sin   and   crime 

run  riot  ! 
For  Shahi   henceforth  rests  in  God's   own   house  of 

quiet. 


ADVICE   AGAINST   TRAVEL  (33) 

Traverse  not  the  globe  for  lore  !      The  sternest 
But  the  surest  teacher  is  the  heart ; 
Studying  that  and  that  alone,  thou  learnest 
Best  and  soonest  whence  and  what  thou  art. 

Time,  not  travel,  'tis  which  gives  us  ready 
Speech,  experience,  prudence,  tact,  and  wit : 
Far  more  light  the  lamp  that  bidcth  steady 
Than  the  wandering  lantern  doth  emit. 

1  Prince  Bayazecd,  son  of  Suleiman,  was  put  to  death  in  1561  by  Selim, 
Shah  of  Persia.  This  poem  is  said  to  have  been  written  the  night  before 
his  execution. 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  261 

Moor,  Chinese,  Egyptian,  Russian,  Roman, 
Tread  one  common  down-hill  path  of  doom ; 
Everywhere  the  names  are  man  and  woman, 
Everywhere  the  old  sad  sins  find  room. 

Evil  angels  tempt  us  in  all  places. 
What  but  sands  or  snows  hath  earth  to  give  ? 
Dream  not,  friend,  of  deserts  and  oases  ! 
But  look  inwards,  and  begin  to  live. 


ADAM'S   OATH 

Medreamt  I  was  in   Paradise,  and    there,  a-drinking 

wine, 

I  saw  our  Father  Adam,  with  his  flowing  golden  hair. 
"O  Father!"  was   my  greeting,  "  my  heart   is   faint 

with  care  : 
Tell  me,  tell   me,  are  the  Mooslemin  of  Aalya  sons 

of  thine  ?  " 

But  the  noble  senior  frowned,  and  his  wavy  golden  hair 
Grew    black    as    clouds    at    evening,  when    thunder 

thrills  the  air. 
"  Nay,  the  Mooslemin  of  Aalya  I  disown  for  sons  of 

mine  !  " 
Then   methought   I   wept,    and   beat   my  breast,   and 

begged  of  him  a  sign. 
"O  swear  it,  Father   Adam!"     So,  dilating  out,  he 

sware  : 
u  If  the   Mooslemin  of  Aalyastan   be   kith   or   kin  of 

mine, 
Let  dust  for  ever  darken  the  glory  of  my  hair  !  " 


262  JAMES   CLARENCE   MANGAN 


NIGHT   IS    NEARING 

Allah  Akbar  ! 

All  things  vanish  after  brief  careering  : 

Down  one  gulf  life's  myriad  barks  are  steering. 

Headlong  mortal !   hast  thou  ears  for  hearing  ? 

Pause,  be  wise:   the  night,  thy  night,  is  nearing; 

Night  is  nearing  ! 

Allah  Akbar! 

Towards  the  darkness  whence  no  ray  is  peering, 
Towards  the  void  from  which  no  voice  comes  cheer- 
ing* 

Move  the  countless  doomed,  none  volunteering, 
While  the  winds  rise,  and  the  night  is  nearing, 
Night  is  nearing  ! 

Allah  Akbar  ! 

See  the  palace-dome  its  pride  uprearing 

One  fleet  hour,  then  darkly  disappearing  ! 

So  must  all  of  lofty  or  endearing 

Fade,  fail,  fall :   to  all  the  night  is  nearing, 

Night  is  nearing  ! 

Allah  Akbar! 

Then,  since  naught  abides,  but  all  is  veering, 

Flee  a  world  which  sin  is  hourly  searing  : 

Only  so  mayst  front  thy  fate  un fearing, 

When  life  wanes,  and  death,  like  night,  is  nearing. 

Night  is  nearing  ! 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  263 


TO    MIHRI 

My  starlight,  my  moonlight,  my  midnight,  my  noon- 
light, 

Unveil  not,  unveil  not  !   or  millions  must  pine. 
Ah,  didst  thou  lay  bare 
Those  dark  tresses  of  thine, 
Even  night  would  seem  bright 
To  the  hue  of  thy  hair,  which  is  black  as  despair. 

My  starlight,  my  moonlight,  my  midnight,  my  noon- 
light, 

Unveil  not,  unveil  not  !   or  millions  must  pine. 

Ah,  didst  thou  disclose 

Those  bright  features  of  thine, 

The  Red  Vale 1  would  look  pale 

By  thy  cheek  which  so  glows  that  it  shames  the  rich 
rose. 

My  starlight,  my  moonlight,  my  midnight,  my  noon- 
light, 

Unveil  not,  unveil  not  !   or  millions  must  pine. 
Ah,  didst  thou  lay  bare 
That  white  bosom  of  thine, 
The  bright  sun  would  grow  dim 
Nigh  a  rival  so  rare  ami  so  radiantly  fair. 
My  starlight,  mv  moonlight,  mv  midnight,  my   noon- 

J  .'  C?         '  j  J 

light, 

Unveil  not,  unveil  not  ! 

1  Kuzzil  Ragh,  the   Rod  Valley  :   in  all    probability  the  Valley  of  Roses 
at  Edreen. 


264  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 


THE   CITY    OF   TRUTH 

Once  I  saw  a  City  wide  and  fair 

And  the  pathways  were  enamelled  all : 

He  shall  never  die  who  enters  there  ! 

There  he  drinks  of  life's  elixirs  all. 

All  the  gates  thereof  are  thirty-two, 

Wreathed  gates,  with  stately  pillars  tall ; 

All  the  terraces  of  gold-bright  hue  ; 

Rich  the  vineyards  and  the  gardens  all. 

Silver  fountain-waters,  bright  and  still, 

Into  alabaster  basins  fall ; 

Musk-scents  load  the  airlets  from  the  hill; 

There  the  garden-bowers  are  roses  all. 

There  sweet  nightingales,  like  living  flutes, 

Bind  the  senses  and  the  soul  in  thrall ; 

Then  the  trees  droop  under  brilliant  fruits, 

Citrons,  dates,  pomegranates,  peaches  all. 

This  fair  City  is  unseen  :   it  lies 

Isolated  from  one  earth.lv  ball, 

Ranking  higher  far  than  Paradise  : 

'Tis  the  goal  the  angels  covet  all, 

'Tis  the  City  of  the  Truth  alone, 

And  of  Truth's  inestimable  All. 

They  whom  Allah  from  the  first  hath  known, 

Known  and  chosen,  here  are  gathered  all. 

Some  drink  precious  wine,  some  selsibil l ; 

Some  in  bower,  some  in  palace  hall; 

All  are  passed  the  fear  of  ail  and  ill : 

Ecstasy-inebriated  all  ! 

1  The  waters  of  life. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  265 

Strangers  they  to  passion  and  to  sin  ; 
Terrors  shall  no  more  their  hours  appal ; 
Neither  storms  without,  nor  strifes  within. 
They  are  tranquil,  they  are  happy,  all. 
Swords  are  not  for  these :   their  days  are  free, 
Free  from  bitter  feud  and  angry  brawl, 
Free  from  wrangling  speech  and  sophistry  ; 
For  the  Holy  Spirit  dwells  with  all. 
Loving  are  their  words,  and  honey-sweet, 
Unadulterate  with  envy's  gall ; 
All  their  lives  are  peace :   and  when  they  meet, 
Oh,  they  meet  indeed  as  brethren  all  ! 
Here  are  found  no  lower,  higher  ranks  : 
Syrian,  Turk,  Egyptian,  Grecian,  Gaul, 
Swart  and  fair,  Arabians,  Persians,  Franks, 
Here  are  linked  in  common  union  all. 
And  as  Truth  is  one,  as  God  is  one, 
So  these  denizens,  both  great  and  small, 
Are  combined  as  one  j  and  therefore  none 
Seeks  to  be  the  Shah,  or  slave,  of  all. 
Yet  our  Prophet  never  tutored  them  ; 
Neither  needed  they  Mohammed's  call  ! 
In  the  Truth  they  saw  a  lovelier  gem 
Shining  through  the  world  alike  for  all,1 
So  their  sect  is  mankind  ;   and  their  creed 
Thus   is  worded  :    God  is  all  in  all  ! 
And  His  will  and  wish,  where'er  they  lead 
Are  their  bliss,  their  glory,  and  their  all. 

1  The  author,  Mohammed  Niazi  VI,  lies  buried  in  the  ibland  of  Lemnos, 
to  which  he  was  banished  for  not  speaking  the  doctrines  of  Islam  strictly  by 
the  card.  The  peculiar  character  of  his  heterodoxy  may  be  interred  from 
these  lines. 


266  JAMES   CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Never  drank  they  wine  from  golden  bowls, 

Never  wore  the  diamond-spangled  shawl : 

Thus  the  devil  could  not  spy  these  souls 

Who  were  shrouded  in  seclusion  all. 

Early  were  they  rescued  from  the  abyss 

Of  the  snares  and  spells  that  oft  enthrall 

Man's  affections  ;  and  the  Bird  of  bliss 

Here  sits  perched  upon  the  heads  of  all. 

They,  enraptured,  as  the  holy  lyre 

Sweetly  vibrates  at  their  festival, 

Dread  not  woman,  earthquake,  storm,  nor  fire ; 

Plagues  and  genii  are  excluded  all. 

This  securest  house,  this  dome  where  centre 

All  delights,  where  perils  ne'er  befall 

Soul  of  guest,  the  houris  shall  not  enter: 

Anpels  form  the  only  tenants  all. 

O  J 

Many  lamps,  refulgent  from  afar, 

Lured  them  towards  the  City's  lofty  wall, 

Yet  was  each  a  pure  celestial  star, 

And  the  hand  of  God  had  kindled  all. 

Friend,  wouldst  thou  too  gain  this  glorious  goal 

When  the  mourners  bear  thy  funeral  pall, 

Now  by  prayer  and  fasting  cleanse  thy  soul  ! 

Slay  thy  vanities  and  vices  all. 

Look  to  God  !  and  then,  though  natural  dusk 

O'er  thy  sunless  evening  sky  must  fall, 

Then,  though  camphor  strew  thy  head  for  musk, 

He  will  beautify  and  brighten  all  ! 

We  are  voyagers  on  ocean  dark, 

Yet  can  never  billow,  bolt,  nor  squall, 

Damage  nor  dismay  our  fragile  bark, 

If  the  Lord  but  pilot  us  through  all  ! 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  267 

Heavenly  light  will  bright  our  path  at  length, 

And  that  flood  shine  like  another  Dall l : 

God  is  each  one's  hope  and  tower  of  strength, 

And  the  hope  and  tower  of  strength  of  all. 

O  stand  up  !  The  serpent  and  his  mates, 

But  not  man,  were  born  to  creep  and  crawl ; 

Reptile  enters  not  the  holy  gates. 

Knowst  thou  not  the  saints  look  heavenward  all  ? 

How  canst  grovel  in  the  mire,  content 

As  the  brute  which  wallows  in  the  stall  ? 

Dost  thou  then  imagine  earth  was  meant 

As  a  burial-den  for  soul  and  all  ? 

Harken  to  Niazi's  warning  song  ! 

This  is  not  a  poet's  idle  scrawl : 

Thou  must  one  day  travel  too  along 

With  the  last  great  caravan  of  all. 

May  thy  road  be  smooth,  and  mayst  thou  see 

All  the  star-lamps  on  the  City's  wall 

Also  beaconing  and  beckoning  thee  ! 

This  is  his  one  prayer  for  thee  and  all. 


AN    EPITAPH 

Rests  within  this  lonely  mausoleum 

After  life's  distraction  and  fatigue, 

Leeh  Rewaan,  a  man  to  hear  and  see  whom 

Monks  and  princes  journeyed  many  a  league. 

Yet  not  Leeh  Rewaan  himself;   but  rather 
Leeh  Rewaan's  worn-out  and  cast-oft"  dress  : 

1  Lake  of  Cashmere. 


268  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

He,  the  man,  dwells  with  his  Heavenly  Father 
In  a  land  of  light  and  loveliness. 

Shah  of  song  he  was  ;  and  fond  of  laughter, 
Sweet  sharaab,1  and  silver-spangled  shawls. 
Stranger,  mayst  thou  quaft"  with  him  hereafter 
Life's  red  wine  in  Eden's  palace-halls  ! 


GOOD   COUNSEL 

Tutor  not  thyself  in  science :  go  to  masters  for  per- 
fection, 

Also,  speak  thy  thoughts  aloud  : 

Whoso  in  the  glass  beholdeth  naught  besides  his  own 
reflection 

Bides  both  ignorant  and  proud. 

Study  not  in  one  art  only  :  bee-like,  rather,  at  a  hundred 

Sources  gather  honeyed  lore  ; 

Thou  wert  else,  that  helpless  bird  which,  when  his 
nest  has  once  been  plundered, 

Ne'er  can  build  another  more.  (34) 


A    GHAZEL 

Wonder  not  thou  that  the  Sultan  on  earth  is  alone  ! 
So  is  the  sun  that  illumines  the  heavens,  alone; 
So,  tho'  a  forest  of  flowers  have  budded  and  blown, 
Always  the  garden  sultana,  the  rose,  is  alone  : 
The  praise  be  to  God  ! 

1  Shrub,  or  sherbet. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  269 

What    is   there  great   among  mankind   but   standeth 

alone  ? 

Lift  up  the  eyes  of  thy  soul  to  the  Ottoman  throne, 
Turn  to  the  Kaaba,1  and  look  at  its  wonderful  Stone ; 
These,  like  the  rose  and  the  Sultan,  are  also  alone: 
The  praise  be  to  God ! 

Wonder  not  thou  that  the  Sultan  on  earth  is  alone  : 
So  is  the  moon  in  the  hall  of  the  planets  alone  ; 
So  tho'  a  hundred  rare  instruments  mingle  in  tone, 
Always  the  glittering  crescent-and-bells  is  alone: 
The  praise  be  to  God ! 

What  can  the  poet  accomplish  unless  when  alone, 
What,  tho'   in   harness  with  one  who   is  bone  of  his 

bone  ? 

Never  feels  Lamyeh  himself  that  his  soul  is  his  own, 
Save    when    he    wanders    thro'    Brusa   by    moonlight 

alone  : 
The  praise  be  to  God ! 

Wonder  not,  then,  that  the  Sultan  on  earth  is  alone  ! 
So,  on  the  Balkans,  the  cedar  ariseth  alone; 
So,  tho'  a  many  rich  brilliants  emblazon  thy  zone, 
Always  the  emerald,  monarch  of  gems,  is  alone: 
The  praise  be  to  God  ! 

So  stands  the  dome  of  Sophia  for  ever  alone, 
Stands  without  sister  since   Ephesus'  pride  was  o'er- 
thrown  ; 

1  The  Holy  House  of  Mecca. 


270  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN 

Bagdad  is  fallen,  and  Balbec  a  ruin  unknown, 
Leaving  Stamboul  and  its  mosque  in  their  glory  alone  : 
The  praise  be  to  God  ! 

Countless  are  Suleiman's  beys,  but  himself  is  alone: 
Princes  are  slaves  at  his  gate,  yet  he  still  is  alone. 
So,   altho'    streams    without    number    flow    into    the 

Done,1 

Always  that  father  of  rivers  himself  is  alone  : 
The  praise  be  to  God!  (35) 


THE    TIME    OF   THE    ROSES 

Morning  is  blushing;   the  gay  nightingales 
Warble  their  exquisite  song  in  the  vales; 
Spring,  like  a  spirit,  floats  everywhere, 
Shaking  sweet  spice-showers  loose  from  her  hair, 
Murmurs  half-musical  sounds  from  the  stream, 
Breathes  in  the  valley,  and  shines  in  the  beam. 
In,  in  at  the  portal  that  youth  uncloses ! 
It  hastes,  it  wastes,  the  time  of  the  roses. 

Meadows  and  gardens  and  sun-lighted  glades, 
Palaces,  terraces,  grottoes,  and  shades 
Woo  thee;   a  fairy  bird  sings  in  thine  ear: 
Come  and  be  happy  !      An  Eden  is  here. 
Knowcst  thou  whether  for  thee  there  be  any 
Years  in  the  future?      Ah,  think  on  how  many 
A  young  heart  under  the  mould  reposes, 
Nor  feels  how  wheels  the  time  of  the  roses  ! 

1  Danube. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  271 

In  the  red  light  of  the  many-leaved  rose 
Mahomet's  wonderful  mantle  reglows; 
Gaudier  far,  but  as  blooming  and  tender, 
Tulips  and  martagons  revel  in  splendor. 
Drink  from  the  chalice  of  joy,  ye  who  may! 
Youth  is  a  flower  of  early  decay, 
And  pleasure  a  monarch  that  age  deposes, 
When  past,  at  last,  the  time  of  the  roses. 

See  the  young  lilies,  their  scimitar-petals 
Glancing,  like  silver  mid  earthier  metals: 
Dews  of  the  brightest,  in  life-giving  showers, 
Fall  all  the  night  on  these  luminous  flowers: 
Each  of  them  sparkles  afar  like  a  gem. 
Wouldst  thou  be  smiling  and  happy  like  them? 
O  follow  all  counsel  that  pleasure  proposes ! 
It  dies,  it  flies,  the  time  of  the  roses. 

Pity  the  roses !      Each  rose  is  a  maiden 
Pranked,  and  with  jewels  of  dew  overladen: 
Pity  the  maidens!      The  moon  of  their  bloom 
Rises  to  set  in  the  cells  of  the  tomb. 
Life  has  its  winter;   when  summer  is  gone, 
Maidens,  like  roses,  lie  stricken  and  wan. 
Tho'  bright  as  the  burning  bush  of  Moses, 
Soon  fades,  fair  maids,  the  time  of  vour  roses. 

Lustre  and  odors,  and  blossoms  and  flowers, 
All  that  is  richest  in  garden  and  bowers, 
Teach  us  morality,  speak  of  mortality, 
Whisper  that  life  is  a  sweet  unreality. 


272  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN 

Death  is  the  end  of  that  lustre,  those  odors: 
Brilliance  and  beauty  are  gloomy  foreboders 
To  him  who  knows  what  this  world  of  woes  is, 
And  sees  how  flees  the  time  of  the  roses ! 

Heed  them  not,  hear  them  not !      Morning  is  blushing, 
Perfumes  are  wandering,  fountains  are  gushing. 
What  tho'  the  rose,  like  a  virgin  forbidden, 
Long  under  leafy  pavilion  lay  hidden  ? 
Now,  far  around  as  the  vision  can  stretch, 
Wreaths  for  the  pencil  of  angels  to  sketch, 
Festoon  the  tall  hills  that  the  landscape  discloses. 
O  sweet,  tho'  fleet,  is  the  time  of  the  roses ! 

Now  the  air,  drunk  from  the  breath  of  the  flowers, 
Faints  like  a  bride  whom  her  bliss  overpowers; 
Such  and  so  rich  is  the  fragrance  that  fills 
Ether  and  cloud,  that  its  essence  distils, 
As  thro'  thin  lily-leaves,  earthward  again, 
Sprinkling  with  rose-water  garden  and  plain. 
O  joyously,  after  the  winter  closes, 
Returns  and  burns  the  time  of  the  roses ! 

O  for  some  magical  vase  to  imprison 

All  the  sweet  incense  that  yet  has  not  risen, 

And  the  swift  pearls  that,  radiant  and  rare, 

Glisten  and  drop  thro'  the  hollows  of  air! 

Vain:    they  depart,  both  the  beaming  and  fragrant; 

So,  too,  hope  leaves  us,  and  love  proves  a  vagrant ; 

Too  soon  their  entrancing  illusion  closes: 

It  cheats,  it  fleets,  the  time  of  the  roses  ! 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  273 

Tempest  and  thunder  and  war  were  abroad ; 
Riot  and  turbulence  triumphed  unawed; 
Suleiman  rose,  and  the  thunders  were  hushed, 
Faction  was  prostrate,  turbulence  crushed. 
Once  again  peace  in  her  gloriousness  rallies; 
Once  again  shine  the  glad  skies  on  our  valleys, 
And  sweetly  anew  the  poet  composes 
His  lays  in  praise  of  the  time  of  the  roses ! 

I,  too,  Meseehi,  already  renowned, 
Centuries  hence  by  my  song  shall  be  crowned; 
Far  as  the  stars  of  the  wide  heaven  shine, 
Men  shall  rejoice  in  this  carol  of  mine. 
Lelia !   thou  art  as  a  rose  unto  me: 
Think  on  the  nightingale  singing  for  thee ! 
For  he  who  on  love  like  thine  reposes 
Least  heeds  how  speeds  the  time  of  the  roses. 


THE  TIME    ERE   THE    ROSES  WERE 
BLOWING1 

Brilliantly  sparkle,  Meseehi,  thy  flowing 
Numbers,  like  streams,  amid  lilies  upgrowing ; 
Yet,  wouldst  thou  mingle  the  sad  and  sublime, 
Sing,  too,  the  time, 
Sing  the  young  time  ere  the  roses  were  blowing  ! 

Then  was  the  season  when  hope  was  vet  glowing, 
Then  the  blithe  year  of  the  spring  and  the  sowing, 

1  From  the  Persian  of  Zazem   Zerbayeh,  %vho  died  at  Ispahan  in  1541, 
in  reply  to  Meseehi's  Time  of  the  Rosa. 


274  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Then  the  soul  dwelt  in  her  own  faery  clime ; 

Then  was  the  time, 

Then  the  gay  time  ere  the  roses  were  blowing. 

Soon,  ah,  too  soon  came  the  summer,  bestowing 

Glory  and  light,  but  a  light  ever  showing 

In  the  chill  nearness,  the  autumn's  gray  rime : 

Gone  was  the  time, 

Gone  the  fresh  time  ere  the  roses  were  blowing. 

Life  is  at  best  but  a  coming  and  going, 
Now  flitting  past  us  on  swift,  now  on  slow  wing ; 
Here  fair  with  goodness,  there  gloomy  with  crime. 
O  for  the  time, 

0  for  the  time  ere  the  roses  were  blowing  ! 

Coldly,  ah,  coldly  goes  truth,  overthrowing 

Fancy's  bright  palaces,  coldly  goes  mowing 

Down  the  sweet  blossoms  of  boyhood's  young  prime 

Give  us  the  time, 

Give  us  the  time  ere  the  roses  were  blowing  ! 

1  am  Zerbayeh,  the  least  of  the  knowing ; 
Thou  art  Meseehi,  the  golden  and  glowing. 
O  when  again  thou  wouldst  dazzle  in  rhyme, 
Sing  of  the  time, 

Sing  of  the  time  ere  the  roses  were  blowing  ! 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  275 

TO    AMINE,   ON   SEEING    HER    ABOUT 
TO    VEIL    HER    MIRROR 

Veil  not  thy  mirror,  sweet  Amine, 
Till  night  shall  also  veil  each  star ! 
Thou  seest  a  twofold  marvel  there  : 
The  only  face  so  fair  as  thine, 
The  only  eyes  that,  near  or  far, 
Can  gaze  on  thine  without  despair. 

THE    HOWLING   SONG    OF  AL    MOHARA 

My  heart  is  as  a  house  of  groans 

From  dusky  eve  to  dawning  gray  ; 

(Allah,  Allah  bu  /) 

The  glazed  flesh  on  my  staring  bones 

Grows  black  and  blacker  with  decay  ; 

(Allah,  Allah  hu  /) 

Yet  am  I  none  whom  death  may  slay  : 

I  am  spared  to  suffer,  and  to  warn, 

(Allah,  Allah  hu  /) 

My  lashless  eyes  are  parched  to  horn 

With  weeping  for  my  sin  alway. 

(Allah,  Allah  bu  '} 

For  blood,  hot  blood  that  no  man  sees, 

The  blood  of  one  I  slew, 

Burns  on  my  hands  :    I  cry  therefore 

All  night  long,  on  my  knees, 

Evermore-  : 

Allah,  Allah  hu  ! 


276  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Because  I  slew  him  over  wine, 

Because  I  struck  him  down  at  night, 

(Allah,  Allah  hu  !} 

Because  he  died  and  made  no  sign, 

His  blood  is  always  in  my  sight ! 

(Allah,  Allah  hu  /)" 

Because  I  raised  mine  arm  to  smite 

While  the  foul  cup  was  at  his  lips; 

(Allah,  Allah  hu!} 

Because  I  wrought  his  soul's  eclipse, 

He  comes  between  me  and  the  light. 

(Allah,  Allah  hu  !) 

His  is  the  form  my  terror  sees, 

The  sinner  that  I  slew  ; 

My  rending  cry  is  still  therefore 

All  night  long,  on  my  knees, 

Evermore  : 

Allah,  Allah  hu  ! 

Under  the  all-just  heaven's  expanse 

There  is  for  me  no  resting-spot ; 

(Allah,  Allah  hu'} 

I  dread  man's  revengeful  countenance; 

The  smiles  of  woman  win  me  not : 

(Allah,  Allah  hu!) 

I  wander  among  graves  where  rot 

The  carcasses  of  leprous  men, 

(Allah,  Allah  hu!) 

I  house  me  in  the  dragon's  den 

Till  evening  darkens  grove  and  grot. 

(Allah,   Allah  hu  f) 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  277 

But  bootless  all !     Who  penance  drees, 
Must  dree  it  his  life  through.  (36) 
My  heart-wrung  cry  is  still  therefore 
All  night  long,  on  my  knees, 
Evermore : 
Allah,  Allah  hu  ! 

The  silks  that  swathe  my  hall  divan 

Are  damascened  with  moons  of  gold  ; 

(Allah,  Allah  hu  /) 

Musk-roses  from  my  gulistan 

Fill  vases  of  Egyptian  mould  ; 

(Allah,  Allah  hu  /) 

The  Koran's  treasures  lie  unrolled 

Near  where  my  radiant  night-lamp  burns  ; 

(Allah,  Allah  hu  /) 

Around  me,  rows  of  silver  urns 

Perfume  the  air  with  odors  old. 

(Allah,  Allah  hu  !} 

But  what  avail  these  luxuries  ? 

The  blood  of  him  I  slew 

Burns  red  on  all ;   I  cry  therefore 

All  night  long,  on  my  knees, 

Evermore  : 

Allah,  Allah  hu  ! 

Can  sultans,  can  the  guilty  rich, 

Purchase  with  mines  and  thrones  a  draught, 

(Allah,  Allah  hu  /) 

From  that  Nutulian  1  fount  of  which 

The  conscience-tortured  whilom  quaffed  ? 

(Allah,  Allah  hu  /) 

1  Lethean. 


278  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Vain  dream  !      Power,  glory,  riches,  craft, 

Prove  magnets  for  the  sword  of  wrath  ; 

(Allah,  Allah  hu!} 

Thorn-plant  men's  last  and  lampless  path 

And  barb  the  slaying  angel's  shaft.  (37) 

(Allah,  Allah  hu  /) 

Oh,  the  blood-guilty  ever  sees 

But  sights  that  make  him  rue 

As  I  do  now,  and  cry  therefore, 

All  night  long,  on  my  knees, 

Evermore  : 

Allah,  Allah  hu  ! 


SAYINGS   AND    PROVERBS 

I 

SAYING    OF    K.EMALLEDIN    KHOGENDI 

The  words   of  the  wise  and  unknown,  quoth   Zehir, 

are  buds  in  a  garden, 
Which  flower  when  summer   is  come,  and  are  culled 

for  the  harem  by  girls  ; 
Or  drops  of  water,  saith  Saadi,  which  silently  brighten 

and  harden, 
Till  Caliphs  themselves   exclaim  :   "  They  blind   me, 

those  dazzling  pearls  !  ' 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  279 


II 

SAYINGS    OF    DJELIM,    FROM    THE    BOOK    OF    VIRTUE 
OF     SCHINASI 

I,  too,  was  reared  in  Djelim's  house,  and  thus  his  pre- 
cepts run  and  are  : 
When  folly  sells  the  wisdom's  crown,  'tis  idly  gained 

and  dearly  bought ; 
Oh,  foremost  man  of  all  his  race,  born  under  some 

diviner  star 
Who,    early     trained,    self-reined,    self-chained,    can 

practise  all  that   Lokman1  taught! 
The  joys  and  cares  of  earth  are  snares  :    heed  lest  thy 

soul  too  late  deplore 
The  power  of  sin  to  wile  and  win   her  vision  from 

the  Eight  and  Four.2 
Lock  up  thyself  within  thyself;   distrust  the  stranger, 

and  the  fair ; 
(The    fool    is   blown   from  whim  to  whim   by   every 

gust  of  passion's  gales.) 
Bide  where  the  lute   and   song  are   mute,  and  as  thy 

soul  would  shun  despair, 
Avert    thine   eye  from  woman's   face   when    twilight 

falls,  and  she  unveils. 

1  Lokman  flourished  about  a  thousand  years  before  the  Christian  era.  He 
is  the  greatest  of  the  Oriental  moralists;  even  Mohammed  speaks  of  him  in 
the  Koran  with  profound  reverence.  Lokman' s  wisdom,  like  Solomon's, 
is  supposed  to  have  been  ot  divine  origin.  .  .  .  The  maxims  of  Lokman 
are  ten  thousand  in  number ;  and  any  one  of  them,  says  an  Arabian  com- 
mentator, is  of  much  greater  value  than  the  whole  world. 

-  The  Eight  Signs  that  are  to  precede  the  Day  of  Doom,  and  the  Four 
Final  Things  :  Death,  Judgment,  Hell,  Heaven. 


28o  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Be  circumspect,  be  watchman-like.      Put  pebbles  in 

thy  mouth  each  day : 
Pause  long  ere  thou  panegyrize;  pause  doubly  long 

ere  thou  condemn. 
Thy  thoughts  are  Tartars,  vagabonds  :   imprison  all 

thou  canst  not  slay. 
Of  many   million  drops  of  rain  perchance  but   one 

turns  out  a  gem. 

Ill 

A    SAYING    OF    NEDSCHATI 

The  world  is  one  vast  caravanserai 

Where  none  may  stay, 

But  where  each  guest  writes  on  the  wall  this  word  : 

O  Mighty  Lord! 

IV 

THREE    PROVERBS 
I 

Naught,  I  hear  thee  say, 
Can  fill  the  greedy  eye ; 
Yet  a  little  clay 
Will  fill  it  bye  and  bye. 

II 

An  hour  of  good,  a  day  of  ill : 
This  is  the  lot  ot  mourning  man 
Who  leaves  the  world  whene'er  he  will, 
But  goes  to  Heaven  whene'er  he  can. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  281 

in 

The  steed  to  the  man  who  bestrides  it  newly, 
The  sabre  to  him  who  best  can  wield  it, 
The  damsel  to  him  who  has  wooed  her  truly, 
And  the  province  to  him  who  refuses  to  yield  it. 


LAMENT    FROM  THE    FAREWELL-BOOK 
OF    AHI 

Like  a  cypress  tree 

Mateless  in  a  death-black  valley, 

Where  no  lily  springeth, 

Where  no  bulbul  singeth, 

Whence  gazelle  is  never  seen  to  sally, 

Such  am  I,  woe  is  me  ! 

Poor,  sad,  all  unknown, 

Lone,  lone,  lone. 

Like  a  wandering  bee, 

Alien  from  his  hive  and  fellows, 

Humming  moanful  ditties 

Far  from  men  and  cities, 

Roaming  glades  the  autumn  rarely  mellows, 

Such  am  I,  woe  is  me  ! 

Poor,  sad,  all  unknown, 

Lone,  lone,  lone. 

Like  a  bark  at  sea, 

All  whose  crew  by  night  have  perished 

Drifting  on  the  ocean, 

Still  with  shoreward  motion, 


282  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Tho'  none  live  by  whom  hope's  throb  is  cherished, 
Such  am  I,  woe  is  me  ! 
Poor,  sad,  all  unknown, 
Lone,  lone,  lone. 

So  I  pine  and  dree, 

Till  the  night  that  knows  no  morrow 

Sees  me  wrapped  in  clay-vest. 

Thou,  chill  world,  that  gavest 

Me  the  bitter  boon  alone  of  sorrow, 

Give  then  a  grave  to  me, 

Dark,  sad,  all  unknown, 

Lone,  lone,  lone. 


LOVE 

PVom  eternity  the  course  of  love  was  writ  on   leaves 

of  snow  ; 
Hence   it  wanders  like  a  vagrant  when  the  winds  of 

coldness  blow ; 
And  the  lamp  of  love  is  cold  and  chill  where  constancy 

is  weak, 
And  the  lily  comes  to  pine  upon  deserted  beauty's  cheek. 

From  eternity  the  might  of  love  was  writ  on  leaves  of 

fire  ; 
Hence  the  soul  of  love  in  spiral  flames  would  mount 

for  ever  higher. 
And   the   vermeil   sun   of  Eden   won,  leaves   hope   no 

more  to  seek, 
And   the   damask   rose   ascends   her  throne  on   happy 

beauty's  cheek. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  283 

From  eternity  the  fate  of  love  was  writ  on   leaves  of 

gloom, 
For  the  night  of  its  decay  must  come,  and  darkness 

build  the  tomb; 
Then  the  waste  of  life,  a  garden  once,  again  is  black 

and  bleak, 
And  the  raven  tresses  mourningly  o'ershadow  beauty's 

cheek. 

Ah,  the  joys  of  love  are  sweet  and   false,  are  sorrows 

in  disguise, 
Like  the  cheating  wealth   of   golden   eve,  ere    night 

break  up  the  skies. 
If  the  graves  of  earth  were  opened,  O  if  Hades  could 

but  speak, 
What  a  world  of  ruined  souls  would  curse  the  sheen 

of  beauty's  cheek  ! 


TRUST   NOT   THE  WORLD,  NOR  TIME1 

Trust  not  the  world,  nor  time ;   they  are  liar-mates. 

(ra  Huf)2 

Wealth  borrows  wings,  and  woman  goes  her  way. 

(Yd  Hu  '} 

Into  the  old  house  with  the  ebon  gates 

(Ta  Hu'} 

Who  enters  is  but  guest,  and  must  not  stay. 

(Ta  Hu'} 

1  A    passage   from    Hudayi  II.,  a  native   of  Anatolia;    he  died  in  1628, 
and  lies  buried  near  Constantinople. 

-  The  familiar  cry  nf   the  dervishes. 


284  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Look  not  upon  the  sun,  for  that  shall  die, 

(Ta  Hu!} 

Love  not  the  roses,  for  they  must  decay ; 

(Ta  Hu!} 

The  child  is  caught  by  all  that  dupes  the  eye  : 

(Ya  Hu!} 

The  man  should  gird  his  loins ;  he  cannot  stay. 

(Ta  Hu!} 

From  moon  to  moon  time  rolleth  as  a  river. 

(Ta  Hu!} 

Tho'  night  will  soon  o'erdark  thy  life's  last  ray, 

(Ta  Hu!} 

Earth  is  the  prison  of  the  True  Believer ; 

(To  Hu!} 

And  who  in  prison  stipulates  to  stay  ? 

(Ya  Hu!} 

Up,  dreamer,  up  !      What  takest  life  to  be  ? 

( Ya  Hu  !} 

Are  centuries  not  made  of  night  and  day  ? 

( Ya  Hu  !} 

Call  now  on  God  while  He  will  list  to  thee  ! 

(Ya  Hu!} 

The  caravan  moves  on  :    it  will  not  stay. 

(Ya  Hu!) 

Remember  Him  whom  heaven  and  earth  adore; 
(  Ya  Hu  /) 

Fast,  and  deny  thyself;   u;ive  alms,  and  pray. 
(  }  'a  Hu  ') 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  285 

Thy  bark  drifts  hourly  toward  the  phantom  shore ; 

(Ta  Hu!) 

The  sails  are  up,  the  vessel  cannot  stay. 

(Ta  Hu!) 

As  yet  the  accursing  scroll  is  incomplete, 

(To  Hu!) 

But  Scales  and  Bridge  l  maintain  their  dread  array. 

(Ya  Hu!) 

Now  thou  art  here,  now  at  the  judgment-seat, 

(Ya  Hu!) 

For  death  and  justice  brook  no  long  delay. 

(Ya  Hu!) 

Ah,  (trust  Hudayi  !)  he  alone  from  birth 

(Ya  Hu!) 

Is  guided  by  the  Guardian  Four2  alway, 

(Ya  Hu!) 

He  is  alone  the  friend  of  God  on  earth, 

(Ya  Hu!) 

Who  visits  earth,  and  doth  not  sigh  to  stay. 

(Ya  Hu!) 

1  "The  scales  of  Judgment,  one  of  which  hangs  over  Paradise,  and  the 
other  over   Hell.      The    Bridge   is   laid  over   the   midst  of  Hell,  and  is  finer 
than  a  hair  and    sharper  than  the  edge  of  a   sword  ;    and   those  who   cannot 
pass  this  bridge  fall  into  Hell."  — SALE'S  Prelim.  Disc. 

2  The  Guardian  Four  are  the  four  caliphs  next  in  succession  to  Mahomet : 
Omar,  Ali,  Osman,  and  Abubekhr. 


286  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 


RELIC    OF   SERVI 

When  the  mourner  sits  at  the  feast  of  woe 
The  wine  is  gall,  and  the  lights  burn  low. 
How  bounded  my  heart  in  my  younger  years 
Ere  grief  had  unlocked  the  fount  of  my  tears  ! 
Now  dead  are  the  roses  of  hope  in  their  bloom, 
And  those  that  I  loved  are  dust  in  the  tomb, 
And  of  all  that  gave  Servi  pleasure  or  pain 
His  songs  and  his  sorrows  alone  remain.1 


JEALOUSY  (38) 

"  My  darling  tiny  little  girl, 

I'll  give  thee  jewelled  shoes  and  dresses, 

I'll  give  thee  zones  of  silk  and  pearl; 

And  tell  me  who  has  combed  thy  hair  ? 

I'll  give  thee  kisses  and  caresses. 

And  say  :   what  youth  has  combed  thy  hair  ?  " 

"O  by  my  word,  O  by  my  truth, 

O  by  the  life  of  Ali  Shah  ! 

Aminah  knows  no  stranger  youth. 

By  all  the  times  that  thou  hast  kissed  her, 

Her  hair  was  combed  by  Zillalah, 

Her  own  beloved  sister  !  " 

1  It  is  a  singular  coincidence  that  we  find  almost  the  same  sentiment  in 
Schutze  : 

"  I'nd  mir  ist  nichts  aus  jener  Zeit  geblieben, 
A  Is  mir  dies  Lied,  rni-in  Leiden  und  incin  Lieban." 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  287 

11  My  own,  my  whitest  girl,  I  vow 

I'll  bring  thce  sweetmeats  sugared  newly. 

And  tell  me,  only  tell  me  now 

Who  over-darked  thine  eyes  with  kohl? 

My  white  Aminah,  tell  me  truly 

Who  over-darked  thine  eyes  with  kohl?'' 

"  O  by  my  word,  O  by  my  soul, 

0  by  the  soul  of  AH  Shah  ! 

Myself  o'er-darked  mine  eyes  with  kohl ; 
'Twas  given  me  by  my  own  dear  mother, 
My  whitest  mother  Fatimah  : 

1  had  it  from  none  other." 

"  My  playful  girl,  I'll  give  thee  rings, 
And  gold,  and  gems  beyond  comparing ; 
I'll  give  thee  thousand  costly  things  ! 
And  say,  who  bit  those  lips  of  thine  ? 
Come,  tell  what  Kuzzilbash  so  daring 
Hath  bitten  those  red  lips  of  thine." 

"  O  by  my  love,  O  by  my  life  ! 
'Twas  by  a  bright  red  rose  this  morn 
Given  me  by  Zaycle,  my  brother's  wife, 
These  guiltless  lips  of  mine  were  bitten. 
(For  brightest  rose  hath  sharpest  thorn  : 
This,  as  thou  knowest,  is  written.)  " 

u  Thou  crafty  girl,  I  know  thine  art  ! 
Dread  thou  my  wrath  :    1  give  thee  warning. 
But  if  thou  wouldst  regain  my  heart 
Speak  :   tell  me  who  has  torn  thy  shawl  ! 


288  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Say  what  young  Galionjee  this  morning 
Tore  thus  in  twain  thy  scarlet  shawl  ? 

0  faithless,  truthless,  worthless  jade  ! 

1  have  tracked  thee,  then,  thro'  all  thy  lying. 
Away  !     No  jewels,  no  brocade, 

No  sweetmeats  shalt  thou  have  of  me. 
Away,  false  girl !      Thy  tears  and  sighing 
Seem  worse  than  even  thy  lies  to  be." 


THE    WORLD:    A    GHAZEL 

To  this  khan,  and  from  this  khan 

How  many  pilgrims  came  and  went  too  ! 

In  this  khan,  and  by  this  khan 

What  arts  were  spent,  what  hearts  were   rent  too 

To  this  khan  and  from  this  khan 

Which,  for  penance,  man  is  sent  to, 

Many  a  van  and  caravan 

Crowded  came,  and  shrouded  went  too. 

Christian  man  and  Mussulman, 

Guebre,  heathen,  Jew,  and  Gentoo, 

To  this  khan,  and  from  this  khan, 

Weeping  came,  and  sleeping  went  too. 

A  riddle  this  since  time  began, 

Which  many  a  sage  his  mind  hath  bent  to  : 

All  came,  all  went ;   but  never  man 

Knew  whence  they  came,  or  where  they  went  to  ! 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  289 


THE  TIME   OF  THE   BARMECIDES  (39) 

My  eyes  are  filmed,  my  beard  is  gray, 

I  am  bowed  with  the  weight  of  years  ; 

I  would  I  were  stretched  in  my  bed  of  clay, 

With  my  long-lost  youth's  compeers  ! 

For  back  to  the  past,  tho'  the  thought  brings  woe, 

My  memory  ever  glides, 

To  the  old,  old  time,  long,  long  ago, 

The  time  of  the  Barmecides  ! 

To  the  old,  old  time,  long,  long  ago, 

The  time  of  the  Barmecides. 

Then  youth  was  mine,  and  a  fierce  wild  will, 

And  an  iron  arm  in  war, 

And  a  fleet  foot  high  upon  Ishkar's  hill, 

When  the  watch-lights  glimmered  afar ; 

And  as  fiery  a  barb  as  any  I  know 

That  Kurd  or  Bedouin  rides, 

Ere  my  friends  lay  low,  long,  long  ago, 

In  the  time  of  the  Barmecides. 

Ere  my  friends  lay  low,  long,  long  ago, 

In  the  time  of  the  Barmecides. 

One  golden  goblet  illumed  my  board, 

One  silver  dish  was  there  ; 

At  hand  my  tried  Karamanian  sword 

Lay  always  bright  and  bare  ; 

For  those  were  the  days  when  the  angry  blow 

Supplanted  the  word  that  chides, 


29o  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

When  hearts  could  glow,  long,  long  ago, 
In  the  time  of  the  Barmecides  ; 
When  hearts  could  glow,  long,  long  ago, 
In  the  time  of  the  Barmecides. 

Thro'  city  and  desert  my  mates  and  I 
Were  free  to  rove  and  roam, 
Our  diapered  canopy  the  deep  of  the  sky, 
Or  the  roof  of  the  palace  dome  : 

0  ours  was  that  vivid  life  to  and  fro 
Which  only  sloth  derides  ! 

Men  spent  life  so,  long,  long  ago, 
In  the  time  of  the  Barmecides  ; 
Men  spent  life  so,  long,  long  ago, 
In  the  time  of  the  Barmecides. 

1  see  rich  Bagdad  once  again, 
With  its  turrets  of  Moorish  mould, 
And  the  Caliph's  twice  five  hundred  men 
Whose  binishes  flamed  with  gold  ; 

I  call  up  many  a  gorgeous  show 
Which  the  pall  of  oblivion  hides  : 
All  passed  like  snow,  long,  long  ago, 
With  the  time  of  the  Barmecides  ; 
All  passed  like  snow,  long,  long  ago, 
With  the  time  of  the  Barmecides. 

But  mine  eye  is  dim,  and  my  beard  is  gray, 
And  I  bend  with  the  weight  of  years. 
May  I  soon  go  down  to  the  house  of  clay 
Where  slumber  my  youth's  compeers  ! 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  291 

For  with  them  and  the  past,  tho'  the  thought  wakes 

woe, 

My  memory  ever  abides  ; 
And  I  mourn  for  the  times  gone  long  ago, 
For  the  times  of  the  Barmecides  ! 
I  mourn  for  the  times  gone  long  ago, 
For  the  times  of  the  Barmecides  ! 


Original   Poems 
II.    Pro   Patria 


IRISH    NATIONAL    HYMN 

O  Ireland,  ancient  Ireland  ! 
Ancient,  yet  for  ever  young, 
Thou  our  mother,  home  and  sireland, 
Thou  at  length  hast  found  a  tongue. 
Proudly  thou,  at  length, 
Resistest  in  triumphant  strength  ; 
Thy  flag  of  freedom  floats  unfurled; 
And  as  that  mighty  God  existeth, 
Who  giveth  victory  when  and  where  He  listeth, 
Thou  yet  shalt  wake  and   shake  the  nations  of   the 
world  ! 

For  this  dull  world  still  slumbers, 

Witless  of  its  wants  or  loves, 

Though,  like  Galileo,  numbers 

Cry  aloud  "  It  moves  !   it  moves  !  " 

In  a  midnight  dream, 

Drifts  it  down  time's  wreckful  stream. 

All  march,  but  few  descry  the  goal. 

O  Ireland  !   be  it  thy  high  duty 

To  teach  the  world  the  might  of  moral  beauty, 

And  stamp  God's  image  truly  on  the  struggling  soul. 

Strong  in  thy  self-reliance, 
Not  in  idle  threat  or  boast, 

295 


296  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Hast  thou  hurled  thy  fierce  defiance 

At  the  haughty  Saxon  host ; 

Thou  hast  claimed,  in  sight 

Of  high  Heaven,  thy  long-lost  right. 

Upon  thy  hills,  along  thy  plains, 

In  the  green  bosom  of  thy  valleys, 

The  new-born  soul  of  holy  freedom  rallies, 

And  calls  on  thee  to  trample  down  in  dust  thy  chains  ! 

Deep,  saith  the  eastern  story, 

Burns  in  Iran's  mines  a  gem, 

For  its  dazzling  hues  and  glory 

Worth  a  Sultan's  diadem. 

But  from  human  eyes 

Hidden  there  it  ever  lies  ! 

The  aye-travailing  gnomes  alone, 

Who  toil  to  form  the  mountain's  treasure, 

May  gaze  and  gloat,  with  pleasure  without  measure, 

Upon  the  lustrous  beauty  of  that  wonder-stone. 

So  is  it  with  a  nation 
Which  would  win  for  richest  dower 
That  bright  pearl,  self-liberation  : 
It  must  labor  hour  by  hour. 
Strangers,  who  travail 
To  lay  bare  the  gem,  shall  fail ; 
Within  itself,  must  grow,  must  glow, 
Within  the  depths  of  its  own  bosom 
Must  flower  in  living  might,  must  broadly  blossom 
The  hopes  that  shall  be  born  ere  freedom's  tree  can 
blow. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  29; 

Go  on,  then,  all  rejoiceful ! 

March  on  thy  career,  unbowed  ! 

Ireland  !   let  thy  noble  voiceful 

Spirit  cry  to  God  aloud  ! 

Man  will  bid  thee  speed, 

God  will  aid  thee  in  thy  need  ; 

The  time,  the  hour,  the  power  are  near : 

Be  sure  thou  soon  shalt  form  the  vanguard 

Of   that    illustrious    band,    whom    Heaven    and    man 

guard  : 
And   these  words  come  from  one  whom  some  have 

called  a  seer. 


AN    INVITATION  (40) 

Friends  to  freedom  !   is't  not  time 
That  your  course  were  shaped  at  length  ? 
Wherefore  stand  ye  loitering  here  ? 
Seek  some  healthier,  holier  clime, 
Where  your  souls  may  grow  in  strength, 
And  whence  love  hath  exiled  fear  ! 

Europe,  —  Southron,  Saxon,  Celt, 

Sits  alone,  in  tattered  robe. 

In  our  day  she  burns  with  none 

Of  the  lightning-life  she  felt, 

When  Rome  shook  the  troubled  globe, 

Twenty  centuries  agone. 

Dcutschland  sleeps  :   her  star  hath  waned. 
France,  the  thundress  whilom,  now 


298  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Singeth  small,  with  bated  breath. 
Spain  is  bleeding,  Poland  chained  ; 
Italy  can  but  groan  and  vow  ; 
England  lieth  sick  to  death.1 

Cross  with  me  the  Atlantic's  foam, 
And  your  genuine  goal  is  won  ! 
Purely  freedom's  breezes  blow, 
Merrily  freedom's  children  roam, 
By  the  dsdal  Amazon, 
And  the  glorious  Ohio  ! 

Thither  take  not  gems  and  gold  : 
Naught  from  Europe's  robber-hoards 
Must  profane  the  western  zones. 
Thither  take  ye  spirits  bold, 
Thither  take  ye  ploughs  and  swords, 
And  your  fathers'  buried  bones  ! 

Come  !   if  liberty's  true  fires 
Burn  within  your  bosoms,  come  ! 
If  ye  would  that  in  your  graves 
Your  free  sons  should  bless  their  sires, 
Make  the  far  green  west  your  home  ; 
Cross  with  me  the  Atlantic  waves  ! 

1  "  England  leidt-t  von  einer  todtlichen  Krankheit,  ohne  Hoffnung 
wie  ohne  Heilung." — England  labors  under  a  deadly  sickness  without 
hope  and  without  remedy.  —  NIEBUHR. 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  299 


SOUL   AND    COUNTRY 

Arise,  my  slumbering  soul,  arise! 

And  learn  what  yet  remains  for  thee 

To  dree  or  do  ! 

The  signs  are  flaming  in  the  skies; 

A  struggling  world  would  yet  be  free, 

And  live  anew. 

The  earthquake  hath  not  yet  been  born 

That  soon  shall  rock  the  lands  around, 

Beneath  their  base. 

Immortal  freedom's  thunder-horn, 

As  yet,  yields  but  a  doleful  sound 

To  Europe's  race. 

Look  round,  my  soul,  and  see  and  say 

If  those  about  thee  understand 

Their  mission  here; 

The  will  to  smite,  the  power  to  slay, 

Abound  in  every  heart  and  hand, 

Afar,  anear. 

Hut,  (iod  !   must  yet  the  conqueror's  sword 

Pierce  mind,  as  heart,  in  this  proud  year? 

O  dream  it  not ! 

It  sounds  a  false  blaspheming  word, 

Begot  and  born  of  moral  fear, 

And  ill-begot ! 


To  leave  the  world  a  name  is  naught; 

o 

I  o  leave  a  name  for  glorious  deeds 


3oo  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

And  works  of  love, 

A  name  to  waken  lightning  thought, 

And  fire  the  soul  of  him  who  reads, 

This  tells  above. 

Napoleon  sinks  to-day  before 

The  ungilded  shrine,  the  single  soul 

Of  Washington ; 

Truth's  name,  alone,  shall  man  adore, 

Long  as  the  waves  of  time  shall  roll 

Henceforward  on ! 

My  countrymen  !   my  words  are  weak, 

My  health  is  gone,  my  soul  is  dark, 

My  heart  is  chill; 

Yet  would  I  fain  and  fondly  seek 

To  see  you  borne  in  freedom's  bark 

O'er  ocean  still. 

Beseech  your  God,  and  bide  your  hour: 

He  cannot,  will  not,  long  be  dumb; 

Even  now  His  tread 

Is  heard  o'er  earth  with  coming  power; 

And  coming,  trust  me,  it  will  come, 

Else  were  He  dead  ! 


A    HIGHWAY    FOR    FREEDOM 

"  My  suffering  country  shall  be  freed, 
And  shine  with  tenfold  glory  !  " 
So  spake  the  gallant  Winkelricd 
Renowned  in  German  story. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  301 

"  No  tyrant,  though  of  kingly  grade, 
Shall  cross  or  darken  my  way !  " 
Out  flashed  his  blade;  and  so  he  made 
For  freedom's  course  a  highway. 

We  want  a  man  like  this,  with  power 
To  rouse  the  world  by  one  word; 
We  want  a  chief  to  meet  the  hour, 
To  march  the  masses  sunward. 
But  chief  or  none,  thro'  blood  and  fire 
My  fatherland  lies  thy  way ! 
The  men  must  fight  who  dare  desire 
For  freedom's  course  a  highway. 

Alas,  I  can  but  idly  gaze 

Around,  in  grief  and  wonder; 

The  people's  will  alone  can  raise 

The  people's  shout  of  thunder. 

Too  long,  O  friends !   you  faint  for  fear 

In  secret  crypt  and  byway; 

At  last,  be  men  !      Stand  forth,  and  clear 

For  freedom's  course  a  highway. 

You  intersect  wood,  lea,  and  lawn 
With  roads  for  monster  wagons, 
Wherein  you  speed  like  lightning,  drawn 
By  hcrv  iron  dragons. 
So  do:    such  work  is  good,  no  doubt. 
But  why  not  seek  some  high  way 
For  Mind,  as  well  ?      Path  also  out 
For  freedom's  course  a  highway  ! 


302  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Yes,  up !   and  let  your  weapons  be 
Sharp  steel,  and  self-reliance. 
Why  waste  a  burning  energy 
In  void  and  vain  defiance, 
And  phrases  fierce  and  fugitive  ? 
'Tis  deeds,  not  words,  that  I  weigh: 
Your  swords,  your  guns,  alone  can  give 
To  freedom's  course  a  highway ! 


TO    MY   NATIVE    LAND 

Awake,  arise,  shake  off"  thy  dreams  ! 
Thou  art  not  what  thou  wert  of  yore. 
Of  all  those  rich,  those  dazzling  beams 
That  once  illumed  thine  aspect  o'er, 
Show  me  a  solitary  one 
Whose  glory  is  not  quenched  and  done. 

The  harp  remaineth  where  it  fell, 
With  mouldering  frame  and  broken  chord 
Around  the  song  there  hangs  no  spell, 
No  laurel  wreath  entwines  the  sword; 
And  startlingly  the  footstep  falls 
Along  thy  dim  and  dreary  halls. 

When  other  men  in  future  years 
In  wonder  ask  how  this  could  be, 
Then  answer  only  by  thy  tears 
That  ruin  fell  on  thine  and  thee, 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  303 

Because  thyself  wouldst  have  it  so, 
Because  thou  welcomedst  the  blow 

To  stamp  dishonor  on  thy  brow 
Was  not  within  the  power  of  earth. 
And  art  thou  agonized,  when  now 
The  hour  that  lost  thee  all  thy  worth, 
And  turned  thee  to  the  thing  thou  art, 
Rushes  upon  thy  bleeding  heart  ? 

Weep,  weep,  degraded  one :  the  deed, 
The  desperate  deed,  was  all  thine  own  ; 
Thou  madest  more  than  maniac  speed 
To  hurl  thine  honors  from  their  throne. 
Thine  honors  fell;  and  when  they  fell, 
The  nations  rang  thy  funeral  knell. 

Well  may  thy  sons  be  seared  in  soul, 
Their  groans  be  deep  by  night  and  day  ! 
Till  day  and  night  forget  to  roll, 
Their  noblest  hopes  shall  morn  decay  ; 
Their  freshest  flowers  shall  die  by  blight  ; 
Their  brightest  sun  shall  set  ere  night. 

The  stranger,  as  he  treads  thy  sod 
And  views  thy  universal  wreck, 
May  execrate  the  foot  that  trod 
Triumphant  on  a  prostrate  neck; 
But  what  is  that  to  thee  ?      Thy  woes 
May  hope  in  vain  tor  pause  or  close. 


3o4  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Awake,  arise,  shake  oft  thy  dreams  ! 

'Tis  idle  all  to  talk  of  power 

And  fame  and  glory  ;   these  are  themes 

Befitting  ill  so  dark  an  hour. 

Till  miracles  are  wrought  for  thee, 

No  fame  nor  glory  shalt  thou  see. 

Thou  art  forsaken  of  the  earth, 
Which  makes  a  byword  of  thy  name. 
Nations,  and  thrones,  and  powers  whose  birth 
As  yet  is  not,  shall  rise  to  fame, 
Shall  flourish,  and  may  fall :   but  thou 
Shalt  linger,  as  thou  lingerest  now. 

And  till  all  earthly  power  shall  wane, 
And  time's  gray  pillar,  groaning,  fall, 
Thus  shall  it  be  !    and  still  in  vain 
Thou  shalt  essay  to  burst  the  thrall 
Which  binds,  in  fetters  forged  by  fate, 
The  wreck  and  ruin  of  what  once  was  great. 


HYMN    FOR    PENTECOST  (41) 

Pure  Spirit  of  the  alway-faithful  God, 

Kindler  of  Heaven's  true  light  within  the  soul! 

Erom  the  lorn  land  our  sainted  fathers  trod, 

Ascends  to  Thee  our  cry  of  hope  and  dole. 

Thee,  Thee  we  praise; 

To  Thee  we  raise 

Our  choral  hymn  in  these  awakening  days: 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  305 

O  send  us  down  anew  that  fire 

Which  of  old  lived  in  David's  and  Isaiah's  lyre. 

Centuries  had  rolled,  and  earth  lay  tombed  in  sleep, 

The  nightmare-sleep  of  nations  beneath  kings; 

And  far  abroad  o'er  liberty's  great  deep 

Death's  angel  waved  his  black  and  stilling  wings. 

Then  struck  Thine  hour! 

Thou,  in  Thy  power, 

But  breathedst,  and  the  free  stood  up,  a  tower ; 

And  tyranny's  thrones  and  strongholds  fell, 

And  men  made  jubilee  for  an  abolished  hell. 

And  she,  our  mother-home,  the  famed,  the  fair, 

The  golden  house  of  light  and  intellect, 

Must  she  still  groan  in  her  intense  despair? 

Shall  she  lie  prone  while  Europe  stands  erect  ? 

Forfend  this,  Thou 

To  whom  we  vow 

Souls  even  our  giant  wrongs  shall  never  bow: 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  our  green  flag  furled, 

Nor  bear  that  we  abide  the  byword  of  the  world. 

Like  the  last  lamp  that  burned  in  Tullia's  tomb 

Through  ages,  vainly,  with  unwaning  ray, 

Our  star  of  hope  lights  but  a  path  of  gloom 

Whose  false  track  leads  us  round  and  round  alway. 

Hut  thou  canst  ope 

A  gate  from  hope 

To  victory  !      Thou  canst  nerve  our  arms  to  cope 

With  looming  storm  and  damper  still, 

And  lend  a  thunder-voice  to  the  land's  lightning-will. 


3o6  JAMES   CLARENCE   MANGAN 

Descend  then,  Spirit  of  the  Eternal  King! 

To  thee,  to  Him,  to  His  avenging  Son, 

The  Triune  God,  in  boundless  trust  we  cling: 

His  help  once  ours,  our  nationhood  is  won. 

We  watch  the  time 

Till  that  sublime 

Event  shall  thrill  the  free  of  every  clime. 

Speed,  mighty  Spirit !   speed  its  march, 

And  thus  complete  for  earth  mankind's  triumphal  arch. 


Original   Poems 
III.    Those  on  Miscellaneous  Subjects 


POMPEII  (42) 

The  heralds  of  thy  ruin  and  despair 

Thickened  and  quickened  as  thy  time  drew  nigh  : 

What  prodigies  of  sound  convulsed  the  air! 

How  many  a  death-flag  was  unfurled  on  high  ! 

The  sullen  sun  went  down,  a  globe  of  blood, 

Rayless,  and  coloring  every  heart  with  gloom, 

Till  even  the  dullest  felt  and  understood 

The  coming  of  an  overwhelming  doom, 

The  presage  of  a  destiny  and  fall, 

A  shock,  a  thunder-shock,  for  thee,  for  them,  for  all. 

The  sullen  sun  went  down,  a  globe  of  blood 
Rayless,  and  coloring  every  soul  with  gloom; 
And  men's  imagination,  prone  to  brood 
Over  the  worst,  and  summon  from  the  womb 
Of  unborn  time  the  evil  and  the  dark, 
Launched  forth  in  fear  upon  that  shoreless  ocean 
Whose  whirlpool  billows  but  engulf  the  barque. 
Conjectural  dread,  and  each  fresh-felt  emotion, 
Like  spectral  figures  on  a  magic  mirror, 
Seemed  wilder  than  the  last,  and  stronglicr  stung  with 
terror. 

We  shrink  within  ourselves  when  night  and  storm 
Are  darkly  mustering;    for  to  every  soul 
Heaven  here  foreshadows  character  and  form 
Of  Nature's  death-hour.      Doth  the  thunder  roll. 

3°9 


3io  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

The  wild  wave  boil,  the  lightning  stream  or  strike, 

Flood,  fire,  and  earthquake  devastate,  in  vain  ? 

Or  is  there  not  a  voice  which  peals  alike 

To  all3  from  these,  conjuring  up  that  train 

Of  scenes  and  images  that  shall  be  born 

In  living  naked  might  upon  the  Judgment  Morn  ? 

If  thus  we  cower  to  tempest  and  to  night, 
How  feltest  thou  when  first  the  red  bolt  broke, 
That  seventeen  suffocating  centuries  might 
Enshroud  thine  ashes  in  time's  midnight  cloak  ? 

O 

Where  wert  thou  in  that  moment  ?      Was  thy  power 
All  a  funereal  phantom  ?   thy  renown 
An  echo?   thine  the  triumph  of  an  hour? 
Enough!   I  rave:   when  empires,  worlds,  go  down 
Time's  wave  to  dissolution,  when  they  bow 
To   fate,  let   none  ask  ivhere,  but  simply  what  wert 
thou! 

The  desolated  cities  which  of  yore 

Perished  by  flooding  fire  and  sulphury  rain, 

Where  sleeps  the  Dead  Sea's  immemorial  shore, 

Lie,  blasted  wrecks,  below  that  mortar  plain.  (43) 

They  fell,  thou  fellest !      Hut,  renounced  of  earth, 

Blotted  from  being  for  eternal  years, 

Their  image  chills  the  life-blood  :    thine  gives  birth 

Even  while  we  shudder,  to  some  human  tears. 

Hadst  thou  less  guilt?      Who   knows?      The  book  of 

time 
Bears,   on    each    leaf  alike,   the   broad    red    stamp   of 

crime. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  311 


TWENTY  GOLDEN  YEARS  AGO  (44) 

0  the  rain,  the  weary,  dreary  rain, 
How  it  plashes  on  the  window-sill  ! 
Night,  I  guess  too,  must  be  on  the  wane, 
Strass  and  Gass1  around  are  grown  so  still. 
Here  I  sit,  with  coffee  in  my  cup  : 

Ah  !   'twas  rarely  I  beheld  it  flow 
In  the  tavern  where  I  loved  to  sup 
Twenty  golden  years  ago  ! 

Twenty  years  ago,  alas  !  — (But  stay  : 
On  my  life,  'tis  half-past  twelve  o'clock  ! 
After  all,  the  hours  do  slip  away. 
Come,  here  goes  to  burn  another  block. 
For  the  night,  or  morn,  is  wet  and  cold, 
And  my  fire  is  dwindling  rather  low  : 

1  had  fire  enough,  when  young  and  bold, 
Twenty  golden  years  ago.) 

Dear  !   I  don't  feel  well  at  all,  somehow  : 
Few  in  Weimar  dream  how  bad  I  am. 
Floods  of  tears  grow  common  with  me  now, 
High  Dutch  floods,  that  reason  cannot  dam. 
Doctors  think  I'll  neither  live  nor  thrive 
If  I  mope  at  home  so  ;    I  don't  know  ! 
Am  I  living  now  ?    I  was  alive 
Twenty  golden  years  ago. 

1  Street  anil  lane. 


312  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Wifeless,  friendless,  flagonless,  alone, 
Not  quite  bookless,  tho',  unless  I  choose ; 
Left  with  naught  to  do,  except  to  groan, 
Not  a  soul  to  woo,  except  the  muse ;  — 
O  but  this  is  hard  for  me  to  bear, 
Me,  who  whilom  lived  so  much  en  haut, 
Me,  who  broke  all  hearts  like  chinaware, 
Twenty  golden  years  ago  ! 

Perhaps  'tis  better  time's  defacing  waves 
Long  have  quenched  the  radiance  of  my  brow  j 
They  who  curse  me  nightly  from  their  graves, 
Scarce  could  love  me  were  they  living  now. 
But  my  loneliness  hath  darker  ills  : 
Such  dun  duns  as  Conscience,  Thought  and  Co., 
Awful  Gorgons  !   worse  than  tailor's  bills 
Twenty  golden  years  ago  ! 

Did  I  paint  a  fifth  of  what  I  feel, 

0  how  plaintive  you  would  ween  I  was  ! 
But  I  won't,  albeit  I  have  a  deal 

More  to  wail  about  than  Kerner  has  ! 
Kerner's  tears  are  wept  for  withered  flowers, 
Mine  for  withered  hopes;    my  scroll  of  woe 
Dates,  alas,  from  youth's  deserted  bowers, 
Twenty  golden  years  ago  ! 

Yet,  may  Deutschland  bardlings  flourish  long  ! 
Me,  I  tweak  no  beak  among  them  ;    hawks 
Must  not  pounce  on  hawks  :    besides,  in  song 

1  could  once  beat  all  ot  them  by  chalks. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  313 

Though  you  find  me,  as  I  near  my  goal, 
Sentimentalizing  like  Rousseau, 
Ah,  I  had  a  grand  Byronian  soul 
Twenty  golden  years  ago  ! 

Tick-tick,  tick-tick  !  —  Not  a  sound  save  time's, 
And  the  wind-gust  as  it  drives  the  rain. 
Tortured  torturer  of  reluctant  rhymes, 
Go  to  bed,  and  rest  thine  aching  brain  ! 
Sleep  !   no  more  the  dupe  of  hopes  or  schemes. 
Soon  thou  sleepest  where  the  thistles  blow  : 
Curious  anticlimax  to  thy  dreams 
Twenty  golden  years  ago  ! 


TO    LAURA  (45) 

The  charm  that  gilded  life  is  over  ! 

I  live  to  feel  I  live  in  vain, 

And  worlds  were  worthless  to  recover 

That  dazzling  dream  of  mine  again. 

The  idol  I  adored  is  broken, 

And  I  may  weep  its  overthrow  ; 

Thy  lips  at  length  my  doom  have  spoken, 

And  nothing  now  remains  but  woe. 

And  is  it,  indeed,  we  sever, 

And  hast  thou,  then,  forgotten  all  ? 

And  canst  thou  cast  me  off  for  ever, 

To  mourn,  a  dark  and  hopeless  thrall  ? 

O  perfidy  !      In  friend  or  foe, 

In  stranger,  lover,  husband,  wife, 


314  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Thou  art  the  blackest  drop  of  woe 
That  bubbles  in  the  cup  of  life. 

But  most  of  all  in  woman's  breast 
Triumphant  in  thy  blasting  power, 
Thou  reignest  like  a  demon-guest 
Enthroned  in  some  celestial  bower. 
Oh,  cold  and  cruel  she,  who  while 
She  lavishes  all  wiles  to  win 
Her  lover  o'er,  can  smile  and  smile, 
Yet  be  all  dark  and  false  within. 

Who,  when  his  glances  on  another 
Too  idly  and  too  long  have  dwelt, 
Will  sigh  as  if  she  sought  to  smother 
The  grief  her  bosom  never  felt ; 
Who,  versed  in  every  witching  art 
That  e'er  the  warmest  love  would  dare, 
First  having  gained  her  victim's  heart, 
Then  turns  him  over  to  despair! 

Alas,  and  can  such  treachery  be  ? 
The  worm  that  winds  in  slime  along, 
Is  nobler,  better  far  than  she 
Who  revels  in  that  heartless  wrong  ! 
Go  now,  and  triumph  in  thy  guilt, 
And  weave  thy  wanton  spells  anew; 
Go,  false  as  fair,  and,  if  thou  wilt, 
Again  betray  the  fond  and  true. 

Yet  this,  my  last  and  long  farewell, 
Is  less  in  anyxT  than  in  sorrow  ; 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  315 

Mine  is  the  tale  which  myriads  tell 
Who  loathe  to-day,  and  dread  to-morrow. 
Me,  Frances  !   me  thou  never  knewest, 
Nor  sawest,  that  if  my  speech  was  cold, 
The  love  is  deepest  oft,  and  truest 
That  burns  within  the  breast  untold. 

My  soul  was  formed  for  love  and  grief; 
These  both  were  blended  at  my  birth  ; 
But  lifeless  as  a  shrivelled  leaf, 
Lie  now  my  dearest  hopes  in  earth. 
I  sigh,  when  none  my  sighs  return  ; 
I  love,  but  am  not  loved  again  : 
Till  life  be  past  this  heart  must  burn, 
With  none  to  soothe  or  share  its  pain 

Farewell !      In  life's  gay  giddy  whirl 
Soon  wilt  thou  have  forgotten  me  ; 
But  where,  O  most  dissembling  girl  ! 
Where  shall  I  from  thine  image  flee? 
Farewell !    for  thee  the  heavens  are  bright, 
And  flowers  along  thy  pathway  lie  ; 
The  bolts  that  strike,  the  winds  that  blight 
Will  pass  thy  bower  of  beauty  by. 

But  when  shall  I  find  rest  ?      Alas, 
Soon  as  the  winter  winds  shall  rave 
At  midnight,  thro1  the  long  dark  grass 
Above  mine  un  re  mem  be  red  grave. 


3i6  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 


SONNET 

Bird  that  discoursest  from  yon  poplar  bough, 
Outweeping  night,  and  in  thy  eloquent  tears 
Holding  sweet  converse  with  the  thousand  spheres 
That  glow  and  glisten  from  night's  glorious  brow, 

0  may  thy  lot  be  mine  !   that,  lonely  now, 

And  doomed  to  mourn  the  remnant  of  my  years, 
My  song  may  swell  to  more  than  mortal  ears, 
And  sweet  as  is  thy  strain  be  poured  my  vow. 

Bird  of  the  poets'  paradise  !  by  thee 

Taught  where  the  tides  of  feeling  deepest  tremble, 

Playful  in  gloom,  like  some  sequestered  sea, 

1  too  amidst  my  anguish  would  dissemble, 
And  tune  misfortune  to  such  melody, 

That  my  despair  thy  transports  should  resemble. 


CURTAIN    THE    LAMP 

Curtain  the  lamp,  and  bury  the  bowl, 

The  ban  is  on  drinking; 

Reason  shall  reign  the  queen  of  the  soul 

When  the  spirits  are  sinking. 

Chained  lies  the  demon  that  smote  with  blight 

Men's  morals  and  laurels, 

Then  hail  to  health,  and  a  long  good  night 

To  old  wine,  and  new  quarrels  ! 

Nights  shall  descend,  and  no  taverns  ring 
To  the  roar  of  our  revels  ; 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  317 

Mornings  shall  dawn  but  none  of  them  bring 

White  lips  and  blue  devils. 

Riot  and  frenzy  sleep  with  remorse 

In  the  obsolete  potion, 

And  mind  grows  calm  as  a  ship  on  her  course 

O'er  the  level  of  ocean. 

So  should  it  be  !   for  man's  world  of  romance 

Is  fast  disappearing, 

And  shadows  of  changes  are  seen  in  advance, 

Whose  epochs  are  nearing. 

And  the  days  are  at  hand,  when  the  best  shall  require 

All  means  of  salvation. 

And  the  souls  of  men  shall  be  tried  in  the  fire 

Of  the  final  probation  ! 

And  the  witling  no  longer  or  sneers  or  smiles, 

And  the  worldling  dissembles, 

And  the  black-hearted  sceptic  feels  anxious  at  whiles, 

And  marvels  and  trembles  ; 

And  fear  and  defiance  are  blent  in  the  jest 

Of  the  blind  self-deceiver; 

But  hope  bounds  high  in  the  joyous  breast 

Of  the  childlike  believer  ! 

Darken  the  lamp  then,  and  shatter  the  bowl, 

Ye  faithfullesf-hearted  ! 

And  as  your  swift  years  travel  on  to  the  goal 

Whither  worlds  have  departed, 

Spend  labor,  life,  soul,  in  your  zeal  to  atone 

For  the  past  and  its  errors  : 

So  best  shall  you  bear  to  encounter  alone 

The  Event  !    and  its  terrors. 


318  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

THE    DYING   ENTHUSIAST  (46) 

Speak  no  more  of  life ! 

What  can  life  bestow 

In  this  amphitheatre  of  strife 

All  times  dark  with  tragedy  and  woe  ? 

Know'st  thou  not  how  care  and  pain 

Build  their  lampless  dwelling  in  the  brain, 

Even  as  the  stern  intrusion 

Of  our  teachers,  time  and  truth, 

Turn  to  gloom  the  bright  illusions 

Rainbowed  on  the  soul  of  youth  ? 

Could  I  live  to  find  that  this  is  so  ? 

Oh  !   no,  no. 

As  the  stream  of  time 

Sluggishly  doth  flow, 

Look,  how  all  of  beaming  or  sublime 

Sinks  into  the  black  abysm  below  ! 

Yea,  the  loftiest  intellect 

Earliest  on  the  strand  of  life  is  wrecked. 

Naught  of  lovely,  nothing  glorious, 

Lives  to  triumph  o'er  decay; 

Desolation  reigns  victorious  : 

O 

Mind  is  dungeon-walled  by  clay  : 
Could  I  bear  to  feel  mine  own  laid  low  ? 
Oh  !   no,  no. 

Restless  o'er  the  earth, 

Thronging  millions  go  : 

But  behold  how  genius,  love,  and  worth, 

Move  like  lonely  phantoms  to  and  fro. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  319 

Suns  are  quenched,  and  kingdoms  fall, 
But  the  doom  of  these  outdarkens  all ! 
Die  they  then  ?     Yes,  love's  devotion, 
Stricken,  withers  in  its  bloom ; 
Fond  affections,  deep  as  ocean, 
In  their  cradle  find  their  tomb  : 
Shall  I  linger,  then,  to  count  each  throe  ? 
Oh  !   no,  no. 

Prison-bursting  death  ! 

Welcome  be  thy  blow  ! 

Thine  is  but  the  forfeit  of  my  breath, 

Not  the  spirit,  nor  the  spirit's  glow. 

Spheres  of  beauty,  hallowed  spheres 

Undefaced  by  time,  undimmed  by  tears, 

Henceforth  hail  !      Oh,  who  would  grovel 

In  a  world  impure  as  this, 

Who  would  weep  in  cell  or  hovel, 

When  a  palace  might  be  his  ? 

Wouldst  thou  have  me  that  bright  lot  forego  ? 

Oh  !   no,  no. 


TO  JOSEPH    BRKNAN  (47) 

Friend  and  brother,  and  yet  more  than  brother, 
Thou  endowed  with  all  of  Shelley's  soul  ! 
Thou  whose  heart  so  burneth  for  thy  Mother, 
That,  like  his,  it  may  defy  all  other 
Flames,  while  time  shall  roll  ! 


320  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Thou  of  language  bland,  and  manner  meekest, 
Gentle  bearing,  yet  unswerving  will ! 
Gladly,  gladly,  list  I  when  thou  speakest : 
Honored  highly  is  the  man  thou  seekest 
To  redeem  from  ill ! 

Truly  showest  thou  me  the  one  thing  needful ! 
Thou  art  not,  nor  is  the  world,  yet  blind. 
Truly  have  I  been  long  years  unheedful 
Of  the  thorns  and  tares  that  choked  the  weedful 
Garden  of  my  mind  ! 

Thorns  and  tares  which  rose  in  rank  profusion 
Round  my  scanty  fruitage  and  my  flowers, 
Till  I  almost  deemed  it  self-delusion, 
To  attempt  or  glance  at  their  extrusion 
From  their  midnight  bowers. 

Dream  and  waking  life  have  now  been  blended 
Long  time  in  the  caverns  of  my  soul ; 
Oft  in  daylight  have  my  steps  descended 
Down  to  that  dusk  realm  where  all  is  ended, 
Save  remeadless  dole  ! 

Oft,  with  tears,  I  have  groaned  to  God  for  pity, 
Oft  gone  wandering  till  my  way  grew  dim  ; 
Oft  sung  unto  Him  a  prayerful  ditty, 
Oft,  all  lonely  in  this  throngful  city, 
Raised  my  soul  to  Him  ! 

And  from  path  to  path  His  mercy  tracked  me  : 
From  a  many  a  peril  snatched  He  me  ; 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  321 

When  false  friends  pursued,  betrayed,  attacked  me, 
When  gloom  overdarked,  and  sickness  racked  me, 
He  was  by  to  save  and  free  ! 

Friend  !  thou  warnest  me  in  truly  noble 
Thoughts  and  phrases:   I  will  heed  thee  well. 
Well  will  I  obey  thy  mystic  double 
Counsel,  through  all  scenes  of  woe  and  trouble, 
As  a  magic  spell ! 

Yes  !  to  live  a  bard,  in  thought  and  feeling : 
Yes  !   to  act  my  rhyme,  by  self-restraint, 
This  is  truth's,  is  reason's  deep  revealing 
Unto  me  from  thee,  as  God's  to  a  kneeling 
And  entranced  saint  ! 

Fare  thee  well  !      We  now  know  each  the  other ; 
Each  has  struck  the  other's  inmost  chords  ; 
Fare  thee  well,  my  friend  and  more  than  brother : 
And  may  scorn  pursue  me,  if  I  smother 
In  my  soul  thy  words  ! 


LINES    ON   THE    DEATH    OF    C.  H.  (48) 

I  stood  aloof:   I  dared  not  to  behold 
Thy  relics  covered  over  with  the  mould  ; 
I  shed  no  tear,  I  uttered  not  a  groan, 
But  Oh,  I  felt  heartbroken  and  alone. 


322  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

How  feel  I  now  ?     The  bitterness  of  grief 
Has  passed,  for  all  that  is  intense  is  brief. 
A  softer  sadness  overshades  my  mind, 
But  there  thine  image  ever  lies  enshrined. 

And  if  I  mourn,  (for  this  is  human,  too,) 
I  mourn  no  longer  that  thy  days  were  few, 
Nor  that  thou  hast  escaped  the  tears  and  woe, 
And  deaths  on  deaths  the  living  undergo. 

Thou  fadedst  in  the  springtime  of  thy  years  : 
Life's  juggling  joys  and  spirit-wasting  fears 
Thou  knewest  but  in  romance  :   and  to  thine  eyes 
Man  shone  a  god,  the  earth  a  paradise. 

Thou  diedst  ere  the  icy  breath  of  scorn 
Froze  the  warm  feelings  of  thy  girlhood's  morn, 
Ere  thou  couldst  learn  that  man  is  but  a  slave, 
And  this  bleak  world  a  prison  and  a  grave. 

Thy  spirit  is  at  peace  :   peace  !   blessed  word 
Forgotten  by  the  million,  or  unheard. 
But  mine  still  struggles  down  this  vale  of  death, 
And  courts  the  favor  of  a  little  breath. 

Thro'  every  stage  of  life's  consuming  fever 
The  soul  too  often  is  her  own  deceiver, 
And  revels,  even  in  a  world  like  this, 
In  golden  visions  of  unbounded  bliss. 

But  he  who,  looking  on  the  naked  chart 
Of  life,  feels  nature  sinking  at  his  heart, 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  323 

He  who  is  drugged  with  sorrow,  he  for  whom 
Affliction  carves  a  pathway  to  the  tomb, 

He  will  unite  with  me  to  bless  that  Power 
Who  gathers  and  transplants  the  fragile  flower 
Ere  yet  the  spirit  of  the  whirlwind  storm 
Comes  forth  in  wrath  to  prostrate  and  deform. 

And  if  it  be  that  God  Himself  removes 
From  peril  and  contagion  those  He  loves, 
Weep  such  no  more;  but  strew  with  freshest  roses 
The  hallowed  mound  where  innocence  reposes. 


THE    WORLD'S    CHANGES 

The  solemn  Shadow  that  bears  in  his  hands 

The  conquering  scythe,  and  the  glass  of  sands, 

Paused  once  on  his  flight  where  the  sunrise  shone 

On  a  warlike  city's  towers  of  stone  ; 

And  he  asked  of  a  panoplied  soldier  near: 

"  How  long  has  this  fortressed  city  been  here  ?  " 

And  the  man  looked  up,  man's  pride  on  his  brow  : 

"  The  city  stands  here  from  the  ages  of  old  ; 

And  as  it  was  then,  and  as  it  is  now, 

So  will  it  endure  till  the  funeral  knell 

Of  the  world  be  knolled, 

As  eternity's  annals  shall  tell." 

And  after  a  thousand  years  were  o'er, 

The  Shadow  paused  over  the  spot  once  more. 


324  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

And  vestige  was  none  of  a  city  there, 

But  lakes  lay  blue,  and  plains  lay  bare, 

And  the  marshalled  corn  stood  high  and  pale, 

And  a  shepherd  piped  of  love  in  a  vale. 

"  How,"  spake  the  Shadow,  "  can  temple  and  tower 

Thus  fleet  like  mist  from  the  morning  hour  ?  " 

But  the  shepherd  shook  the  long  locks  from  his  brow : 

"  The  world  is  filled  with  sheep  and  corn  ! 

Thus  was  it  of  old,  thus  is  it  now: 

Thus,  too,  will  it  be  while  moon  and  sun 

Rule  night  and  morn, 

For  Nature  and  life  are  one." 

And  after  a  thousand  years  were  o'er, 

The  Shadow  paused  over  the  spot  once  more. 

And  lo  !   in  the  room  of  the  meadow-lands 

A  sea  foamed  far  over  saffron  sands, 

And  flashed  in  the  noontide,  bright  and  dark ; 

And  a  fisher  was  casting  his  nets  from  a  barque. 

How  marvelled  the  Shadow  !     "Where,  then,  is  the 

plain  ? 

And  where  be  the  acres  of  golden  grain  ?  " 
But  the  hsher  dashed  off  the  salt  spray  from  his  brow: 
"These  waters  begirdle  the  earth  alway ; 
The  sea  ever  rolled,  as  it  rolleth  now. 
What  babblest  thou  about  grain  and  fields  ? 
By  night,  by  day, 
Man  looks  for  what  ocean  yields." 

And  after  a  thousand  years  were  o'er, 

The  Shadow  paused  over  the  spot  once  more. 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  325 

And  the  ruddy  rays  of  the  eventide 
Were  gilding  the  skirts  of  a  forest  wide; 
The  moss  of  the  trees  looked  old,  so  old  ! 
And,  valley  and  hill,  the  ancient  mould 
Was  robed  in  sward,  an  evergreen  cloak  : 
And  a  woodman  sang  as  he  felled  an  oak. 
Him  asked  the  Shadow:  "Rememberest  thou 
Any  trace  of  a  sea  where  wave  those  trees  ?  " 
But  the  woodman  laughed.     Said  he  :   "I  trow 
If  oak  and  pine  do  flourish  and  fall, 
It  is  not  amid  seas  ! 
The  earth  is  one  forest  all." 

And  after  a  thousand  years  were  o'er, 

The  Shadow  paused  over  the  spot  once  more. 

And  what  saw  the  Shadow  ?      A  city  again  ; 

But  peopled  by  pale  mechanical  men, 

With  workhouses  filled,  and  prisons,  and  marts, 

And  faces  that  spake  exanimate  hearts  : 

Strange  picture,  and  sad  !   was  the  Shadow's  thought; 

And  turning  to  one  of  the  ghastly,  he  sought 

For  a  clue  in  words  to  the  when  and  the  how 

Of  the  ominous  change  he  now  beheld. 

But  the  man  uplifted  his  careworn  brow  : 

"  Change  ?      What    was    life    ever    but    conflict    and 

change  ? 

From  the  ages  of  eld, 
Hath  affliction  been  widening  her  range." 

"  Enough  !  "  said  the  Shadow,  and  passed  from  the  spot : 
"  At  last  it  is  vanished,  the  beautiful  youth 


326  JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN 

Of  the  earth,  to  return  with  to-morrow  ; 
All  changes  have  checkered  mortality's  lot, 
But  this  is  the  darkest ;   for  knowledge  and  truth 
Are  but  golden  gates  to  the  temple  of  sorrow." 


THE    DEPARTURE    OF    LOVE  (49) 

Spirit  of  wordless  love,  that  in  the  lone 

Bowers  of  the  poet's  musing  soul  doth  weave 

Tissues  of  thought  hued  like  the  skies  at  eve 

Ere  the  last  glories  of  the  sun  are  flown  ! 

How  soon,  almost  before  our  hearts  have  known 

The  change,  above  the  ruins  of  thy  throne 

Whose  vanished  beauty  we  would  fain  retrieve 

With  all  earth's  thrones  beside,  we  stand  and  grieve, 

But  weep  not :   for  the  world's  chill  breath  has  bound 

In  chains  of  ice  the  fountains  of  our  tears, 

And  ever-mourning  memory  thenceforth  rears 

Her  altars  upon  desecrated  ground, 

And  always,  with  a  low  despondful  sound, 

Tolls  the  disastrous  bell  of  all  our  years. 


BEAR    UP 

Time  rolleth  on  ;   and  with  our  years 
Our  sorrows  grow  and  multiply, 
Our  visions  fade  ; 
With  late  remorse  and  withering  fears, 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  327 

We  look  for  light  to  days  gone  by : 

But  all  is  shade. 

Our  dear  fond  friends  have  long  been  gone, 

No  moon  is  up  in  heaven  above; 

The  chill  winds  blow. 

The  dolorous  night  of  age  comes  on  : 

The  current  of  our  life  and  love 

Moves  low,  moves  slow. 

Yet  earth  hath  still  a  twofold  dower : 

On  desert  sands  the  palm-trees  rise 

In  greenest  bloom  ; 

The  dawn  breaks  at  the  darkest  hour; 

Stars  brightliest  shine  when  midnight  skies 

Are  palled  in  gloom  ; 

The  deep  hath  treasures  unrevealed 

Of  gold  and  gems  and  argosies 

And  gallant  ships  ; 

The  sword  strikes  hurtless  on  the  shield  ; 

And  from  the  once  plague-laden  breeze 

Health  greets  thy  lips ! 

Thou,  therefore,  man,  shalt  never  droop, 

Shalt  never  doubt,  shalt  always  trust 

The  power  of  God  : 

Thou  art  not  heaven's  or  nature's  dupe  ! 

This  fleshly  hull  shall  rot  in  dust, 

A  trodden  clod. 

But  wilt  thou  cower,  tho'  death  draw  nigh  J 

The  mouldering  frame,  the  eternal  soul, 

Which,  say,  is  best  ? 

Thou  canst  not  live  unless  thou  die, 


328  JAMES   CLARENCE   MANGAN 

Thou  must  march  far  to  reach  thy  goal 
Of  endless  rest. 

Bear  up,  even  tho'  thou  be  like  me 

Stretched  on  a  couch  of  torturing  pain 

This  weary  day  ; 

Tho'  heaven  and  earth  seem  dark  to  thee, 

And  thine  eye  glance  around  in  vain 

For  one  hope-ray  ! 

Tho'  overborne  by  wrong  and  ill, 

Tho'  thou  hast  drained  even  to  the  lees 

Life's  bitter  cup, 

Though  death  and  hell  be  round  thee,  still 

Place  faith  in  God  :    He  hears,  He  sees. 

Bear  up  !      Bear  up  ! 


TWO    SONNETS   TO    CAROLINE 


Have  I  not  called  thee  angel-like  and  fair? 

What  wouldst  thou  more  ?      'Twcrc  perilous  to  gaze 

Long  on  those  dark-bright  eyes,  whose  flashing  rays 

Fill  with  a  soft  and  fond,  yet  proud,  despair 

The  bosoms  of  the  shrouded  few,  who  share 

Their    locked-up    thoughts    with    none.      Thou    hast 

their  praise  ; 

But  Beauty  hears  not  their  adoring  lays 
Which  tremble  when  but  whispered  to  the  air. 
Yet  think  not,  altho'  stamped  as  one  of  those, 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  329 

Ah,  think  not  thou  this  heart  hath  never  burned 
With  passion  deeply  felt  and  ill-returned. 
If  ice-cold  now,  its  pulse  no  longer  glows, 
The  memory  of  unuttered  love  and  woes 
Lies  there,  alas,  too  faithfully  inurned. 

ii 

For  once  I  dreamed  that  mutual  love  was  more 

Than  a  bright  phantom  thought ;   and  when  mankind 

Mocked  mine  illusion,  then  would  I  deplore 

That  ignorance,  and  deem  them  cold  and  blind  ; 

And  years  rolled  on,  and  still  did  I  adore 

The  unreal  image  loftily  enshrined 

In  the  recesses  of  mine  own  sick  mind. 

Enough  :   the  spell  is  broke,  the  dream  is  o'er, 

The  enchantment  is  dissolved  ;   the  world  appears 

The  thing  it  is,  a  theatre,  a  mart. 

Genius  illumines,  and  the  wand  of  art 

Renews  the  wonder  of  our  childish  years  ; 

Power   awes,   wealth    shines,   wit    sparkles  ;    but   the 

heart, 
The  heart  is  lost,  for  love  no  more  endears. 


ENTHUSIASM 

Not  yet  trodden-under  wholly, 

Not  yet  darkened, 

O  my  spirit's  flickering  lamp  !   art  thou 

Still,  alas,  thou  wanest,  tho'  but  slowlv, 


330  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

And  I  feel  as  if  my  heart  had  hearkened 
To  the  whispers  of  despondence  now. 

Yet  the  world  shall  not  enthrall  me. 
Never,  never ! 

On  my  briary  pathway  to  the  grave 
Shapes  of  pain  and  peril  may  appal  me, 
Agony  and  ruin  may  befall  me, 
Darkness  and  dismay  may  hover  ever; 
But,  cold  world,  I  will  not  die  thy  slave. 

Underneath  my  feet  I  trample 

You,  ye  juggles  : 

Pleasure,  passion,  thirst  of  power  and  gold. 

Shall  I,  dare  I,  shame  the  bright  example 

Beaming,  burning,  in  the  deeds  and  struggles 

Of  the  consecrated  few  of  old  ? 

Sacred  flame  which  art  eternal, 
O  bright  essence, 

Thou,  enthusiasm  !   forsake  me  not. 
Ah,  tho'  life  be  reft  of  all  her  vernal 
Beauty,  ever  let  thy  magic  presence 
Shed  its  glory  round  my  clouded  lot. 


THE   LOVELY   LAND:    ON  A   LANDSCAPE 
PAINTED    BY    MACLISE 

Glorious  birth  of  mind  and  color! 
Gazing  on  thy  radiant  face, 
The  most  lorn  of  Adam's  race 
Might  forget  all  dolor! 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  331 

What  divinest  light  is  beaming 
Over  mountain,  mead,  and  grove! 
That  blue  noontide  sky  above, 
Seems  asleep  and  dreaming. 

Rich  Italia's  wild-birds  warble 
In  the  foliage  of  those  trees  : 
I  can  trace  thee,  Veronese, 
In  these  rocks  of  marble ! 

Yet,  no!      Mark  I  not  where  quiver 
The  sun's  rays  on  yonder  stream  ? 
Only  a  Poussin  could  dream 
Such  a  sun  and  river. 

What  bold  imaging!      Stony  valley, 
And  fair  bower  of  eglantine  ; 
Here  I  see  the  black  ravine, 
There  the  lilied  alley. 

This  is  some  rare  climate  olden, 
Peopled,  not  by  men,  but  fays; 
Some  lone  land  of  genii  days, 
Storyful  and  golden  ! 

()  for  magic  power  to  wander 
One  bright  year  through  such  a  land ' 
Might  I  even  one  hour  stand 
On  the  blest  hills  yonder! 

But  —  what  spy  I?  ...      Here  by  noonlight 
'Tis  the  same  !   the  pillar-tower 
I  have  oft  passed  thrice  an  hour, 
Twilight,  sunlight,  moonlight. 


332  JAMES   CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Shame  to  me,  my  own,  my  sireland, 
Not  to  know  thy  soil  and  skies  ! 
Shame,  that  through  Maclise's  eyes 
I  first  see  thee,  Ireland ! 

Nay,  no  land  doth  rank  above  thee 
Or  for  loveliness  or  worth  : 
So  shall  I,  from  this  day  forth, 
Ever  sing  and  love  thee. 


FRONTI    NULLA    FIDES 

Beware  of  blindly  trusting 

To  outward  art, 

And  specious  sheen  ; 

For  vice  is  oft  encrusting 

The  hollow  heart 

Within,  unseen. 

See  that  black  pool  below  thee  ! 

There  heaven  sleeps 

In  golden  fire. 

Yet  whatsoe'er  it  show  thee, 

The  mirror's  deeps 

Are  slime  and  mire. 


SIBERIA  (50) 

In  Siberia's  wastes 
The  ice-wind's  breath 
Woundcth  like  the  toothed  steel  : 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  333 

Lost  Siberia  doth  reveal 
Only  blight  and  death. 

Blight  and  death  alone. 

No  summer  shines; 

Night  is  interblent  with  day  ; 

In  Siberia's  wastes,  alway 

The  blood  blackens,  the  heart  pines. 

In  Siberia's  wastes 

No  tears  are  shed, 

For  they  freeze  within  the  brain  : 

Naught  is  felt  but  dullest  pain, 

Pain  acute,  yet  dead  ; 

Pain  as  in  a  dream, 
When  years  go  by 
Funeral-paced,  yet  fugitive ; 
When  man  lives  and  doth  not  live, 
Doth  not  live,  nor  die. 

In  Siberia's  wastes 

Are  sands  and  rocks. 

Nothing  blooms  of  green  or  soft, 

But  the  snow-peaks  rise  aloft, 

And  the  gaunt  ice-blocks. 

And  the  exile  there 

Is  one  with  those  ; 

They  arc  part,  and  he  is  part  ! 

For  the  sands  are  in  his  he-art, 

And  the  killing  snows. 


334  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Therefore,  in  those  wastes 
None  curse  the  Czar. 
Each  man's  tongue  is  cloven  by 
The  north  blast,  that  heweth  nigh 
With  sharp  scimitar. 

And  such  doom  each  drees, 
Till,  hunger-gnawn, 
Cold-slain,  he  at  length  sinks  there 
Yet  scarce  more  a  corpse  than  ere 
His  last  breath  was  drawn. 


A   VISION    OF    CONNAUGHT   IN   THE 
THIRTEENTH    CENTURY 

("Et  moi,  j'ai  etc  aussi  en  Arcadie."  — And  I,  I,  too,  have  been  a 
dreamer.  —  Inscription  on  a  Painting  by  Poussin.  ) 

I  walked  entranced 

Through  a  land  of  morn  ; 

The  sun,  with  wondrous  excess  of  light, 

Shone  down  and  glanced 

Over  seas  of  corn 

And  lustrous  gardens  aleft  and  right. 

Even  in  the  clime 

Of  resplendent  Spain, 

Beams  no  such  sun  upon  such  a  land  ; 

But  it  was  the  time, 

'Twas  in  the  reign, 

Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand.1 

1  The  Irish  and  Oriental  poets  agree-  in  attributing  favorable  or  unfavor- 
able weather,  and  abundant  or  deficient  harvests,  to  the  good  or  bad  qualities 
of  the  reigning  monarch.  M>ir  mean?  great. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  335 

Anon  stood  nigh 

By  my  side  a  man 

Of  princely  aspect  and  port  sublime. 

Him  queried  I, 

"  O  my  Lord  and  Khan  ! l 

What  clime  is  this,  and  what  golden  time  ?  " 

When  he:   "The  clime 

Is  a  clime  to  praise, 

The  clime  is  Erin's,  the  green  and  bland  ; 

And  it  is  the  time, 

These  be  the  days, 

Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand  !  " 

Then  saw  I  thrones, 

And  circling  fires, 

And  a  dome  rose  near  me,  as  by  a  spell, 

Whence  flowed  the  tones 

Of  silver  lyres, 

And  many  voices  in  wreathed  swell ; 

And  their  thrilling  chime 

Fell  on  mine  ears 

As  the  heavenly  hymn  of  an  angel-band  : 

"  It  is  now  the  time, 

These  be  the  years, 

Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand  !  " 

I  sought  the  hall, 

And  behold  !    a  change 

From  light  to  darkness,  from  joy  to  woe. 

Kings,  nobles,  all, 

1  Ccar.n,  the  Gaelic  title  for  a  chief. 


336  JAMES   CLARENCE   MANGAN 

Looked  aghast  and  strange  ; 

The  minstrel  group  sat  in  dumbest  show. 

Had  some  great  crime 

Wrought  this  dread  amaze, 

This  terror?  .  .  .     None  seemed  to  understand. 

'Twas  then  the  time, 

We  were  in  the  days, 

Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand. 

I  again  walked  forth  ; 

But  lo,  the  sky 

Showed  flecked  with  blood,  and  an  alien  sun 

Glared  from  the  north, 

And  there  stood  on  high, 

Amid  his  shorn  beams,  a  skeleton  !  1   .    .   . 

It  was  by  the  stream 

Of  the  castled  Maine, 

One  autumn  eve,  in  the  Teuton's  land, 

That  I  dreamed  this  dream 

Of  the  time  and  reign 

Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand. 

1  "  It  was  hut  natural  that  these  portentous  appearances  should  thus  be 
exhibited  on  this  occasion,  for  they  were  the  heralds  of  a  very  great  calamity 
that  befell  the  Connacians  in  this  year;  namely,  the  death  of  Cahal  of  the 
Red  Hand,  son  of  Torlogh  Mor  of  the  Wine,  and  King  of  Connaught,  a 
prince  of  most  amiable  qualities,  and  into  whose  heart  God  had  infused  more 
piety  and  goodness  than  into  the  hearts  of  any  of  his  contemporaries."  — - 
Annals  of  the  Four  Masters,  A.D.  1214. 


HIS   SELECTED    POEMS  337 


THE   SAW-MILL 

My  path  lay  towards  the  Mourne  again  ; 
But  I  stopped  to  rest  by  the  hillside 
That  glanced  adown  o'er  the  sunken  glen, 
Which  the  saw-and-water-mills  hide, 
Which  now,  as  then, 
The  saw-and-water-mills  hide. 

And  there,  as  I  lay  reclined  on  the  hill, 

Like  a  man  made  by  sudden  qualm  ill,  (51) 

I  heard  the  water  in  the  water-mill, 

And  I  saw  the  saw  in  the  saw-mill. 

As  I  thus  lay  still, 

I  saw  the  saw  in  the  saw-mill. 

The  saw,  the  breeze,  and  the  humming  bees 

Lulled  me  into  a  dreamy  reverie, 

Till  the  objects  round  me,  hills,  mills,  trees, 

Seemed  grown  alive  all  and  every  ; 

By  slow  degrees 

Took  life,  as  it  were,  all  and  every  ! 

Anon  the  sound  of  the  waters  grew 

To  a  mournful  ditty, 

And  the  song  of  the  tree  that  the  saw  sawed  through 

Disturbed  my  spirit  with  pity, 

Began  to  subdue 

My  spirit  with  tenderest  pity  ! 

u  O  wanderer !   the  hour  that  brings  thee  back 
Is  of  all  meet  hours  the  meetcst. 


338  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

Thou  now,  in  sooth,  art  on  the  track, 
Art  nigher  to  home  than  thou  weetest ; 
Thou  hast  thought  time  slack, 
But  his  flight  has  been  of  the  fleetest  ! 

For  thee  it  is  that  I  dree  such  pain 
As,  when  wounded,  even  a  plank  will ; 
My  bosom  is  pierced,  is  rent  in  twain, 
That  thine  may  ever  bide  tranquil, 
May  ever  remain 
Henceforward,  untroubled  and  tranquil. 

In  a  few  days  more,  most  lonely  one ! 

Shall  I,  as  a  narrow  ark,  veil 

Thine  eyes  from  the  glare  of  the  world  and  sun, 

'Mong  the  urns  in  yonder  dark  vale, 

In  the  cold  and  dun 

Recesses  of  yonder  dark  vale  ! 

For  this  grieve  not !     Thou  knowest  what  thanks 

The  weary-souled  and  the  meek  owe 

To  Death  !  "   .   .   .      I  awoke,  and  heard  four  planks 

Fall  down  with  a  saddening  echo. 

I  heard  four  planks 

Fall  down  with  a  hollow  echo. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  339 


THE    ONE    MYSTERY 

'Tis  idle  !   we  exhaust  and  squander 

The  glittering  mine  of  thought  in  vain; 

All-baffled  reason  cannot  wander 

Beyond  her  chain. 

The  flood  of  life  runs  dark ;  dark  clouds 

Make  lampless  night  around  its  shore  : 

The  dead,  where  are  they  ?      In  their  shrouds  ! 

Man  knows  no  more. 

Evoke  the  ancient  and  the  past; 
Will  one  illumining  star  arise  ? 
Or  must  the  film,  from  first  to  last, 
O'erspread  thine  eyes? 
When  life,  love,  glory,  beauty,  wither, 
Will  wisdom's  page,  or  science'  chart, 
Map  out  for  thee  the  region  whither 
Their  shades  depart  ? 

Supposes!  thou  the  wondrous  powers 

To  high  imagination  given, 

Pale  types  of  what  shall  yet  be  ours, 

When  earth  is  heaven  ? 

When  this  decaying  shell  is  cold, 

Ah,  sayest  thou  the  soul  shall  climb 

That  magic  mount  she  trod  of  old, 

Ere  childhood's  time  ? 

And  shall  the  sacred  pulse  that  thrilled, 
Thrill  once  again  to  glory's  name  ? 


3-fo  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

And  shall  the  conquering  love  that  filled 

All  earth  with  flame, 

Reborn,  revived,  renewed,  immortal, 

Resume  his  reign  in  prouder  might, 

A  sun  beyond  the  ebon  portal 

Of  death  and  night  ? 

No  more,  no  more  !    .   .   .      With  aching  brow, 

And  restless  heart,  and  burning  brain, 

We  ask  the  when,  the  where,  the  how, 

And  ask  in  vain. 

And  all  philosophy,  all  faith, 

All  earthly,  all  celestial  lore, 

Have  but  one  voice,  which  only  saith  : 

Endure,  adore. 

THE    NAMELESS    ONE 

Roll  forth,  my  song,  like  the  rushing  river 
That  sweeps  along  to  the  mighty  sea  ; 
God  will  inspire  me  while  I  deliver 
My  soul  of  thee  ! 

Tell  thou  the  world,  when  mv  bones  lie  whitening: 

'  O 

Amid  the  last  homes  of  youth  and  eld, 

That  once  there  was  one  whose  veins  ran  lightning 

No  eye  beheld. 

Tell  how  his  boyhood  was  one  drear  night-hour, 
How  shone  for  him,  through  his  ^nef  and  gloom, 
No  star  of  all  heaven  sends  to  light  our 
Path  to  the  tomb. 


HIS    SELECTED    POEMS  341 

Roll  on,  my  song,  and  to  after  ages 

Tell  how,  disdaining  all  earth  can  give, 

He  would  have  taught  men,  from  wisdom's  pages, 

The  way  to  live. 

And  tell  how  trampled,  derided,  hated, 
And  worn  by  weakness,  disease,  and  wrong, 
He  fled  for  shelter  to  God,  who  mated 
His  soul  with  song ; 

With  song  which  alway,  sublime  or  vapid, 
Flowed  like  a  rill  in  the  morning-beam, 
Perchance  not  deep,  but  intense  and  rapid  : 
A  mountain  stream. 

Tell  how  this  Nameless,  condemned  for  years  long 
To  herd  with  demons  from  hell  beneath, 
Saw  things  that  made  him,  with  groans  and  tears,  long 
For  even  death. 

Go  on  to  tell  how  with  genius  wasted, 
Betrayed  in  friendship,  befooled  in  love, 
With  spirit  shipwrecked,  and  young  hope  blasted, 
He  still,  still  strove, 

Till,  spent  with  toil,  dreeing  death  for  others, 
(And  some  whose  hands  should  have  wrought  for  him, 
If  children  live  not  for  sires  and  mothers,) 
His  mind  grew  dim  ; 

And  he  fell  far  through  that  pit  abysmal, 
The  gulf  and  grave  of  Maginn  and  Burns, 
And  pawned  his  soul  for  the  devil's  dismal 
Stock  of  returns  j 


342  JAMES    CLARENCE    MANGAN 

But  yet  redeemed  it  in  days  of  darkness, 
And  shapes  and  signs  of  the  final  wrath, 
When  death,  in  hideous  and  ghastly  starkness, 
Stood  on  his  path. 

And  tell  how  now,  amid  wreck  and  sorrow, 
And  want,  and  sickness,  and  houseless  nights, 
He  bides  in  calmness  the  silent  morrow 
That  no  ray  lights. 

And  lives  he  still,  then  ?     Yes  !      Old  and  hoary 
At  thirty-nine,  from  despair  and  woe, 
He  lives,  enduring  what  future  story- 
Will  never  know. 

Him  grant  a  grave  to,  ye  pitying  noble, 
Deep  in  your  bosoms  :   there  let  him  dwell  ! 
He,  too,  had  tears  for  all  souls  in  trouble 
Here,  and  in  hell. 


Notes  by   the   Editor 


NOTE  I,  page  115.  If  our  dear  friend,  Master  Edmund 
Spenser,  had  had  his  way  in  the  south  of  Ireland,  we  should 
hardly  have  occasion  to  be  thankful  for  a  contemporary  poet 
in  the  north,  and  his  Roisin  Dulb.  In  A  View  of  the 
Present  State,  Spenser  puts  in  the  mouth  of  Irenaeus  a  plea 
for  the  extermination  of  the  bards,  already  greatly  injured 
by  the  penal  statutes  under  Elizabeth.  "  I  have  caused  divers 
of  them  to  be  translated  unto  me  that  I  might  understand 
them,  and  surely  they  savored  of  sweet  wit  and  good  inven- 
tion .  .  .  sprinkled  with  some  pretty  flowers  of  their  own 
natural  device,  which  gave  good  grace  and  comeliness  unto 
them.  .  .  .  But  they  seldom  use  to  choose  unto  them- 
selves the  doings  of  good  men  for  the  ornaments  of  their 
poems  ;  but  whomsoever  they  find  to  be  most  licentious  of 
lite,  most  bold  and  lawless  in  his  doings,  most  dangerous  and 
desperate  in  all  parts  of  disobedience  and  rebellious  disposition, 
him  they  set  up  and  glorify  in  their  rhymes,  him  they  praise 
to  the  people,  and  to  young  men,  make  an  example  to  fol- 
low." Had  they  but  sung  Gloriana  ! 

2,  p.    128.      The  illustrious  Colonel  Owen  Roe  O'Neill, 
nephew  of  the  Earl  of   Tyrone,  had,  like  most  Irish  exiles  to 
Spain,  seen  service  in  Flanders.      He  returned  home  in  1642, 
and  headed  the  revolt  in  Ulster.      The  royalist  war  was  crushed 
by  Cromwell,  but  O'Neill  was  already  dead  (  1648). 

3,  p.    121;.      Dunogh  Mac  Con-Mara  (a  name  sometimes 
incorrectly  given  as  Macnamara),  a  native  of  County  Water- 
ford,  wrote  this  very  lovely  Ivnc  in  Gaelic,  while  he  \\.is  keep- 


344  NOTES 

ing  a  boys'  school  in  Hamburg.  He  was  a  great  traveller, 
and  had  a  most  adventurous  life.  He  was  born  in  1738,  and 
dying  in  1814,  was  buried  at  home. 

4,  p.   131.      The  peculiarly  eighteenth-century  Irish  note 
of  this  characteristic  poem  is  reason  enough  for  its  inclusion. 
The    "marble"    brow,    the  grave  genealogical   details,   and 
the  unavoidable  reference  to  Helen  of  Troy,  are  most  hedge- 
schoolmasterly  touches. 

5,  p.   135.      Neillidhe  Bhan  is  an  anonymous  production. 
Its  vehemence  and  incoherence  stamp  it  as  genuinely  felt,  as 
well   as  genuinely  conceived.      The  lover  boasts,  in  the  first 
stanza,  how  gladly  he  would  "breast  the  Shannon's  waters" 
to  reach  the  North,  and  in  the  third  mentions  "  the  flooding 
Shannon  "  as  the  reason  of  his  absence  ! 

6,  p.   137.      This  O'Hussey  is   an  undiscovered  genius. 
In  the    Ode  for  Cuconnaught  in  the   North  with  Hugh  (his 
same  chief,  Hugh   Maguire)  occur  some  magnificent  apostro- 
phes, which  should  have  adorned  Lyra  Celtica  :  — 

"Thou  joy,  thou  promise,  thou  sprightly  salmon  ! 
Thou  beauteous  azure  ocean-wave  ! 
Thou  pourer  of  panic  into  the  breasts  of  heroes  !  " 

The  close  of  the  avran  in  the  poem  translated  by  Mangan 
will  appeal  to  every  reader,  in  its  concentrated  passion. 

7,  p.   141.      "No    Irish    pilgrim,"    says    a    sympathetic 
writer,  "ascends  the  Janiculum  without  thinking  of  Mangan, 
and  mentally  repeating,  'O  Woman  of  the  Piercing  Wail.'  ' 
The  celebrated  poem  has  an  intense  monotony,  comparable  to 
Homer's  catalogue,  in  its  imagination  of  scenes  and  circum- 
stances which  might   have    comforted    by   corroboration    the 
Lady  Nuala  O'Donnell,  and   brought   to   her   side   a   host  of 
fellow-mourners.      From  this  very  Celtic  circumstance  it  draws 
much   of  its   powerful   effect.      It  was  included,  long  ago,  in 
Gavan   Duffy's  Ba/IaJ  Poetry  of  Ireland  (the  best  anthology 
of  the  sort  extant),  and  deeply  impressed  one  of  the  finest  of 


NOTES  345 

English  critics.  Concerning  the  book,  Lord  Jeffrey  wrote  to 
Mrs.  Empson  :  "There  are  some  most  pathetic  and  many 
most  spirited  pieces,  and  all,  with  scarcely  an  exception,  so 
entirely  national.  Do  get  the  book  and  read  it.  I  am  most 
struck  with  Soggartb  Aroon,  after  the  first  two  stanzas,  and 
a  long,  racy,  authentic-sounding  dirge  for  the  Tyrconnell 
Princes." 

8,  p.  i  50.  Mangan  made  this  translation  in  the  early 
part  of  1847.  "I  have  not  been  able,"  he  says,  "to  dis- 
cover the  name  of  the  author."  There  seems  to  be  a  great 
deal  of  Mangan  in  it,  as  it  stands.  In  general  character, 
however,  it  reminds  one  both  of  Neillidhe  Bhan  (Ellen  Bawn) 
and  the  last  three  stanzas  of  the  second  part  ot  The  Coolun, 
a  ballad  put  into  enchanting  English  by  Sir  Samuel  Fergu- 
son: — 

"O  had  you  seen  the  coolun 
Walking  down  by  the  cuckoo's  street  !  " 

g,  p.  152.  Eoghan  O'Sullivan  the  Red,  an  interesting 
Gaelic  poet,  cousin  to  Gaolach  (Timothy)  O'Sullivan,  more 
celebrated  than  himself,  died  in  1784. 

10,  p.  156.  "  Dathi,  nephew  to  Niall  by  his  brother 
Fiachra,  was  the  last  pagan  king  of  Ireland,  and  reigned 
twenty-three  years.  His  proper  name  was  Fearadhach  ;  but 
he  was  surnamed  Dathi,  from  the  rapidity  with  which  he 
used  to  put  on  his  armor  :  '  Daithcadh,'  in  the  Irish  lan- 
guage, signifying  swiftness.  He  pillaged  Gaul  and  carried 
his  arms  even  to  the  Alps,  where  he  was  suddenly  struck 
dead  bv  a  thunderbolt  from  heaven,  thus  expiating  his  sacri- 
legious cruelty  to  Parmenius,  a  man  highly  distinguished  for 
sanctity,  A.D.  428,  A.M.  5627."  —From  Ciimbreinis  Evcr- 
sus,  seu  Potius  Hiitoricu  Fides  in  Rebus  Hibfrnicis  Giraltlo 

Cambrensi   Abrogata,    by    Gratianus    Lucius    (John    Lynch), 

1662. 

i  i,  p.    162.      Sarsficld  commanded  a  division  of  the  loval 


346  NOTES 

Irish  forces,  nominally  under  King  James  the  Second,  at  the 
battle  of  Boyne  Water,  1688.  "Change  kings,"  he  said 
in  the  bitter  moment  of  his  defeat,  "and  let  us  fight  it  over." 
He  went  into  exile  with  the  other  Irish  nobles  and  gentry, 
(the  first  of  the  never-forgotten  "Wild  Geese"  of  popular 
ballads),  entered  the  service  of  France,  and  closed  a  most 
chivalrous  career  by  a  death  on  the  battlefield  of  Landen 
(1693),  where  Luxembourg  was  victorious  over  the  Allies. 
This  most  remarkable  of  the  Farewells  to  the  Earl,  at  the 
time  of  his  going  over  sea,  is  full  of  unique  and  vehement 
expressions,  which  will  repay  the  study  of  any  humanist. 

12,  p.  166.  "Donegal  Castle,"  says  Thomas  D'Arcy 
M'Gee,  "the  chief  seat  of  the  princely  family  of  the 
O'Donnells,  stands  now  in  ruins,  in  the  centre  of  the  village 
of  the  same  name,  at  the  head  of  Donegal  Bay.  It  was 
"built  in  the  fifteenth  century,  and  shows,  even  in  its  decay, 
royal  proportions."  It  now  belongs  to  the  Lord  Arran. 
Hugh  the  Red  O'Donnell,  Earl  of  Tyrconnell,  fired  it 
before  leaving  for  Spain,  A.D.  1607,  lest  it  should  be  defiled 
by  English  occupation.  The  original  poem  must  have  been 
composed  by  some  one  perfectly  familiar  with  the  castle 
interior,  prior  to  the  Eli/.abethan  wars,  but  the  bard's  name 
has  not  come  down  to  us.  He  may  even  be  the  same  to 
whom  we  owe  Roisin  Dubb. 

'3»  P-  '73-  Kathaleen  Ny-Houlaban  and  all  the  poems 
which  follow,  in  this  division,  except  the  Dirge  for  O'  Sulli- 
van Beare,  are  relics  of  the  Jacobite  insurrections,  chiefly  of 
the  immortal  '45.  "The  King's  son  "  is,  of  course,  Prince 
Charles  Edward.  "The  Irish  Jacobites  claimed  the  Stuarts 
as  of  the  Milesian  line,  fondly  deducing  them  from  Fergus." 
The  popular  lyrics  of  that  dav,  which  were  written  in  Ire- 
land, in  the  English  tongue,  have  the  tang  of  novelty  and 
\vildness,  but  lack,  in  many  instances,  the  odd  exquisite  ten- 
derness of  Sbule  Ar'j'jn  and  'j'hc  KlackhiiJ.  As  in  Scotland, 
suinc  of  the  sweetest  of  the  Jacobite  lyrics  date  from  a  jvn- 


NOTES  347 

eration  or  more  after  the  event  ;  so  nothing  written  under 
the  Georges,  who  hated  "boets,"  is  so  good  an  English 
poem  out  of  Ireland  as  its  modern  successors  :  Callanan's  spir- 
ited Avenger,  or  The  Wi/ii  Geese,  and  a  few  other  lyrics  of 
Katharine  Tynan  (Mrs.  Hinkson).  The  Gaelic  compositions 
of  the  loyalists  were  very  much  more  numerous,  and  of  superior 
quality.  Mangan  translated  a  great  many,  among  which  I  have 
endeavored  to  choose  the  best.  They  cannot  for  a  moment, 
however,  be  compared  to  the  simpler,  briefer  songs  floating  con- 
temporaneously about  the  Highlands  of  Scotland.  Mr.  Ed- 
ward Hayes,  in  the  introduction  to  his  collected  Ballads  of  Ire- 
land, remarks  :  "  The  poets  of  the  last  century  looked  forward 
more  to  a  religious  than  to  a  political  deliverer,  whence  their 
effusions  were  more  dynastic  than  national,  more  Jacobite 
than  Irish.  When  they  sang  of  Ireland,  it  was  in  connec- 
tion with  the  fallen  dynasty.  They  longed  for  the  union  of 
Una  and  Donald,  in  other  words,  Ireland  and  the  Stuart. 
They  addressed  their  country  as  a  beloved  female,  to  disguise 
the  object  of  their  affection.  Sometimes  it  was  Sabia  from 
Brian  Bora's  daughter  of  that  name  ;  sometimes  it  was 
Sheela  Ni  Guira,  or  Cecilia  O'Gara  ;  Maureen  Ni  Colle- 
nan,  Kathleen  Nv  Houlahan,  Rosecn  Dhuv  ;  more  fre- 
quently Granu  Weal,  or  Grace  O'Malley,  from  a  princess  of 
Connaught  who  rendered  herself  famous  by  her  exploits  and 
adventures.  The  poet  beheld  his  beloved  in  a  vision,  and 
wandering  in  remote  places,  bewailed  the  suffering  of  his 
country.  He  rests  himself  beneath  the  shade  of  forest  trees, 
and  .seeks  refuge  from  his  thoughts  in  calm  repose.  There 
appears  to  his  rapt  fancy  one  of  those  beautiful  creatures  we 
have  named.  Language  is  not  sufficiently  copious  to  de- 
scribe all  her  charms.  He  addresses  her,  and  asks  her  if  she 
be  one  of  the  fair  divinities  of  old,  or  an  angel  from  heaven 
to  brighten  his  pathway  through  life  and  restore  peace  to  his 
afflicted  country.  She  replies  that  she  is  Erin  of  the  Sorrows, 
oiue  a  queen,  but  now  a  slave.  Alter  she  enumerates  all  the 


348  NOTES 

wrongs  and  iniquities  which  she  is  enduring,  she  prophesies 
the  dawn  of  a  brighter  day,  when  her  exiled  lord  shall  be 
restored  to  his  rightful  inheritance.  This  was  the  style 
adopted  by  most  of"  the  Jacobite  poets  of  the  last  century,  to 
express  the  sufferings  of  their  country  and  their  hope  of 
deliverance  from  oppression.  We  question  if  imagination 
could  originate  a  style  of  song  more  pathetic  in  its  allusions 
or  more  powerful  in  its  results." 

Not  every  one  will  agree  with  Mr.  Hayes'  estimate. 
The  allegorical  style  surely  seems  to  readers  of  to-day  a  most 
mistaken,  far-fetched,  and  ineffective  device.  It  led  to 
indescribable  sameness  and  conventionality,  exactly  what 
was  to  be  expected  of  the  curious  brood  of  pedants  who 
gave  Ireland  her  Delia  Cruscan  eighteenth-century  literature. 
Says  Mrs.  Hinkson  very  neatly,  in  her  preface  to  Irish  Love 
Songs:  "Some  of  these  were  laborers,  some  peddlers,  some 
hedge-schoolmasters, — all  alike  touched  with  genius,  wit, 
fire,  and  learning  (for  it  was  a  time  when  the  Irish  peasant 
had  the  dead  languages  at  his  fingers'  ends)  ;  all  alike 
scamps,  in  a  simple  and  virtuous  age,  and  adding  to  their 
scampishness  a  Voltairean  spirit  much  out  of  its  due  time 
and  place."  Scotland  had  also  her  lesser  dash  of  pseudo- 
classicism,  which  went  far  towards  ruining  some  of  her 
invaluable  Prince  Charlie  songs.  Of  "  the  lad  that  I'll 
gang  wi',"  the  romantic  lad  with  "  phillabeg  aboon  the 
knee,"  we  are  told  in  almost  the  next  breath  that  "you'd 
tak  him  for  the  god  o'  war."  In  Egan  O'Rahilly's  Vision, 
rendered  bv  Mangan,  who  reported  only  what  he  found, 
the  distressed  virgin,  the  Brightest  of  the  Bright,  ha.-;  crystals 
tor  eyes,  a  mirror  for  a  bosom,  crimson  glories  for  cheeks  ; 
and  she  looked,  as  was  inevitable,  like  "a  daughter  of  the 
Celestial  Powers."  There  is  no  "  highfalutin  "  of  this  sort 
in  Kat baleen  Ny-Hou/aban.  The  ballads  under  that  name 
are  almost  a>  good  as  the  group  entitled  AV.f//;  Dubb,  which 
are  a  centurv  and  a  half  earlier.  From  John  Mitchel  we 


NOTES  349 

receive  an  explanatory  passage  regarding  them,  and  Man- 
gan's  felicitous  handling  of  them.  "In  these  translations, 
as  well  as  those  from  the  German,  Mangan  did  not  assume 
to  be  literal  in  words  and  phrases.  Nor,  indeed,  in  gen- 
eral, was  there  any  uniform  unvarying  version  of  the  original 
poems,  to  which  he  could  be  literal,  because  they  lived,  for 
the  most  part,  only  in  the  memories  of  the  illiterate  peas- 
antry ;  and  Gaelic  scholars,  in  their  researches  for  authentic 
originals,  usually  found  three  or  four  different  ballads,  on  the 
same  subject  and  under  the  same  name,  having  some  lines 
and  verses  identical,  but  varying  in  the  arrangement ;  always, 
however,  agreeing  in  cadence  and  rhythm,  in  general  scope 
and  spirit.  To  this  scope  and  spirit  he  was  always  faithful." 
Here  is  a  second  Katbahen,  from  our  translator's  pen,  in 
The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Munster :  — 

In  vain,  in  vain  we  turn  to  Spain  :   she  heeds  us  not, 
Yet  may  we  still,  by  strength  of  will,  amend  our  lot ; 
O  yes  !   our  foe  shall  yet  lie  low  ;    our  swords  are  drawn 
For  her,  our  queen,  our  Caitilin  Ny  Uallachain. 

Yield  not  to  fear :   the  time  is  near.      With  sword  in  hand 
We  soon  will  chase  the  Saxon  race  far  from  our  land. 
What  glory  then  to  stand  as  men  on  field  and  bawn 
And  see,  all  sheen,  our  Caitilin  Ny  Uallachain  ! 

How  tossed,  how  lost,  with  hopes  all  crossed  we  long  have  been  ! 
Our  gold  is  gone  ;   gear  have  we  none,  as  all  have  seen. 
But  ships  shall  brave  the  ocean  wave,  and  morn  shall  dawn 
On  Eire  green,  on  Caitilin  Ny  Uallachain  ! 

Let  none  believe  this  lovely  Eve  outworn  or  old  ; 

Fair  is  her  form,  her  blood  is  warm,  her  heart  is  bold. 

Tho'  strangers  long  have  wrought  her  wrong,  she  will  not  fawn, 

Will  not  prove  mean,  our  Caitilin  Ni  Uallachain  ! 

Her  stately  air,  her  flowing  hair,  her  eyes  that  far 
Pierce  thro'  the  gloom  of  Banba's  doom,  each  likr  :\  star; 
Her  songful  voice  that  makes  rejoice  hearts  grief  hath  gnawn, 
Prove  her  our  queen,  our  Caifilin  Ni  Uallachain  ! 


350  NOTES 

We  will  not  bear  the  chains  we  wear,  not  bear  them  long  ! 
We  seem  bereaven,  but  mighty  heaven  will  make  us  strong  : 
The  God  who  led  thro'  Ocean  Red  all  Israel  on, 
Will  aid  our  queen,  our  Caitilin  Ni  Uallachain  ! 

A  word  as  to  Ny-Houlahan.  «  Ny  "  is  the  correct  Gaelic 
substitute,  in  a  female  name,  for  the  tribal  "  Mac  "  or  "  O." 
As  Mr.  Conor  MacSvveeny  reminds  his  countrywomen  :  "A 
lady  who  writes  '  O  '  or  '  Mac  '  to  her  name  calls  herself 
'son'  instead  of  'daughter.'  What  should  we  say  of  a 
Hebrew  lady  who  would  write  herself  '  Esther,  son  of 
Judah  ?  '  I  therefore  advise  every  Irish  lady  to  substitute 
'  Ni '  (pronounced  'Nee')  for  '  O  '  or  'Mac.'  ...  In 
Irish  we  never  use  '  O  '  or  '  Mac  '  with  a  woman's  name  ; 
and  why  must  it  be  done  in  English  ?  " 

Among  the  love-names  for  Ireland  just  quoted  from  Hayes' 
Ballads  are  several  which  have  been  from  the  beginning  asso- 
ciated with  the  most  beautiful  wild  old  airs  :  notably  Moirin 
Ni  Cbuillionain  (Little  Mary  Cullenan)  and  Sighile  Ni  Gar  a 
(Celia  O'Gara).  To  the  second  version  of  Roisin,  quoted 
in  the  introduction  to  this  book,  "  Since  last  night's  star," 
etc.,  belongs  also  a  strangely  lovely  air  in  A  minor,  full  of 
ruling  sixteenth  notes,  which  may  be  found,  unharmonized, 
in  The  Putts  and  Puetry  of  Munster.  "  The  Silk  o'  the 
Kine,"  one  of  the  most  touching  phrases  on  the  lips  of  the 
Irish  of  bvgone  rebellion,  has  been  exquisitely  celebrated  by 
Mr.  Aubrey  de  Vere. 

"  The  silk  o'  the  kine  shall  rest  at  last  : 

What  drove  her  forth  but  the  dragon-fly  ? 
In  the  golden  vale  she  shall  fed  full  fast, 

With  her  mild  gold  horn,  and  her  slow  dark  eye." 

There  is  no  "  genuine  "  Irish  Jacobite  poetry  more  quiet, 
tender,  and  convincing  than  that. 

14,  p.  174.  William  Heffernan,  surnamed  Dall,  or  the 
Blind,  ot  Shronehill,  County  Tipperary,  wrote  this  poem  just 


NOTES  351 

before  Culloden.  The  Song  of  Gladness,  which  follows  Wel- 
come to  the  Prince,  has  its  justification  in  the  extraordinary 
energy  of  the  close. 

15,  p.    179.      "Shieling,"    defined  as  a  poor    cabin    or 
shelter  for  a  shepherd  or  fisher,  is  familiar  to  ballad-lovers, 
and  occurs  contemporaneously  with  Lochiel's  muster  of  the 
Camerons  :  — 

"Then  up  the  wild  Glennevis, 

And  down  by  Lochy's  side, 
Young  Donald  left  his  shieling, 
And  Malcolm  left  his  bride." 

1 6,  p.   182.      Geoffrey  Keating,   born  in    1570,   died   in 
1650. 

17,  p.  I  84.      "  The  words  to  this  spirited  air  are  the  pro- 
duction of  a  violent  Jacobite.      By  leathering  away  with  the 
wattle,  he  implies  his  determination  to  decide  political  differ- 
ences by  an    appeal   to  physical   force.      The   wattle  was  a 
stout  cudgel  or  ailpin"      Cotter  has  the  courage  to  be  antiqua- 
rian and  national   in   his  pretty   poem  ;    and  yet   he  cannot 
leave  out  the  She 

—  "that  launched  a  thousand  ships, 
And  burnt  the  topless  towers  of  Ilium." 

1 8,  p.     i  go.       Muircheartach    Oge,    of   the  Barony    of 
Beara,     called     in     English     Murtagh,     or     Mortimer,     The 
Young    O'Sullivan,    was    a    disaffected    chieftain    descended 
from   Donal   of   the   Ships,    who   occupied   himself    ten   years 
after  Culloden  in  raising  troops  (the  celebrated  Wild  Geese) 
for  France,  the  ally  of  the  Stuarts  against  England.      He  had 
served  with   distinction   at    Fontenoy,  and  was  received  with 
open  arms  by  the  people  of  the  .south,  on  his  return  to  recruit 
for  the  French  cause.      His  story,  a  strange,  grimly  romantic 
one,  was  cut  short  by  his  betrayal  and  assassination  in   17^6. 
This   is   the   substance  of    Mangan's  rune,  too  long  for  incor- 
poration.     The  Gaelic  manuscript  of  the  poem  was  found  in 


352  NOTES 

Castletown  about  1825  by  Jeremiah  Joseph  Callanan,  who 
made  a  close  translation  of  it.  Compare  with  Mangan's 
more  imaginative  passage  (in  the  last  stanza  but  one)  :  — 

"  Dear  head  of  my  darling  ! 
How  gory  and  pale 
These  aged  eyes  see  thee 
High-spiked  on  the  jail  ! 
That  cheek  in  the  summer  sun 
Ne'er  shall  grow  warm, 
Nor  that  eye  e'er  catch  light 
But  the  flash  of  the  storm." 

The  caoine  is  a  fine  specimen  of  the  terrible  Hebraic  invec- 
tive of  the  race  ;  the  original  is  supposed  to  be  the  composi- 
tion of  The  O'Sullivan's  old  nurse,  upon  whose  lips  the 
lament  is  placed.  The  passages  in  parentheses  may  be  taken 
to  be  the  customary  chorus  of  women,  as  at  a  "  wake,"  re- 
peating, with  swayings  of  their  bodies,  the  melancholy  word 
and  tone  of  the  keener.  Mangan  has  used  his  favorite  re- 
frain here  with  ghastly  effect.  The  penultimate  stanza,  the 
weak  one  among  the  nine,  seems  to  have  had  no  warrant  in 
the  original,  as  it  is  not  in  the  Callanan  transcription. 

19,  p.  199.  Something  in  the  impression  of  heard  music 
which  this  lyric  leaves,  reminds  one  of  Wordsworth's  High- 
land Reaper.  It  may  be  worth  while  to  append  Rtickert's 
poem,  for  the  pleasure  of  comparison.  Which  is  lovelier,  it 
would  take  Apollo,  expert  among  Sicilian  reeds,  to  decide. 


DAS    EINE    LIED 

Ich  weis>s  der  Lieder  viele 

Und  singe  was  ihr  liebt. 

Das  ist  wohl  gut  zum  spiele, 

Weil  Wechzel  Freude  giebt ; 

Doch  hatte  Lieb'  und  Friede 

Genug  an  einem  Liede, 

Und  fragtc  nicht,  wo's  hundert  giebt. 


NOTES  353 

Jiingst  sah  ich  einen  Hirten 

Im  stillen  Wiesenthal, 

Wo  klare  Bachlein  irrten 

Am  hellcn  Sonnenstrahl. 

Er  lag  am  schatt'gen  Baume, 

Und  blies  als  wie  im  Traume 

Ein  Lied  auf  einem  Blattlein  schmal. 

Das  Lied,  es  mochte  steigen 
Nur  wcnig  Ton,  hinauf, 
Dann  musst'  es  hin  sich  neigen 
Und  nahm  denselben  Lauf. 
Es  freut'  ihn  immer  vvieder  ; 
Gern  hatt  ich  meinc  Lieder, 
Gcboten  all  dafiir  zum  Rauf. 

Er  blies  sein  Lied,  und  liess  es, 

Und  sah  sich  um  in  Hag, 

Hub  wieder  an  und  blies  es, 

Ich  schaute  wie  er  lag  : 

Er  sah  bei  seinem  Blasen 

Die  stillen  Lammlein  grasen, 

Und  langsam  fliehn  der  Sommertag. 

20,  p.  zii.      "Battle  droops  his  clotted  wing":   a  line 
worthy  of  Keats. 

21,  p.    215.      This   poem   of  Herder's   is   founded   on   a 
fragment  of  folk-lore  very  general  in  Europe,  and  at  its  best, 
perhaps,  in    the  wonderful    Breton    ballad   of   St'igtit'Hr  Nann. 
All    English    readers    will    recall    it    as   nearlv   identical    with 
Lord  Ronald  my  So/i,  although   this  has  no  direct  mention  of 
supcrnatual  interference,  nor  is  its  "true  love  "  a  fav. 

22,  p.    220.      There   is    no    line-repetition    in    Werin    die 
Rosen  bluhen.      It  ends  :  — 


Ewig  nun  genesen, 
Wirst  du  neu  rrgliihn 
Wirst  ein  himmlich  We 
Wenn  die  Rosen  bluhn. 


354  NOTES 

23,   p.    220. 


UHLAND'S    FRISCHE    LIEDER 

Wie  wenn  ein  Strom,  ben  lange 
Ein  Winter  eingezwangt, 
Im  Lenzhauch  mit  Gesange 
Verjiingt  die  Fesseln  sprengt ; 

Wie  wenn  nach  Jahr  und  Tagen 
Ein  Baum,  einst  bliithenreich, 
Fangt  Bliithen  an  zu  tragen 
Den  alten  ganzlich  gleich ; 

I 

Wie  wenn  ein  Wein,  verschlossen 
Im  Fasse  Jahrc  lang, 
Kommt  wieder  frisch  geflossen, 
Ein  dustender  Gesang  ; 

Wie  wenn  auf  einmal  wieder 
Ein  rief'ger  Dom  ertont, 
Dem  Ohr,  an  Vogellieder, 
Seit  Jahren  nur  gewohnt, 

Schien  mir's,  ist  mir's  geworden, 
Als  jiingst  nach  Jahren  lang, 
Du  Haupst  von  Liederorden  ! 
Frisch  tonte  dein  Gesang. 

24,  p.  221.      Emerson's 

"Then  will  yet  my  Mother  yield 
A  pillow  in  her  greenest  field, 
Nor  the  June  daisies  scorn  to  cover 
The  clay  of  their  departed  lover," 

is  in  the  same  key  as  these  stanzas  of  Kcrncr's  S  angers  71rost. 
Mangan  has  somehow  missed  the  simplicity  of  the  ending  :  — 

"Blumen,  Hain,  und  Ane, 
Stern  und  Mondcnlicht, 
Die  ich  sang  !    vcrgesscn 
Ihrcs  Sangers  nicht." 


NOTES  355 

25,  p.  226.      The  Ride  Around  the  Parapet  is  placed  as 
the  first  of  a  group  of  five  which  are  called  translations,  for 
mere  convention's  sake.      They  are,  rather,  voluntaries  of  an 
extraordinary  sort  on  German  themes ;   elaborate,  jocose  em- 
broideries on  provided  cloth-of-frieze.      The   Lady  Eleanora 
von  Alleyne  is  a  very  magnificent  presentation,  circa    I  840, 
of  the  New  Woman.      Compare 

"  Nun  warte  bis  ein  andrer  kommt  wieder,  der  es  kann, 

Das  Fraulein  Kunigunde  von  Kynast  ! 

Ich  habe  schon  Weib  und  Kinder,  und  werde  nicht  dein  Mann, 
Das  Fraulein  Kunigunde  !  " 

with  Mangan's  extremely  pointed  and  espiegle  enlargement  of 
it:  — 

"  Mayest  bide  until  they  come,  O  stately  Lady  Eleanor, 

O  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne  ! 

Mayest  bide  until  they  come,  O  stately  Lady  Eleanor  ! 
And  thou  and  they  may  marry  ;   but  for  me,  I  must  not  tarry  : 
I  have  won  a  wife  already  out  of  Spain, 

Virgin  Lady  Eleanora, 
Virgin  Lady  Eleanora  von  Alleyne  !  " 

And  again,  the  pleasing  specifications  about  the  forfeit,  at 
the  close,  are  hardly  to  be  traced  to  the  plain  statement  :  — 

"  Muss  er  mit  Geld  sich  losen  wenn  er  nicht  kiisst  die  Braut, 
Das  Fraulein  Kunigunde  !  " 

Besides,  the  whole  much-extended  poem  is  crowded 
throughout  with  enriching  detail  of  all  kinds,  and  every  new 
stroke  tells.  "  It  is  a  very  fine  ballad,"  Rikkert  might  say, 
"  by  my  friend  Mangan." 

26,  p.  234. 

SEHNSUCHT 

(CONRAD   WETZEI.) 

Kennt  ihr  das  schonc  Eiland 
Weit  draussen  im  Meer  so  wujt, 
Wo  dcr  Morgenrothe  Reigen, 
Und  dcr  Sonnen  Ausgang  ist  ? 


356  NOTES 

O  dahin  mocht  ich  ziehen 
Dahin  steht  mir  mcin  Sinn  ! 
Dahin  wcr  kann  mich  fiihren  ? 
Wer  weiss  den  Weg  dahin  ? 

27,  p.     235.       August    Kopisch  :     Des    Kleinen    Volkes 
Ueberfabrt. 

28,  p.  238.  Enough  has  been  said  of  this  fantasia  in  the 
Introduction,    as  also    of   Riickert's  beautiful    ghazel    which 
follows  it. 

29,  p.  244.  For 

"  Ambi  nemici  sono,  ambi  fu  servi," 

this  is  certainly  a  clouded  rendition. 

30,  p.  248.      This  translation   of  the  eternally-translated 
Dies  Irae  occurs  in  Mangan's  rendering  of  Das  Nordlicht  von 
Kazan. 

31,  p.  253.      The  Karamanian  Exile.      See  the  note  on 
Joseph  Brenan. 

32,  p.    260.      Relic  of   Prince  Bayazeed.      The    second 
line  is  almost  too  reminiscential   of  Keats'  dying  saying:    "  I 
feel   the  flowers  growing  over  me."      The  third  and  fourth 
refer  to  a  very  ancient   custom  mentioned  by  most  Oriental 
poets  :   the  bell  rung  for  the  starting  of  the  caravan,  and  the 
cry  raised  of  Ar  Rabil,  Ar  Rahil !   (Depart,  Depart). 

33,  p.  260.      A  late  corroboration  of  the  known  opinion 
of  dear  old  Roger  Ascham,  as  also  of  Dr.  Johnson. 

34,  p.  268.      Says  Thomas  Fuller  :      "  Keep  a  common- 
place book  :   for  he  that  with  Bias  carries  all  his  learning  about 
him  in  his  head,  will  utterly  he  beggared  and  bankrupt,  it  a  vio- 
lent disease,  like  a  merciless  thief,  should  rob  and  strip  him." 

35,  p.   270.       In  this  ghazel,  the  second  line  and  the  line 
next   to   the  last   foreshadow  Arnold's  great   and  well-known 
two  :  — 

"  Alone  the  sun  arises,  and  alone 
Spring  the  great  streams." 


NOTES  357 

36,  p.  277.      "Dree,"  to  endure,  to  undergo;  a  word 
set  down  in  the  dictionaries  as  "Scotch  or  obsolete,"  but  in 
common  use  with   Mangan  and  other  Irish  poets,  and  with 
most  people  in  Ireland,  to  this  day. 

37,  p.  278.      The  recurrent  sounds  of  a,  a,  a,  a,  in  this 
concluding  stanza  of  a  splendid  poem,  are  atrocious,  and  show 
an  almost  inconceivable  carelessness  on  the  part  of  their  author. 
They  are  hardly  outdone   by   that  musical   passage  in   How 
we  brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent  to  Aix :  — 

"  Rebuckled  the  cheek-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit  !  " 

38,  p.  286.      Jealousy  is  very  close  akin  to  Victor  Hugo's 
La  Voile ;  somewhat  less  so  to  Mr.  Charles  De  Kay's  pow- 
erful Ulf  in  Ireland. 

39,  p.  289.      The    Time  of  the   Barmecides.      Rejected 
readings  :  — 

Line  I,  <(  Mine  eyes  are  dimmed,  my  hair  is  gray." 

Line  15,  "And  a  barb  as  fiery  as  any  I  know." 

Lines  17,  19,  27,  29,  "'Twas  a  long,  long  time  back,  long  ago." 

Line  33,  "  Whose  armor  glowed  like  gold." 

Mangan  was  always  an  admirable  reviser. 

40,  p.  297.      This  and  the  following  poem  were  written 
some  time  before  the  first  great  Irish  famine  (1847)  drove 
countless  immigrants  to  America.      A  number  of  Mangan's 
exhortations  were  proved   prophetic  by  the  event,  in   this  as 
in  other  matters. 

41,  p.    304.      First    printed    in    The    Irish    Tribune,    in 
1848,  hence  named  by  the  author  The  Tribune's  H^ run  for 
Pentecost. 

42,  p.  309.     A  couple  of  stanzas  from  a  poem  by  John  Ed- 
mund Reade  are  worth  printing  in  connection  with   Pompeii. 

"  O  thou  Vesuvius  !   that  risest  there, 
Image  of  drear  eternity,  alone 
Seated  in  thy  own  silent  fields  of  air; 
Titan,  whose  chainless  struggles  have  but  shown 


358  NOTES 


The  annihilating  powers  are  still  thine  own, 

Parent  of  lightnings,  and  the  tempest's  shroud, 

Crowning,  or  round  thy  giant  shoulders  thrown 

In  majesty  of  shadow,  ere  the  cloud 

Break  on  the  nether  world  in  fulmined  wrath  avowed. 

Grave  of  dead  cities  thou  !  thy  heart  is  fire, 

Thy  pulse  is  earthquake  ;   from  thy  breast  are  rolled 

The  flames  in  which  shall  penal  earth  expire ; 

Thy  robes  are  of  the  lava's  burning  fold, 

Thine  armed  hand  the  thunderbolt  doth  hold, 

Thy  voice  is  as  the  trump  that  calls  to  doom ; 

Creator  and  destroyer  !   who  hath  told 

What  world  of  life  lies  buried  in  thy  womb, 

What  mightiest  wrecks  are  sunk  in  thy  absorbing  tomb  ?" 

This    is    the  very   twin   of  Mangan's  poem,  and  both  echo 
Byron  to  the  life. 

43,  p.  310.      The  fourth  line  in  the  fifth  verse  of  Pompeii 
seemed   to  have  suffered  from   the  printers.      There  are  but 
two  possible  readings ;  that  given  in  the  text,  and  one  only  less 
likely  :  — 

"Like  blasted  wrecks,  bestrew  that  mortar  plain." 

44,  p.  311.      From  the  German  of  "Selber"  ! 

45>  P-  3 '3-     From  "Cascagni,"  forsooth.     Rejected  read- 
ings (from  a  shorter  version)  :  — 

Line  I,  "The  life  of  life  is  gone  and  over." 
Lines  37,  38,  "Go  thou,  exulting  in  thy  guilt, 

And  weave  thy  wanton  web  anew." 

And  the  last  stanza  :  — 

"  But  where  shall  I  find  rest  ?     Alas, 
When  first  the  winter  wind  shall  wave 
The  pale  wildrlower,  the  long  dark  grass, 
Above  mine  unremembered  grave  !  " 

This  poem  has  borne  two  other  titles  :    To  Frances,  and  The 
Last    Reproach.      Its   author   was   apparently   also   under    the 


NOTES  359 

Shakespearean  shadow  in  those  days.  "  Less  in  anger  than  in 
sorrow  "  is  popularly  supposed  to  spring  from  Hamlet,  Act  I., 
Scene  v.,  and 

—  ' '  smile  and  smile 
Yet  be  all  dark  and  false  within," 

has  possibly  been  heard  of  before,  in  the  second  scene  of  the 
same  act. 

46,  p.  318.      Written  in  1832,  in  Mangan's  twenty-ninth 
year.      Entitled  variously  by  him  The  Dying  Enthusiast,  The 
Dying   Enthusiast  to  his  Friend,  The  Dying  Enthusiast  to  bis 
Child. 

47,  p.  319.      This   touching  poem,  addressed  to  a  friend 
who  had  not  then  attained  his  majority,  marks  for  us  one  of 
Clarence    Mangan's   moods    of  bitter    awakening   and    self- 
reproach, —  moods  often   renewed,  often  outworn,    as  years 
passed.      He  revered   Brenan,  not  without  reason.      Born  in 
Cork,    in     1828,    "all    of  Shelley's    soul"    got    fitly    and 
promptly  into  the   National    Movement  twenty   years  later, 
and  suffered  for  it  in   Kilmainham  Jail.      In  the  October  of 
i  849,  Brenan  went  to  New  York,  and  did  some  journalistic 
work   there  ;   his  marriage  followed,  with  a  sister  of  his  old 
colleague,  John    Savage,   and    presently  he   moved    to    New 
Orleans,    attaching    himself  first  to    the   staff  of  The    New 
Orleans  Delta,  then   becoming  editor  of  The  New    Orleans 
Times.      He   died   in    May  of  1857,  at   Shelley's  own  early 
age.     Joseph    Brenan' s  verses  have  never  been  collected,  but 
they  have   singular  beauty  ;   one  of  them,  a   pajan  for  Char- 
lotte Corday,  is  sometimes  met  with  in  the  anthologies.      It 
is  to  him,  in  a  measure,  that  we  Americans  owe  one  of  our 
few   fine   sectional   songs  :     Maryland,    my    Mary/ana1.       The 
following  extract  is  copied   from  Fifty  Years  among  Authors, 
Books,  and  Publishers,  by  Derby,  New  York,  1884:    "  James 
Ryder   Randall,  who   wrote    Maryland,  my   Maryland,  when 
a    voung   man  was  a  schoolmaster  in  Louisiana,  but  was  born 


360  NOTES 

in  Baltimore,  Maryland.  .  .  .  The  editor  of  The  New 
Orleans  Delta,  who  encouraged  young  Randall's  efforts  at 
poetry,  gave  him  a  volume  of  the  poems  of  James  Clarence 
Mangan,  and  the  weird  melodies  and  wasted  life  and  melan- 
choly death  of  the  unfortunate  Irish  poet  made  an  indelible 
impression  on  his  mind.  He  was  especially  struck  with  the 
rhythm  of  one  poem,  purporting  to  be  translated  from  the 
Ottoman,  and  entitled  The  Karamanian  Exile.  One  day, 
while  the  melody  of  The  Karajnanian  Exile  was  running 
through  his  brain,  Mr.  Randall  rode  to  the  Mississippi  River, 
seven  miles  distant,  to  get  his  mail.  Among  it  was  a  copy 
of  the  Delta  containing  an  account  of  the  passage  of  the 
Massachusetts  troops  through  Baltimore,  and  of  the  riot  which 
occurred  there,  which  he  read  with  the  deepest  interest. 
Agitated  by  the  thrilling  news,  indignant  at  what  he  consid- 
ered an  outrage  on  his  native  city,  and  anxious  about  relatives 
and  friends,  there  was  no  sleep  for  Randall  that  night.  For 
some  unaccountable  reason,  as  he  kept  thinking  of  these  events 
in  Baltimore,  the  stirring  melody  of  The  Karamanian  Exile 
seemed  to  run  through  his  head  ;  so  much  so,  that  he  appeared 
possessed  with  its  spirit,  and  in  a  moment  the  whole  scheme 
of  his  Maryland,  my  Maryland  was  formed  in  his  brain.  He 
sat  down  at  his  desk,  and  in  less  than  an  hour  the  poem  was 
completed.  Next  day  he  read  it  to  his  scholars,  the  most  of 
whom  were  Creoles,  and  it  fired  them  to  such  a  degree  of 
enthusiasm  that  he  decided  to  send  it  to  the  Delta  for  publi- 
cation. Its  success  was  electrical." 

The  "book  of  Mangan's  poems"  mentioned  as  given  to 
Mr.  Randall  must  have  been  Mitchcl's  edition,  printed  just 
before  Brenan's  death.  Up  to  that  very  time,  Tb:  Kara- 
manian Exile  would  have  been  inaccessible,  except  in  news- 
paper or  manuscript  form.  The  author  of  Maryland,  m\ 
Maryland  is  still  living. 

48,  p.  321.      "  From  the  Irish." 

49,  p.   326.      Another  reading  (September,    1835):  — 


NOTES  361 

"Spirit  of  wordless  Love,  that  in  the  lone 
Bowers  of  the  poet's  museful  soul  doth  weave 
Tissues  of  thought,  hued  like  the  robes  of  eve 
Ere  the  last  glories  of  the  sun  have  shone  ! 
How  soon,  almost  before  our  hearts  have  known 
The  change,  above  the  ruins  of  thy  throne, 
Whose  trampled  beauty  we  would  fain  retrieve 
By  all  earth's  thrones  beside,  we  stand  and  grieve  ! 
We  weep  not,  for  the  world's  bleak  breath  hath  bound 
In  triple  ice  the  fountains  of  our  tears  ; 
But  ever-mourning  Memory  thenceforth  rears 
Her  altars  upon  desecrated  ground, 
And  always,  with  a  low  despairful  sound, 
Heavily  tolls  the  bell  of  all  our  years. ' ' 

The  altered  version  (1841)  is  much  superior  to  this  one; 
but  neither  sonnet  has  the  octette  perfect  in  form,  as  the  sixth, 
seventh,  and  eighth  lines  seem  to  have  changed  places.  It  is 
singular  that  Mangan's  seeing  eye  (a  "  regardful  "  eye,  as  he 
might  have  preferred  to  call  it)  allowed  the  irregularity  to 
pass  uncorrected. 

50,  p.  332.  There  is  a  truly  Slavic  gloom  about  this 
too  intense  little  poem. 

51'  P-  337-  The  "  man  made  by  sudden  qualm  ill"  is 
too  bad  !  We  have  reason  to  fear,  too,  that  it  was  inten- 
tional. It  is  not  the  only  grotesque  touch  in  a  most  original 
lyric. 


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