ADDRESS TO THE RUINS OF DONEGAL CASTLE.
O, solitary fort that standest yonder,
What desolation dost thou not reveal!
How tarnished is the beauty of thine aspect,
Thou mansion of the chaste and gentle melodies!
Demolished lie thy towering battlements—
The dark loam of the earth has risen up
Over the whiteness of thy polished stones;
And solitude and ruin gird thee round.
Thy end is come, fair fortress, thou art fallen—
Thy magical prestige has been stripped off—
Thy well-shaped corner-stones have been displaced
And cast forth to the outside of thy ramparts.
In lieu of thy rich wine feasts, thou hast now
Nought but the cold stream from the firmament;
It penetrates thee on all sides,
Thou mansion like Emania the golden.
Thy doorways are, alas! filled up,
Thou fortress of the once bright doors!
The limestones of thy top lie at thy base,
On all the sides of thy fair walls.
Over the mouldings of thy shattered windows,
The music that to-day breaks forth
Is the wild music of the birds and winds,
The voices of the stormy elements!
O, many-gated Court of Donegal,
What spell of slumber overcame thee,
Thou mansion of the board of flowing goblets,
To make thee undergo this rueful change?
Thou wert, O, happy one of the bright walls,
The Fortress of the Meetings of Clann-Connell,
The Tara of Assemblies to Conn’s offspring,
O, thou resplendent fount of nobleness!
Thou rivalledst Emania in Ulster,
Thou wert the peer of Cruachan in Connaught,
Or of the mansion over the bright Boyne,
Thou Rome of all delight for Erin!
In thee, thou fair, capacious dome,
Where Ulster’s tributes prodigally spent,
And Connaught’s tributes were poured into thee,
Deserted though thou art this night!
From thee have we beheld—delightful sight!—
From the high pinnacles of thy purple turrets,
Long lines of ships at the approach of May,
With masts and snow-white sails.
From the high pinnacles of thy white watch-towers
We have seen the fleetness of the youthful steeds,
The bounding of the hounds, the joyous chase,
Thou pleasant fastness of unnumbered plains!
Within thee at the festive board
We have seen the strong battalions of the Gael,
And outside on thy wide green court,
After the meeting and the feasting.
Alas for this event, O Dun-na-Gall!
Sad is the lethargy that trances thee,
It is my grief to see thee thus deserted,
Without thy nobles, without mirth to-night!
Although thy ruins now bestrew the soil,
There have come of the race of Connell
Some men who would have mourned thy downfall,
O, thou fair fortress of the smooth-clad nobles!
Manus O’Donnell’s noble mind,
Had he but heard of thy disasters,
O, fortress of the regal towers,
Would suffer deepest anguish for thee!
Could Hugh, the son of Hugh, behold
The desolation of thy once white walls,
How bitter, O, thou palace of the kings,
His grief would be for thy decline and fall!
If thus thou couldst have been beheld
By Hugh Roe, who demolished thee,
Methinks his triumph and delight would cease,
Thou beautiful, time-hallowed house of Fertas!
O, never was it dreamed that one like him,
That one sprung from the Tirconnellians,
Could bring thee to this woeful state,
Thou bright-streamed fortress of the embellished walls!
From Hugh O’Donnell, thine own king,
From him has come this melancholy blow,
This demolition of thy walls and towers,
O, thou forsaken fortress o’er the Easky!
Yet was it not because he wished thee ill
That he thus left thee void and desolate;
The king of the successful tribe of Dalach
Did not destroy thee out of hatred.
The reason that he left thee as thou art
Was lest the black ferocious strangers
Should dare to dwell within thy walls,
Thou fair-proportioned, speckled mansion!
Lest we should ever call thee theirs,
Should call thee in good earnest Dun-na-gall,
This was the reason, Fortress of the Gaels,
That thy fair turrets were o’erthrown.
Now that our kings have all been exiled hence
To dwell among the reptiles of strange lands,
It is a woe for us to see thy towers,
O, bright fort of the glossy walls!
Yet, better for thee to be thus destroyed
By thine own king than that the truculent Galls
Should raise dry mounds and circles of great stones
Around thee and thy running waters!
He who has brought thee to this feebleness,
Will soon again heal all thy wounds,
So that thou shall not sorrow any more,
Thou smooth and bright-walled mansion!
As doth the surgeon, if he be a true one,
On due examination of his patient,
Thy royal chief has done by thee,
Thou shield and bulwark of the race of Coffey!
The surgeon, on examining his patient,
Knows how his illness is to be removed,
Knows where the secret of his health lies hid,
And where the secret of his malady.
Those members that are gangrened or unsound
He cuts away from the more healthy trunk
Before they mortify, and so bring death
Without remead upon the sufferer.
Now, thy disease is obviously the Galls,
And thy good surgeon is thy chief, O’Donnell,
And thou thyself, thou art the prostrate patient
O, green-hued mansion of the race of Dalach!
With God’s will; and by God’s permission,
Thy beauty shall yet put to shame thy meanness,
Thy variegated courts shall be rebuilt
By that great Chief who laid thee low!
As Hugh Roe, king of the Connellians
Was he who laid thy speckled walls in ruins,
He will again renew thy greatness,
Yes, he will be thy best physician!
P.
Wickedness may well be compared to a bottomless pit, into which it is easier to keep oneself from falling, than having fallen into, to stay oneself from falling infinitely.—Sir P. Sydney.
If there be an object truly ridiculous in nature, it is an American patriot, signing resolutions of independence with the one hand, and with the other brandishing a whip over his affrighted slaves.—Day.