And, falling on my weary brain,
Like a fast-falling shower,
The dreams of youth came back again;
Low lispings of the summer rain,
Dropping on the ripen'd grain;
As once upon the flower.
Visions of childhood! stay, oh, stay!
Ye were so sweet and wild!
And distant voices seem'd to say,
"It cannot be! They pass away!
Other themes demand thy lay:
Thou art no more a child!
"The land of Song within thee lies,
Water'd by living springs;
The lids of fancy's sleepless eyes
Are gates unto that Paradise,
Holy thoughts, like stars, arise,
Its clouds are angels' wings.
"Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be, Not mountains capp'd with snow, Nor forests sounding like the sea,
Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly,
Where the woodlands bend to see
The bending heavens below.
"There is a forest where the din
Of iron branches sounds!
A mighty river roars between,
And whosoever looks therein,
Sees the heavens all black with sin,-
Sees not its depths, nor bounds.
"Athwart the swinging branches cast,
Soft rays of sunshine pour;
Then comes the fearful wintry blast;
Our hopes like wither'd leaves, fall fast:
Pallid lips say, 'It is past!
We can return no more!'
"Look, then, into thine heart, and write!
Yes, into life's deep stream!
All forms of sorrow and delight,
All solemn voices of the night,
That can soothe thee, or affright,
Be these henceforth thy theme."
MR. BARNEY MAGUIRE'S ACCOUNT OF THE CORONATION.
This very clever poem, though beautiful only for the rare melody of its verse, is well entitled to a place in this collection of the best poetry our language has produced. It was written by Barham.
ОCH! the coronation! what celebration
For emulation can with it compare?
When to Westminster the Royal Spinster,
And the Duke of Leinster, all did repair!
'Twas there you'd see the new polishemen
Making a skrimmage at half-after four,
And the lords and ladies, and the Miss O'Gradys
All standing round before the abbey door.
Their pillows scorning, that self-same morning,
Themselves adorning, all by candle-light,
With roses and lilies, and daffy-down-dillies,
And goold, and jewels, and rich di'monds bright.
And then approaches five hundred coaches,
With Gineral Dullbeak.-Och! 'twas mighty fine
To see how aisy bould Corporal Casey,
With his swoord drawn, prancing, made them keep the line.
Then the gun's alarums, and the king of arums,
All in his garters and his Clarence shoes,
Opening the massy doors to the bould ambassydors,
The prince of potboys, and great haythen Jews:
'Twould have made them crazy to see Esterhazy,
All jewels from his jasey to his di'mond boots,
With Alderman Harmer and that sweet charmer,
The female heiress, Miss Anjä-ly Coutts.
And Wellington walking with his sword drawn, talking
To Hill and Hardinge, heroes of great fame;
And Sir De Lacy, and the Duke Dalmasey,
(They call'd him Sowlt afore he changed his name),
Themselves presading Lord Melbourne, lading
The Queen, the darling, to her royal chair,
And that fine ould fellow, the Duke of Pell-Mello,
The queen of Portingal's chargy-de-fair.
Then the noble Prussians, likewise the Russians,
In fine laced jackets with their goolden cuffs,
And the Bavarians, and the proud Hungarians,
And Everythingarians all in furs and muffs,
Then Misthur Spaker, with Misthur Pays the Quaker,
All in the gallery you might persave;
But Lord Brougham was missin', and gone a fishin',
Only crass Lord Essex would not give him lave.
There was Baron Alten himself exaltin',
And Prince Von Swartzenberg, and many more, Och! I'd be bother'd and entirely smother'd
To tell the half of 'em was to the fore;
With the sweet peeresses, in their crowns and dresses,
And aldermanesses, and the board of works;
But Mehemet Ali said, quite ginteelly,
"I'd be proud to see the likes among the Turks!"
Then the Queen, heaven bless her! och! they did dress her
In her purple garmints, and her goolden crown;
Like Venus or Hebe, or the queen of Sheby,
With eight young ladies houlding up her gown.
Sure 'twas grand to see her, also for to he-ar
The big drums bating, and the trumpets blow,
And Sir George Smart! Oh! he played a Consarto,
With his four-and-twenty fiddlers all in a row!
Then the Lord Archbishop held a goolden dish up,
For to resave her bounty and great wealth,
Saying, "Plase your glory, great Queen Vict-ory!
Ye'll give the clargy lave to dhrink your health!"
Then his Riverence, retrating, discoorsed the mating,
"Boys! Here's your Queen! deny it if you can!
And if any bould traitor, or infarior craythur,
Sneezes at that, I'd like to see the man!"
Then the nobles kneeling to the powers appealing,
"Heaven send your Majesty a glorious reign!
And Sir Claudius Hunter he did confront her,
All in his scarlet gown and goolden chain.
The great lord may'r too, sat in his chair, too,
But mighty sarious, looking fit to cry,
For the Earl of Surrey, all in his hurry
Throwing the thirteens, hit him in the eye.
Then there was preachin', and good store of speechin',
With dukes and marquises on bended knee;
And they did splash her with raal Macasshur,
And the Queen said, “Ah! then, thank ye all for me!”— Then the trumpets brayin', and the organ playin',
And sweet trombones with their silver tones,
But Lord Rolle was rolling :-'twas mighty consoling
To think his lordship did not break his bones.
Then the crames and custhard, and the beef and musthard,
All on the tombstones like a poulterer's shop,
With lobsthers and white-bait, and other sweet-mate,
And wine, and nagus, and impayrial pop!
There was cakes and apples in all the chapels,
With fine polonies, and rich mellow pears,
Och! the Count Von Strogonoff, sure he got prog enough,
The sly ould divil, undernathe the stairs.
Then the cannons thunder'd, and the people wonder'd,
Crying, "God save Victoria, our Royal Queen! "
Och! if myself should live to be a hundred,
Sure its the proudest day I've ever seen!
And now I've ended, what I pretended,
This narration splendid in sweet poe-thry,
Ye dear bewitcher just hand the pitcher,
Faith, its myself that's getting mighty dhry!
These sweet stanzas appeared in The Spirit of the Nation under the signature of Domhnall Gleannach, and the rhythm of the beautiful air to which they are adapted has been preserved with a fidelity that proves praiseworthy care and a nice ear on the part of the writer. The rhythm is so peculiar, that, without knowing the air, a reader is liable to miss the proper accentuation of the lines, and therefore, to insure his pleasure in enjoying their harmony, I venture to point it out.-Let the accent be laid on the fourth syllable of every line.
WHEN first I saw thee, Cate,
That summer evening late,
Down at the orchard gate
Of Araglen,
I felt I ne'er before
Saw one so fair a-stor,†
I fear'd I'd never more
See thee agen.
I stopp'd and gazed at thee,
My footfall, luckily
Reach'd not thy ear, though we
Stood there so near;
While from thy lips, a strain,
Soft as the summer rain,
Sad as a lover's pain,
Fell on my ear.
I've heard the lark in June,
The harp's wild plaintive tune,
The thrush, that aye too soon
Gives o'er his strain;
I've heard, in hush'd delight
The mellow horn at night
Waking the echoes light
Of wild Loch Lein;t
But neither echoing horn,
Nor thrush upon the thorn,
Nor lark at early morn
*Thus spelt in the original. Caitlin is the true spelling of the name which more frequently appears in Anglo-Irish songs as "Kathleen."
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