It was the warrior within Who called: "Awake! prepare for fight! Yet lose not memory in the din; Make of thy gentleness thy might; "Make of thy silence words to shake It was the wise all-seeing soul Who counseled neither war nor peace: "Only be thou thyself that goal In which the wars of Time shall cease." "T" MALACHY RYAN ROSE ADAIR WAS in green-leafy spring-time, An' the young buds hung like tassels O Rose Adair ! O Rose Adair ! The blossomed trees, an' scented breeze, I met her sowin' mushrooms With her white feet in the grass; 'Twas eve-but mornin' in the smile Of my sweet cailin deas; An' I kissed her-oh, so secretly That not a one should know But the roguish stars they winked above The Father in confession, Rose, 'Twas so love entered into mine If spring-time never came at all But stole its sweetness from the lips The leaves will fall in autumn, An' the flowers all come to grief, But the green love in my heart of hearts For the sunshine of your bonny eyes An' your breath will be its breeze-o'-spring, M JOHN SAVAGE BREASTING THE WORLD ANY years have burst upon my forehead, Years of gloom and heavy-freighted grief, And I have stood them as against the horrid Angry gales, the Peak of Teneriffe. Yet if all the world had storm and sorrow, Though as a cataract my soul went lashing And heart to heart, above the world yet! SHANE'S HEAD SCENE. Before Dublin Castle. Night. A clansman of Shane O'Neill's discovers his Chief's head on a pole. S it thus, O Shane the haughty! Shane the valiant! that we meet Have my eyes been lit by Heaven but to guide me to defeat? Have I no Chief, or you no clan, to give us both defense, Or must I, too, be statued here with thy cold eloquence? Thy ghastly head grins scorn upon old Dublin's Castle Tower; Thy shaggy hair is wind-tossed and thy brow seems rough with power; Thy wrathful lips like sentinels, by foulest treachery stung, Look rage upon the world of wrong, but chain thy fiery tongue. That tongue, whose Ulster accent woke the ghost of Columbkill; Whose warrior-words fenced round with spears the oaks of Derry Hill; Whose reckless tones gave life and death to vassals and to knaves, And hunted hordes of Saxons into holy Irish graves. The Scotch marauders whitened when his war-cry met their ears, And the death-bird, like a vengeance, poised above his stormy cheers; Ay, Shane, across the thundering sea, out-chanting it, your tongue Flung wild un-Saxon war-whoopings the Saxon Court among. Just think, O Shane! the same moon shines on Liffey as on Foyle, And lights the ruthless knaves on both, our kinsmen to despoil; And you the hope, voice, battle-axe, the shield of us and ours, A murdered, trunkless, blinding sight above these Dublin towers ! Thy face is paler than the moon; my heart is paler still My heart? I had no heart-'twas yours, 'twas yours! to keep or kill. And you kept it safe for Ireland, Chief-your life, your soul, your pride; But they sought it in thy bosom, Shane-with proud O'Neill it died. You were turbulent and haughty, proud and keen as Spanish steel But who had right of these, if not our Ulster's Chief, O'Neill, Who reared aloft the "Bloody Hand" until it paled the sun, And shed such glory on Tyrone as chief had never done? He was "turbulent" with traitors; he was "haughty" with the foe; He was "cruel," say ye, Saxons! Ay! he dealt ye blow for blow! He was "rough" and "wild"—and who's not wild to see his hearthstone razed ? He was "merciless as fire"-ah, ye kindled him—he blazed! He was "proud "—yes, proud of birthright, and be cause he flung way Your Saxon stars of princedom, as the rock does mocking spray. |