METRICAL ATTEMPTS.
I shall venture to offer two or three more productions to the readers of these pages. If my metrical attempts are considered even below mediocrity, they will serve to make others more acceptable. The coarse, homely attire of the peasant is a foil tending strongly to enhance admiration for the courtly costumes of the upper classes; and the weeds that blossom in our hedgerows, or on the sides of our highways, render us unconsciously more appreciative of the floral beauties displayed in the gardens of aristocratic mansions. My own recollections enable me to compare much of the past with the present, and render me desirous of endeavouring to describe some of the changes which have occurred since—
LONG AGO.
Yon tree whose massive timber
The storms assail in vain,
I've seen a sapling limber
A child might rend in twain;
It's planter's lying low,
Whilst on its growth I ponder,
And think of Long ago.
Yon brook that quickly courses
To turn the busy mill,
Then spent its unclaim'd forces
Adown the heath-clad hill.
The heather to plantation
Has yielded, and below,
A bustling railway station
Contrasts with Long Ago.
The breeze is freshly blowing
Full in yon harbour's face,
And yet some craft are going
Their wat'ry way to trace.
The adverse wind unheeding,
The waves aside they throw;
By steam their journey speeding—
How changed from Long Ago.
I meet a friend—he mentions
That news of import grand,
O'er half the earth's dimensions
Has reach'd the Irish land.
Th' events occurr'd this morning,
And now each fact we know
By an electric warning,
Undreamt of Long Ago.
The village school is ending
Its labours for the day,
Each child, released, is wending
Its joyous homeward way.
Blithe be their youthful gambols,
Uncheck'd by care or woe,
As were my boyhood's rambles,
How long, how Long Ago.
And as my tott'ring paces
Proceed, there's at my side
One whom for varied graces
I gladly make my bride.
Her dark hair then contrasted
With locks now tinged with snow,
But still our love has lasted
The same as Long Ago.
Let Youth enjoy its time;
Let Age, contented, never
Regret its vanish'd prime.
Life's joys, life's hopes, life's duties,
Each passing year will show,
And retrospective beauties
Appear in Long Ago.
Amongst the pictures which have, within my memory, been exhibited in Dublin, one painted by Paul Delaroche was regarded by me with surpassing admiration, in which feeling I was certainly not singular, for I found it equally appreciated by many others who viewed it at Le Sage's in Sackville Street. It was said to have originated in an extraordinary reverie of the artist, who, whilst suffering from fever, imagined that he beheld the corpse of a young and beautiful female, whose hands and feet had been tightly bound, drifting along a deep and rapid river. On recovering from his malady, Delaroche delineated this vision, and then considered what title he should give the production. On searching the records of martyrdom he could not discover the name of any sainted victim of persecution who had perished in the manner indicated; but finding that the Emperor Diocletian had, about the year of our Lord 300, caused some hundreds of his Christian subjects to be drowned in the Tiber for refusing to abjure their faith, he named the picture "La Martyre Chretienne." It has been engraved, lithographed, and photographed so much, as to evince a general admiration of the conception and artistic power of the painter. I have written some lines on this subject, and have endeavoured to adopt the metre of Ariosto, which I consider not unsuitable to an incident connected with Italy and the ancient days of the Eternal City. The concluding stanza alludes to the lambent circle which, in the painting, appears above the head of—
THE CHRISTIAN MARTYR.
The sedgy margin of his yellow stream
Beholds old Tiber rolling to the main,
In eddies silver'd by the struggling beam,
Wooing the ripples which it can't retain.
A mutual mockery, a vap'ry dream,
Illusive, unsubstantial, cold, and vain
As human hopes, like ev'rything of earth,
Passing, unpausing, dying e'en in birth.
That river has beheld the glorious day
When chaste Lucretia's wrongs awoke the ire
That freed her country from the Tarquin's sway;
Upon that bank Virginia from her sire,
Loathing the brutal Appius to obey,
When in his breast there raged a base desire,
In her pure heart received the fatal knife,
Preferring death to a dishonor'd life.
Upon that bank in youthful beauty stood
The virgin Clœlia, when with high disdain
She scorn'd Porsenna's pow'r, and deem'd the flood
Was easier to stem than tyrant's chain
Could be endured; and there the multitude
Of foes on Cocles fiercely press'd in vain,
There, one 'gainst thousands, he maintain'd his post,
And foil'd the foremost of Etruria's host.
Upon that classic bank did Mutius stand,
And in the midst of his astonish'd foes
Upon the altar there he placed his hand
Unshrinking, round it whilst the flames arose,
To show th' invader of his native land
How he could scorn the torture's fiercest throes,
And that no tyrant's power could be secure
Against a patriot's purpose, firm and pure.
All these were high and noble in their daring,
In distant ages were their deeds achieved,
But they had earthly motives strongly bearing
Them onward in their course, for they believed
That man would honor them. Nor scant nor sparing
Has been the classic fame they have received,
And history still delights to gild her pages
With deeds like theirs from Rome's incipient ages.
But still old Tiber's course hath onward sped,
And other incidents of higher fame
Have on his banks a holy lustre shed,
There Diocletian did his will proclaim—
That to the ancient stream there should be led
His Christian subjects, and the sacred name
Of Christ should be abjured, or Tiber's wave
Should those engulf who own'd His pow'r to save.
In youthful innocence a beauteous maid
Stands 'mongst the victims doom'd with lips compress'd,
And eyes already closed—she hath essay'd
To banish earthly thoughts. Upon her breast
Her hands are folded—she hath meekly pray'd,
And He to whom her pray'r has been address'd,
To whom she clings all faithful, gives her pow'r
To meet the terrors of life's closing hour.
They bind her hands—she heeds not the infliction
Of cords that sink into her tender limb;
She, thinking of her Saviour's crucifixion—
Her soul hath flown to Calvary to Him.
She meekly hears each heathen malediction,
Heav'n seems to ope as earth appears more dim;
Her fate severe for thrones she would not barter,
And now she sinks—a Christian Maiden Martyr!
Her form is slowly gliding to the sea,
Her soul to Paradise its way is winging,
Upon her pallid face serenity
Shows that to earth her heart was never clinging;
To all the elements her corse may be
Abandoned, but the seraph choir is singing,
And chaplets fairer than the flow'rs of Eden
In Heav'n shall deck the martyr'd Christian maiden.
Still o'er her drifting form a circlet golden
Upon the river sheds its lambent rays,
As though it would the lively hope embolden
The martyr's truth shall shine in future days,
And when her bones have moulder'd deep and cold in
Their ocean grave, men shall accord their praise
To him whose reverie or vision mystic
Her suff'rings shall depict with grace artistic.
The following lines were suggested by a visit to an extensive paper manufactory at Inchicore, which, I regret to say, is not working at present:—
I stray'd along a village street,
And as in listless mood I wander'd,
The breeze had wafted to my feet
Something on which awhile I ponder'd.
Was it a precious talisman,
Whose magic tracings doth unfold
A right by which its bearer can
Claim and obtain the treasured gold?
Was it a flow'r with tints array'd
Such as the vernal suns bestow,
Richer than monarch e'er display'd,
Was it a fragrant flowret? No!
Was it a feather dropt away
From some wild bird of varied hues?
From moors whereon the plovers stray,
Or groves wherein the ringdove coos?
Was it the down the thistle yields,
That sails through air like drifting snow?
Or fairy flax from fenny fields,
Or plume from warrior's helmet? No!
Or manhood's locks, or maiden's hair,
Wafted by breeze through village street?
Nor this, nor these—but lying there
A filthy rag was at my feet.
With dirt begrimed, that remnant mean,
Crushed in the mire, I saw no more;
But yet I mused on what had been
Its various uses heretofore.
The great, the humble, grave or gay,
Noble or base, whoe'er it clothed,
Reject it now, and cast away,
'Tis only seen but to be loathed.
Such were my thoughts till slumber came,
And then by fancy's vivid light
Methought that rag, the very same—
Appear'd again before my sight.
No longer were its folds defiled,
But pure and white it seem'd as snow,
And 'neath a roller whirling wild,
I saw the worthless fragment go.
And bleach'd and clean, by that machine
'Twas triturated fast;
And when 'twas found completely ground,
O'er wires its pulp was pass'd.
And on and on that rag hath gone,
'Neath cylinders I traced it,
And there it roll'd through heat and cold,
Whilst giant force embraced it.
And I could mark th' electric spark[22]
Gleam like a fairy taper;
And fair and smooth as the brow of youth,
That filthy rag was Paper.
Material fit for Holy Writ
And tidings of salvation—
Material grand for a struggling land,
When seeking liberation.
Material proud to warn aloud
'Gainst slavery's subtle meshes—
Material true to teach the few
The many's rights are precious.
Material meet for tidings sweet
Of distant recollection—
Material best to purge each breast
Of Bigotry's infection.
Material bright to guide and light
The onward march of Reason—
Oh! that old rag has form'd a flag
For man's best thoughts to blazon.
Then may its use each day produce,
From pen and press united,
Each noble thought by which we ought
To feel our souls excited.
May Honor grand, with Virtue bland,
Inspire it and direct it,
Till wheresoe'er 'tis hoisted, there
That flag shall be respected.
In the pages which I have yet to submit to the indulgent consideration of my readers, it is not my intention to continue the insertion of specimens of my metrical tendencies. The remainder of my reminiscences are chiefly derived from a residence of eighteen months in Paris in 1864-5. That city has been subjected to much suffering amongst her inhabitants, and to the destruction of magnificent palatial and municipal edifices since the time to which my visit refers; and the Imperial dynasty, that then seemed perfectly secure against Bourbon rivalry or republican designs, has experienced a complete extinction, without any apparent chance of its revival. Notwithstanding all the changes which have occurred within the last ten years, I feel convinced that there are many sights which the French capital can still present to the observation of a traveller from this country, and which will remain indelibly impressed on his memory, either through their intrinsic beauty or magnificence, or still more by the marked contrast they exhibit to objects similar in name here, but in which the name is the only resemblance. He who reflects on the presence of some objects and the absence of others, will be frequently more astonished at not seeing than in beholding. I think that this remark can be exemplified. There is a fair in Paris which is held, during the entire month of January, on the Boulevards, extending from the Madeleine to the Place de la Bastille, a distance of about three English miles. It is resorted to by the most respectable classes. There are wooden booths erected at both sides of the Boulevard, on the footways; and the articles offered for sale comprise "everything, and anything else you may wish for." Children have their toys and confections. Hats, lamps, shoes, boots, jewels, hosiery, glass, birds, mountebanks, newspapers, portable baths, guns, groceries, gloves, cutlery, false teeth, false beards, false eyes, false legs, tempt the adults. There are, however, no horses, cattle, sheep, or swine offered for sale, the live stock, consisting only of poultry, rabbits, pigeons, and Guinea-pigs. To an Irishman it is a fair only in name. I visited it frequently, and saw it early and late, but I did not hear an altercation or see a fight, or any person intoxicated. Oh, Donnybrook! how different from your defunct glories! How could a Patlander recognise any resemblance in a scene of peaceable amusement, excited and busy, but without a reel or a blow, to the classic spot, where "batin' was chape as dirt" amongst
"Hearts soft with whisky, and heads soft with blows."?