Chapter XII. Midsummer

Now early sink away the starry Twins,
Pursuing sunset; eastern heaven begins
To lift Arcturus, with that Coronet
Upon the brow of Summer glittering set;
And rich the country now, with shady roads
And hollow lanes embank'd with fern; white
Of fragrant hawthorn-bloom, but when this bloom
Grows fainter, bramble-roses in its room;
And sunny paths for milkmaids, winding through
The grass thick-set with yellow flow'rs and blue,
Millions of little blue and yellow flow'rs;
Rich are the warm, long, lustrous, golden hours,
That nourish, the green javelins of the wheat,
The delicate flax, the tufted clover sweet,
And barley's drooping beard, and speckled oats.
The yorlin's trembling sigh of pleasure floats
On sultry wind; the landrail's hoarse crake-crake
Still keeps the meadows and cornfields awake
When two clear twilights mingle in the sky
Of glowing June.
A broad white margin dry
Around Lough Braccan, yet our four-oar'd boat
At this long jetty's end lies well afloat.
Your hand, fair London girl; your hand, my Jane;
Lord Camlin lifts wee Molly; Fred is fain
Of Pictor's hand, the glowing P. E. B.
Two elder guests embark more leisurely,
Grave William Downing, an official man,
George Roe, as grave, but on a different plan,
Our Irish antiquary, - both exact,
Elaborate and minute, but every fact
Turns here to poetry, and there to prose.
Bloomfield himself is steersman: off she goes,
Cleaving the glassy flood; blue summer smiles
Above, below; green headlands, wooded isles
Shift past them; and the mountain's royal folds,
With shadows such as purple velvet holds.
A softer landscape and a fairer sky
Around the moving boat in mirror'd beauty lie.
Bloomfield and Camlin talk, old friends and dear,
Of much; of horses, flax-mills, home-brew'd beer;
Of London; of Ned Stanley, said to be
Lazy and blase in sublime degree;
And of elections. Laurence said, "You know,
" My rebel grandsire, sixty years ago,
" With Grattan gave his vote in College-green,
" Or else Lord Lisnamoy I might have been."
- " Stand for the county, Bloomfield." - "So I might.
" Under what banner would you have me fight?"
- "They ask'd you?" - "Yes, with watchword
Tenant-right;
" But what had I to promise? All my lore
" Leaves this a darker matter than before.
" Tory I'm not; yet have no pocket plan
" To re-divide the world. Besides, a man
" With place and solid work, had better stay
" And do what comes to hand the best he may."
- " You have done much." - " To make good tenants sure,
" And weed away the bad; attempt a cure
" Of sloven habits, ignorance, and waste,
" (All step by step, for such things bear not haste;)
" To teach the children; to forbear to mix
" With Church affairs, or party politics -
" The simple programme, less or more fulfill'd."
- " And here you are, not ruin'd yet, nor kill'd."
- " So has it happen'd. Still, I never saw,
" Nor yet can see, foundation for a law,
" Amidst our manifold complexities,
" Perplexities, (and what a web are these!)
" But here alone: waste and indebted lands
" Being wisely bought into the nation's hands,
" You might thereon create a novel class
" Of Irishmen, to leaven all the mass
" "With hope, and industry, and loyalty,
" (My favourite crotchet - well, so let it be)
" Small Owners, namely. North, south, east, and west,
" I'd plant them, and they'd surely do their best;
" With great and permanent results, if slow."
- "I wish it had been thought-of years ago!"
- "I mean to try it now, on petty scale.
" Dysart's estate was brought at last to sale
" A week since, and one good-sized lot is mine, so
" Which, parcell'd out with care, I shall assign
" To various peasant purchasers. 'Tis plain
" Already that I shall not lose but gain
" On the mere bargain. Money must be paid,
" But part may on the land itself be laid.
" No burdensome conditions I inflict,
" And all on both sides shall be clear and strict."
Downing has listen'd; his dry cautious mind
Can many doubts and difficulties find.
" Ireland and England, make the two as one."
- " May Heaven forfend, in case it could be done,"
Says Roe, and gently shakes his silver'd head;
And Bloomfield, " As some measure England's thread,
" (Do nations last for ever?) 'tis a date
" For closer partnership a day too late! "
Quoth Downing, "What can Ireland singly do?"
- " Nothing as yet: to-morrow's always new.
" Small nations to conglomerates I prefer;
" Ireland has individual character;
" But with her very rudiments to learn
" Of self-command. Blind Fortune's wheel must turn
" In vain, till much be alter'd. I for one,
" Save my own task, see nothing to be done."
- " No patriotism?" says Camlin. - " Fire and sword
"In a fool's hands! Could Ireland now afford
" One footplace for Astraea? Will our Age
" On ground like this her noblest battle wage?
" We suffer; pow'rful England suffers too;
" Hot writhing France has still her work to do.
" Regard the nations; name them one by one;
" More pregnant time than ours th' all-seeing Sun
" Has not beheld. But Ireland - what of her?
" She's nothing by herself: amidst the stir
" Flung under foot or bandied to and fro,
" What comes at last? - Our grandsons, they may know.
" Scarce worth a struggle now to re-arrange
" What's old, effete, departing, - let it change!
" I would that Irishmen could Ireland rule.
" They cannot - Irishmen are still at school;
" Their master, England, unbelov'd 'tis true,
"But can we find a better one? can you?
" Things must (in Pistol's words) be as they may, -
" Time and the hour wear out the longest day.
" We'll do our best, because the best is best,
" (The only reason) and let slide the rest."
From grassy slope the Round Tower springs aloft,
With grey and orange lichen tinted soft,
Like some huge tree-trunk; its long shadow falls
Across the rough and ruin'd Abbey-walls,
And creeps o'er headstone, cross, and weedy mound,
The dial of this consecrated ground;
While near the shining margin of the lake,
Where crooked elder-shrubs an arbour make,
(Grotesquely stuck with many-coloured rags
By grateful devotees, as pilgrim-flags)
At noon its finger finds the Holy Well,
Nature's pure hermit of a rocky cell.
To this in few days more, with one consent,
Throngs of devout, of sick, of penitent,
Will come to do their prayerful pilgrimage,
As hath been since the good Columba's age.
" Much longer," guesses Roe; " for Pagan shrines
" Were Christianized - old bottles held new wines."
" Forms - faiths," Lord Camlin murmurs, " old and new?"
" See," exclaims Pictor, " how that mantle's blue
" Comes out against the grey-green shrubs and rocks."
" A Pilgrim surely! " cries fair Goldylocks,
And claps her pretty cockney hands for joy.
It is indeed a woman, with a boy,
A ten-year baby, pined in face and limb,
Whose mother many a mile has carried him,
And now bends low in pray'r, her sick one laid
Gasping and white within the elder-shade.
"Let's go," says Bloomfield, and they turn away.
Great awe to see a human being pray
Had Laurence; but in thought and word and deed
He stood aloof from every stated creed;
Aloof, yet, if you question'd, fairly dealt,
Had thought your thoughts, had felt as you have felt,
And many men were cheer'd at inmost heart
That some-one dared an independent part.
The vulgar Scripture-Reader, meddling Priest,
One could not argue which he loved the least;
Subscription-lists of theologic kind,
Whate'er their party, found him deaf and blind;
No wish he harbour'd to convert the Jews,
Turks, Russians, Catholics, Chinese, Hindoos,
Cared not a pin for High Church or for Low,
Nor by what various names Dissenters go.
At last the world made up its mind to say:
" An odd man truly! - he must have his way,"
For thus old habitudes themselves protect,
As our own body, failing to eject,
Sheathes an intrusive particle.
" What plan
" With Irish Priests?" - "Why, talking as a man,
" T say, avoid them. But a statesman might
" Have in his calculations found it right
" To yield them a less humble place at home;
" Since now they're nothing save as part of Borne."
Bloomfield to Downing thus: and Roe agreed, -
" Of countries Catholic we find indeed
" Ireland most Popish poor and trodden-down,
" She claims the glories of the Triple Crown,
" The famous temple of Saint Peter shines,
" For head-cathedral of her humble shrines."
- " Ireland," said Bloomfield, "too much tends to cast
" Her thought upon the distant and the past,
" Amidst intangibilities to live,
" Her sad imagination scope to give
" In longings, in regrets, to make her boast
" Of fine things due or coming, fine things lost
" That once were hers, and hers would still be found
" If but the rolling world had kept its ground."
- " And yet," sigh'd Roe, " 'tis gentle heart that clings
" To hope's and memory's fond ideal things.
" Poor Erin with her harp! - This very night
" The ghosts of immemorial ages light,
" From Howth to Connemara, Donegal
" To furthest Kerry, for their festival,
" On every hill and head a mystic flame."
The time of evening-conversation came
With new and various talk. A question starts
Of Meyerbeer's stage-cunning, and Mozart's,
For Jane's a good musician feminine,
A connoisseur Lord Camlin, skill'd and fine;
Of Scotch and Irish music, whereof Roe
Doth more than any living mortal know;
The modest, mild, and gravely cheerful man,
Who with the race of statisticians can
Converse as well. The ' facts ' for which they care,
His mind will group, distinguish, blend; as air
And light do landscapes. Now we shoot a glance
Into the heart of Poland, China, France,
America, - or aim at least; return
To handle Ireland, yet no fingers burn.
Amelia thinks Pre-Raphaelites are wrong,
Complains of Robert Browning's knotty song,
And Pictor, hot in cheek, confutes the fair,
But soon forgives her for her gold-red hair.
The voice of Bloomfield - " Search the world around,
" Where are you safer than on Irish ground
" No burglar reconnoitres your abode,
" No footpad dogs you on the lonely road,
" No ruffian's arm or cowardly garotte,
" Walk where you please, is flung across your throat;
" No pistol-pointing mask, with stealthy light,
" Across your slumber stoops at dead of night;
"No friendly neighbour, spouse, or next of kin,
" Mixes your glass, to drop the powder in;
" Confess, when you have search'd the wide world round,
"You're nowhere safer than on Irish ground.
" We Paddies, Downing, you must understand,
" Count England as a dangerous heathen land!"
- " I own, though we of Irish things complain
" Your native manners are of gentler strain.
" Your Scotch and English settlers still I find
" Of boorish bearing and slow stubborn mind."
- " Yet these, per contra" Bloomfield must admit,
" Are loyal, truthful, though of sluggish wit.
" I like them, sturdy, sulky, jealous tribe,
" Though, to their Orange Hall I can't subscribe.
- "And Ribbonism?" - "How much I used to hear
" Of Ribbonism, the landlord's hourly fear!"
- "And you have quell'd it - 'twas a noble task!"
- "I know not if I have; I never ask.
" It sometimes said, Take Notice, I took none,
" And what we plann'd was resolutely done;
" My own folk saw me willing to be just
" And something more; I told them, ' I intrust
" ' My life to you.' When any lost his land,
" 'Twas mildly managed; all could understand-
" The need; and so on." - " Would you not be loth
" To trust a man who took the Ribbon oath?"
- " Men's lives, and human character, are such,
" Perhaps it puzzles most to know too much;
" I ask no questions."
No: but Laurence knew
Some things unsought, as frank men always do.
Whilst yet his reign was but a few weeks old,
The Doran's lifelong heartburn he consoled
"With much-desiderated lease, and more
Of moorland joined to what they had before.
Warmly towards their youthful king they felt,
Who also his especial favour dealt
To Neal, but knew not what a burden lay
On the boy's mind. Neal told the truth one day.
" A Ribbonman am I, - send me to jail,
" Or where you will, sir." Laurence heard his tale,
And sent him round by Ailsa Craig, to watch
Awhile how Sandy farms, and learn broad Scotch.
Much happens in a year. A spy betray'd
The poteen-still, and by the heels was laid
The cunning Connaughtman, who in his turn,
Enraged and ruin'd, thought it well to earn
The public money, not indeed for blood,
He could not prove enough; but much he could,
Which sent Tim Nulty, and five other men,
To fifteen years of punishment, and ten,
And broke the Lodge in pieces, with dismay
And heavy dread, not passing soon away.
First Bloomfield's folk, then nearly all the rest,
At ' God's Tribunal ' now their sin confess'd,
And from their oath absolved, with penance due,
Felt thankful great relief, and started new;
Some, if not all, upon a wiser course.
Of these was Denis; who with generous force
His gratitude to generous Laurence gave,
And Laurence liked the sturdy man and brave,
Steadfast to Bridget, made at last his wife
When Neal return'd to prop the old folks' life.
Since Laurence built his Inn, the bustling pair
"With honest pride are host and hostess there, -
Small show, much comfort, and each liquor's name
The one it has authentic right to claim;
No vitriolic whiskey, fit to sear
Your vitals up, no sour malignant beer.
Poor Paddy of all Christian men I think
On basest food pours down the vilest drink;
But not in Bloomfield's kingdom; long did Jane
Endeavour, and at last not all in vain,
That wives and daughters should know how to cook.
Upwards, they both say, bid the humbler look;
Appropriate wishes breed not discontent;
For strength's renewal petty hopes are lent;
So live we, so improve. A tidy cottage,
Garb of stout homespun, mess of savoury pottage,
Such grows the fashion; him that duly tries
His Honour helps with all goodwill to rise.
" And what then," Downing ask'd, "is Ribbonism?"
- " A morbid sign, a proof of social schism,
" No one can tell you is it widely spread;
" All tails I guess it, and without a head;
" A sort of stinging zoophite, that breeds
" In rotten places, and from vagrant seeds."
- " Well, comfort and contentment hand in hand
" Grow strong or feeble over every land:
" And your folk are contented?" - " Why, so far
" As Sons of Erin may, perhaps they are.
" But common evils which to life belong
" Patricius will account a personal wrong;
"Suckled on grievances, his mind is bent
" To charge on others all his discontent;
" Half curses England when his tooth-ache stings,
" Half blames th' Established Church for frosty springs
" And rainy summers; thinks it passing hard
" From any joy of life to live debarr'd,
" As though the English, French, or German poor
" Lead plenteous lives, with nothing to endure."
- " What's this!" said Jane; " O yes they are, I'm sure,
" Contented." - " Well, perhaps they are, my dear;
" As much as may be; yet I always hear
" The human discontent in murmuring motion
" Bound every limit, like the murmuring ocean.
" Come, let us go. The bonfires are alight.
" I'll hold you safe from Captain Rock to-night.
" Now, Miss Amelia; - "
From the fir-grove mound
They view the shadowy country, leagues around,
Spotted with fires; upon the mountain ridge
One like a rising star; and one a bridge
Of quivering gold across the dusky lake;
Successive torches, like a fiery snake,
Wind creeping through the foliage, in and out,
With black figures athwart, whose muffled shout
Hurts not the whispering airs that come and go
Among the fir-boughs and warm grass below.
Now by sweet-scented path they take their way
Between the dusky swathes of new-mown hay,
Down to the cross-roads' patch, enclosed with trees
And flower-girt walls of peeping cottages,
To find the nearest Bonfire - crumbled wide
In glowing ruins, and on every side
The women snatching ruddy coals, for fear
Their hearth should miss good luck throughout the year.
But quickly now approach, with clamorous noise,
The torches, in a mob of men and boys,
Who draw to Bloomfield's gazing group, extend
The loose array to left and right, and bend
All round them, not too closely, in a ring,
From which the huge reed-flambeaux towering fling
Wild flare upon the crowd, with shadows wild,
And on the trees' dark wall above them piled.
Amelia shrinks to Jane's courageous arm,
Who smiles away her pretty friend's alarm.
Forth steps a torch-man. " Hats off, boys! be ready!
" God bless his Honour, and his darlin' Lady! -
" God bless the two fine childre', that's not here! -
" Cead millia faltia, noble guests! " - a cheer
Thrice o'er the glimmering lake swells out and dies.
Faint echo from the mountain-land replies.
Gaze from the Hall: the fires are well-nigh dead,
But in the clear dark summer vault o'erhead
A mild three-quarter moon and stars a few
Burn quenchless, and the heaven is lighted through
With faintest daylight, whereof none can say
If that it be the old or newborn day.
Alas! the year has touched its height of hope,
And lessening day on day begin to slope
To gloomy winter. All, we know, must die:
But when we feel it, who forbears to sigh? -
To bed, to bed! amidst the doubtful gleam;
And mingle Past and Future in a dream.
Says Downing, brought by Bloomfield round the land
Next morning, - "Now at last I understand.
" I knew your liberal notions, never knew
" How you contrived to raise your rental too.
" I see you have, as groundwork, study made,
" Close, persevering, of the farmer's trade.
" Hard work, no doubt, at first."
" Plans fail'd, beside,
" And many cheated, more to cheat me tried;
" All has work'd round by slow and sure degrees,
" To something doubtless, - but one never sees
" His hope come true; in daylight disappear
" The vision's glories.... Let me show you here
" A solid thing enough. Seven years ago
" With gorse above, and plashy bog below,
" This was a dreary wilderness and wide,
" With one poor cottage on the moorland-side.
" Twelve little households now possess a place,
" And each the centre of a widening space
" Of useful ground. Besides their work at home,
" The men and youths to farming labour come
" In Spring or Harvest on the neighbouring lands,
" But not as once, with slavish hungry hands,
" Toiling for husks, and as they toil'd the more,
" More helpless, pinch'd, and poorer than before."
- "Wages are higher?" - "Yes, I gladly say,
" And far more work too finish'd in a day,
" Every day-labourer, if worthy found,
" Ere long obtains a cheap small bit of ground;
" Help with a house; with more ambitious eyes,
" May look to win a waste-plot if he tries;
" But first probationary powers must show,
" And on the list with all his rivals go.
" There should be, as the soldiers have in France,
" In humblest work an opening to advance.
" Best government gives every man his chance.
" That's justice, - but still more the weak may claim,
" And merely justice in the strong were blame."
" This house is Doran's, who was pioneer
" Amid the waste, and lived in constant fear
" Of those above him. He and his at length
" To other shores had turn'd their heart and strength:
" But here remain the old man and his wife,
" A healthy couple still, of easy life.
" A year ago their son, so things befell,
" Essayed my stewardship, and does it well.
" Their daughter, married, lives at Lisnamoy,
" Fair hostess of the Inn; her six-year boy
" Lives mainly with the old folk, who employ
" A sturdy youth's assistance for their land,
" And keep their place, you see, with tidy hand."
Trim on its farm the little mansion stood,
Amidst, e'en yet, a seeming solitude
Of craggy hills above, brown bog below.
Cheap all-enriching ivy (sure to grow
Where Bloomfield's likings are a law of love)
Clasping the gable, show'd its sprays above
White wall and well-kept thatch; field, fence, and lane,
Once vile as beggar's garb, now carried plain
The look of thrift and hopeful industry,
Proud, not ashamed, to toil successfully.
A regiment of young trees stood well in rank,
To guard from swooping gale an open flank,
And here and there, with due entrenchment round,
Green larches held the rugged bits of ground.
They entered: rows of dish and cup shone bright
Along the dresser; and a warm delight
Made Maureen's good old face more shining still
As Bloomfield shook her hand with right good-will;
While grandson Johnny timidly must creep
And sidle off, and round a corner peep.
Would they sit down? - And, oh it was too much,
But could their Honours any one thing touch?
" Your bunya-rowa to my friend I've praised,"
And each the milky bowl rejoicing raised.
They saw the garden, with its homely space
Of onions, parsley, cabbage, catching grace
From bordering marigolds, high hollyhocks,
Tufted queen-daisies; under mossy rocks
Stood beehives ranged along its upper end,
And willows to a bow'r were taught to bend;
Then passing to the door were met by Jack,
A sturdy toiler still, though bow'd in back,
Who showed his fields and methods, old and new,
Yet with a lingering touch of caution too.
With humble cough he prefaced each reply,
And glanced at Downing with suspicious eye.
Next to Neal Doran's house, in central site,
Warm "brick emboss'd with roses red and white.
His wife, a comely, smiling little dame,
"Was busy with her baby when they came;
And soon arrived the Steward, young and stout,
With face of active boldness looking out
Through calm intelligence; his words but few,
Respectful, grave, and confidential too.
Master and servant lived in mutual trust.
How sweet is life when men are kind and just!
" A fortnight hence we go, Neal, - must prepare," -
And so they talked of this and that affair.
The guests are gone. Midsummer time is past.
Laurence and Jane a longing wish have cast
To Thor and Odin's land, resolved to see
(Bold travellers they in many a far countrie)
The rough and jagged edge of Europe, where
White Sulitelma looks through purest air
Over pine-forests, cataracts, deep still fiords;
And Gulbrandsdal hath for its peasant-lords
Maintain'd their old inheritances; each
Warm in his fir-built palace, out of reach
Of winter and the wolf, on those long nights
That arch the waste of snow with mystic lights.
A country poor and perilous; yet kind,
As Gamle Norge's grateful children find.
Mary and Fred to Jane's good sister go,
In Dublin; one whose marriage fails to know
The joy of blest maternity, but scant
In no good office that becomes an aunt.
Sir Ulick's house the children seldom see;
Infirm in body and in mind is he;
My Lady Harvey, as a woman can,
Makes wretched all around her. On her plan
One daughter's married; one remains to fret;
Richard, her eldest son and former pet,
Has mingled wormwood in her bowl of life
By choosing for himself a charming wife.
Dick, when he comes, of Bloomfield's talk is fain,
And Mary Harvey bosom-friends with Jane.
Meanwhile the old regime creaks lumbering on, -
A crawling flattering creature, hight Malone,
Once clerk to Pigot, now for agent placed;
Some think a cheat, and sure to be disgraced.
Sir Ulick's younger daughter, so they say,
Was jilted by Lord Crashton - well-a-day!
I mean the young Lord, when the old Lord died.
He to the last on Satan loudly cried,
And cursed his only son with parting breath,
A son right joyful of his father's death.
The young Lord's ways 'tis wisdom not to know;
The firm in Dublin, meanwhile, smoothly go
From year to year with all his bonds and lands,
Which rest completely in their skilful hands;
And Phinn and Wedgely well their secrets keep.
A slice is theirs of every ox and sheep,
Or, some think, lion's share. For good or harm,
This broad estate is one huge grazing farm.
How fare the other neighbours of our Squire?
Dysart, sold up, to Dublin will retire,
And live there, Heaven, or else the Deuce, knows how.
O'Hara died at Rome: trustees have now
His large bequest, to found a nunnery,
And college, when convenient; squeezing dry
The land and tenants meanwhile. Finlay, cold
And hard at all times, now is too-too old,
Is turn'd a very walking icicle,
From which no sun or fire can coax one rill,
One drop of kindness. With his silent spouse
And cloddish sons he keeps a dismal house,
Bargains at every fair, and has not thought
How he is with his cattle sold and bought.
Tough Isaac Brown, because the times grew bad,
Much conflict with his petty tenants had,
And, beef and mutton rising every day,
Drove men and women by the score away;
Some on the Union (his Division) came,
Which vex'd him. Twice his rick-yard roar'd in flame.
He thinks assassins on his footsteps wait,
And four policemen live beside his gate.
His wife, long-lingering, dead, this tough old Brown
Soon made a young and florid lass his own;
And for the purse-strings they have many a fight.
His son enlisted; daughter Nell took flight
With stolen money, and a labouring lad.
Old Isaac's temper now is bitter-bad;
Ghoul-greedy grows his appetite for gain;
Some think him softening, not in heart but brain.
Has Bloomfield mov'd these men? Small sign appears.
They learn but little from the days and years.
" I thought," said he to Jane, " that by degrees
" Persuasive reason would have wrought on these
" To join for some good ends: with what disgust,
" What rage they always listen, if they must,
" To mere proposals for the general good!
" A stupid rich man's gross tyrannic mood
" Enrages one in turn, and goads to fight,
" And some wrong things have thus been twisted right
" With weary work. What pleasure (here's reward)
" In one's own limits to make some accord
" Of wish and fact, with aidance always near
" From speckless mind and loving heart, most dear!...
" How little can be done, my Jane, at best!-
''The landscape here is noble; shall we rest?"
Thus on Croghmore said Laurence, just a day
Before they started on their northern way.
Two mountain ponies bore them up as far
As that grey limestone crag, with rift and scar,
Which keeps the summit like a castle-wall,
Titanic, dreadful. Sunshine over all
The world was spread, and on a knoll or crown
Warm-scented with wild thyme, these two sat down.
The verdant mountain slopes from stair to stair;
A cottage whitely nestling here and there;
Atop stands built the dizzy limestone ledge;
Below, smooth curves embrace the water's edge,
And round the clear lough, gemm'd with islands green,
Rise lower crags, with darkling glens between,
Thick-grown with nut and fern and rowan-spray,
Through which the falling streamlets find their way.
Far-distant, clothed in soft aerial blue,
A peaky summit bounds the wider view,
A brother mountain, swept by ocean-gales,
Where fishers' roofs are hid in wider vales;
Mountain to mountain looks, as king to king,
And embassies of clouds high message bring;
Great thunders roll between, when storm-eclipse
Shuts either landmark from arriving ships;
The starry dome suspended high aloof
Bows on these pillars its perennial roof.
But now, bright sunshine broods upon the world,
With silence; save the boom of bee uncurl'd
From bed of thyme; or when a marvellous thing,
Horns, beard, and yellow eyes, with sudden spring
Cresting some fragment like a hippogriff,
Is gone, its goat-bleat echoing from the cliff.
They see the lake and islands mapp'd below,
Through broad green plains the river's glittering flow,
Partition'd farms, and roofs where men abide,
The Town's light smoke, on grovy hill descried;
Corn-fields and meadows, rocky mounts they see,
Dale, sheep-walk, moorland, bog, and grassy lea;
But all, from mountain-skirts to distant coast,
In one expanse and one impression lost;
A wavy ten-league landscape, light and large,
Lonely and sad, on Europe's furthest marge.
" ' A plenteous place of hospitable cheer
" ' Is Holy Ireland! ' - often did I hear
' That song in Gaelic from my nurse. Poor land!
" ' There's honey where her misty vales expand.'
' Her sons and daughters love her; yet they fly
" As from a city of the plague; and why? -
" Poor Madge herself, when I was still a boy,
" Sail'd westward, beyond search: at Lisnamoy
" I could not find one creature of her race.
" The people flee by myriads, and their place
" Knows them no more. On whom or what to blame
" We disagree, and struggle without aim.
" Some wish us joy; we're losers all the same.
" Yet would I merely stop the current? No.
" How many I myself have help'd to go.
" 'Tis best for them - and sad it should be so."
- " But, Laurence, you in this desponding mood!
" Who've done your land and people so much good, -
" In joy of work accomplish'd, - on this eve
" Of happy holiday! " -
" 'Tis sad to leave
" One's home, on gayest journey: Shall we find
" Again the very things we've left behind?...
" But past our bounds my thought o'er Ireland flew,
" And only saw a dreary dismal view.
" This mild green country in the western sea,
" With guardian mountains, rivers full and free,
" Home of a brave, rich-brain'd, warm-hearted race, -
" This Ireland should have been a noble place
" It will be," Jane replied.
And so they left
Their purple couch, and clomb a rocky cleft,
Steep, narrow, known to mountaineers, and stood
On the bare summit, - kingly solitude,
Apart, yet public to the earth and sky.
Drunken with bliss, the proud exulting eye
Swept o'er the billowy hills, cloud-shadow'd, roll'd
Like spotted sultan-serpent, fold on fold;
Faint violet valleys; specks of burning gold
On brook or tarn; a world below spread fine
Of delicate rainbows, to the far-off shine
Intense but dim of Ocean, like Heaven's gate;
All over-canopied with pomp and state
Of clouds, pure gulfs, and glowing light profound
Wherewith the Sun o'erflow'd th' horizon round.
Their bosoms with a wordless rapture swell'd,
Gazing upon these glories. Laurence held
The wifely hand, with little ring wherethro'
Her life-stream coursed in wandering veins of blue,
And press'd it to his lips with perfect love.
A psalm was in their souls to God above.
Earth, ocean, spreading round them, and on high
The regions of the everlasting sky.