Oh that widows' wailing sore!
On it rang to Oranmore;
Died, they say, among the piles
That make holy Arran's isles:-
It was Erin wept on thee,
Athunree!

"Athunree! Athunree!

The heart of Erin burst on thee!
Since that hour some unseen hand
On her forehead stamps the brand.
Her children ate that hour the fruit
That slays manhood at the root;
Our warriors are not what they were;
Our maids no more are blithe and fair;
Truth and Honour died with thee,
Athunree!

"Athunree! Athunree!

Never harvest wave o'er thee!
Never sweetly-breathing kine
Pant o'er golden meads of thine!
Barren be thou as the tomb;
May the night-bird haunt thy gloom,
And the wailer from the sea,
Athunree!

"Athunree! Athunree!

All my heart is sore for thee,
It was Erin died on thee,

Athunree!"-p. 170-3.

In the second division of Inisfail there is another wail almost equally wild and mournful. It is entitled "Roisin Dubh;"" Black Little Rose"-one of the allegorical names by which the bards designated Ireland. But here the mourner no longer bewails the fallen nationality of his country. The sorrow which finds a voice in " Roisin Dubh" is for the oppressed and suffering Church of Ireland.

"O Who art thou with that queenly brow

And uncrown'd head?

And why is the vest that binds thy breast,

O'er the heart, blood-red?

Like a rose-bud in June was that spot at noon
A rose-bud weak;

But it deepens and grows like a July rose-
Death-pale thy cheek!

'But I stand sublime on the shores of Time,
'And I pour mine ode,

'As Myriam sang to the cymbals' clang,

'On the wind to God.

"Once more at my feasts my Bards and Priests

'Shall sit and eat;

'And the Shepherd whose sheep are on every steep

'Shall bless my meat!

'Oh, sweet, men say, is the song by day,

And the feast by night;

'But on poisons I thrive, and in death survive
"Through ghostly might.'"-p. 193-4.

Equally touching and in the same spirit is a little piece supposed to represent the same date.

"PLORANS PLORAVIT.

"A. D. 1583.

"She sits alone on the cold grave stone
And only the dead are nigh her;

In the tongue of the Gael she makes her wail:-
The night wind rushes by her.

"Few, O few are the leal and true,
'And fewer shall be, and fewer;
The land is a corse;-no life, no force-
'O wind, with sere leaves strew her!
'Men ask what scope is left for hope

To one who has known her story:-
'I trust her dead! Their graves are red;

'But their souls are with God in glory.'"-p. 192.

There is in both of these most touching pieces, rising up from the very depths of that despair of human aid which they breathe, that strong sense of Christian hope, and that firm reliance on God's providence, which have at all times characterised the sorrow of our country, and which, to a philosophical observer of her destinies, may appear to be a gift, which, in the supernatural order, somewhat resembles those "compensations" in the order of nature on the wonders of which naturalists love to dwell. Its true foundation lies deep in the hearts of our people. It is a marvel to those who know not their character; but Mr. de Vere has not failed to interpret it justly.

"Men ask what scope is left for hope
To one who has known her story:-
I trust her dead! Their graves are red;
But their souls are with God in glory."

As some relief to the gloomy tone of these extracts, we pass to a short but highly characteristic piece appertaining to the same period, which appears to us the very ideal of the class of composition to which it belongs-the War Song of MacCarthy.

"Two lives of an eagle, the old song saith,

Make the life of a black yew-tree;

For two lives of a yew-tree the furrough's path
Men trace, grass grown on the lea;

Two furroughs they last till the time is past
God willeth the world to be;

For a furrough's life has Mac Carthy stood fast,
Mac Carthy in Carbery.

"Up with the banner whose green shall live
While lives the green on the oak!
And down with the axes that grind and rive
Keen-edged as the thunder stroke!
And on with the battle-cry known of old,
And the clan-rush like wind and wave;—
On, on the Invader is bought and sold;

His own hand has dug his grave !"—p. 195.

*

"The Bier that Conquered" will serve as an example of Mr. de Vere's manner of treating the isolated incidents of our annals, without sacrificing the common spirit of the history, and of the skill with which he maintains the harmony of tone and the identity of moral teach ing, even where continuity of narrative is wanting. Accord ing to Mr. de Vere's explanation of this ballad, (which is founded on the romantic story of one of the princes of Tirconnell in the twelfth century, Godfrey O'Donnell,) "Maurice Fitzgerald, Lord Justice, marched to the north-west, and a furious battle was fought between him and Godfrey O'Donnell, Prince of Tirconnell, at Creadran-Killa, north

*We have advisedly confined ourselves to the strictly historical portions of Mr. de Vere's volume; but no reader who may take it up will stop here. "The Sisters" is a most charming picture of what has passed under our own eyes, and exhibits most touchingly all the best qualities of Irish character in our own day.

of Sligo, A.D. 1257. The two leaders met in single combat and severely wounded each other. It was of the wound he then received that O'Donnell died soon after, after triumphantly defeating his great rival potentate in Ulster, O'Neill. The latter, hearing that O'Donnell was dying, demanded hostages from the Kinel Connell. The messengers who brought this insolent message fled in terror the moment they had delivered it ;-and the answer to it was brought by O'Donnell on his bier. Maurice Fitz Gerald finally retired to the Franciscan monastery which he had founded at Youghal, and died peacefully in the habit of that order."

The scene is highly dramatic, and is admirably rendered in the following stanzas.

"THE BIER THAT CONQUERED;

"or, o'donnell's ANSWER.

"A. D. 1257.

"Land which the Norman would make his own!

(Thus sang the Bard 'mid a host o'erthrown

While their white cheeks some on the clench'd hand propp'd,
And from some the life-blood scarce heeded dropp'd)

There are men in thee that refuse to die,

And that scorn to live, while a foe stands nigh!

"O'Donnell lay sick with a grievous wound:

The leech had left him; the priest had come; The clan sat weeping upon the ground,

Their banners furl'd and their minstrels dumb.

"Then spake O'Donnell, the king: 'Although My hour draws nigh, and my dolours grow; And although my sins I have now confess'd,

And desire in the land, my charge, to rest, 'Yet leave this realm, nor will I nor can,

'While a stranger treads on her, child or man.

"I will languish no longer a sick man here:
'My bed is grievous; build up my Bier.
'The white robe a king wears over me throw;

'Bear me forth to the field where he camps-your foe,

'With the yellow torches and dirges low,

'The heralds his challenge have brought and fled: The answer they bore not 1 bear instead.

'My people shall fight my pain in sight,

And I shall sleep well when their wrong stands right.'

1

"Then the clan to the words of their Chief gave ear,
And they fell'd great oak-trees and built a bier;
Its plumes from the eagle's wing were shed,
And the wine-black samite above it they spread
Inwoven with sad emblems and texts divine,
And the braided bud of Tirconnell's pine,
And all that is meet for the great and brave
When past are the measured years God gave,
And a voice cries' Come' from the waiting grave.
"When the Bier was ready they laid him thereon:
And the army forth bare him with wail and moan:
With wail by the sea-lakes and rock abysses;
With moan through the vapour-trail'd wildernesses;
And men sore-wounded themselves drew nigh,
Aud said, 'We will go with our king and die ;'
And women wept as the pomp pass'd by.
The sad yellow torches far off were seen;
No war-note peal'd through the gorges green;
But the black pines echo'd the mourners' keen.

"What, said the Invader, that pomp in sight? They sue for the pity they shall not win."

But the sick king sat on the Bier upright,

And said, So well! I shall sleep to-night

Rest here my couch, and my peace begin.'

"Then the war-cry sounded-Bataillah Abool'
And the whole clan rush'd to the battle plain:
They were thrice driven back, but they form'd anew,
That an end might come to their king's great pain.
'Twas a people not army that onward rush'd;
'Twas a nation's blood from their wounds that gush'd:
Bare-bosom'd they fought, and with joy were slain;
Till evening their blood fell fast like rain;
But a shout swell'd up o'er the setting sun,
And O'Donnell died, for the field was won,

So they buried their king upon Aileach's shore;
And in peace he slept;-O'Donnell More."-p. 164-6

The Third Part of Inisfail presents greater variety, and is full of picturesque beauty. The latter portion especially appears to us singularly felicitous. We are much struck by the skill with which the transition is managed, and with which the dawn of hope, first faintly exhibited, is made gradually to grow upon the reader, till at length his eye has been prepared for the full light of the day which is to come. We must find space for one or two examples of