"contains
In death's embrace M'Carthy More's remains,"
and also reminds us that
"If Erin's chiefs deserve a generous tear,
Heir of their worth, O'Donoghue lies here."
In the centre of the cloisters there grows a great yew tree, spreading its many branches and shade over them, and above the side walls, forming a dark cowl, which overshadows the old house of the monks. In ancient Erin the yew tree was regarded as sacred, and in its shade the Druids performed their mystic rites. With the early Christians, as an evergreen, it was a symbol of Life Eternal.
The peasants still inherit some of the awe with which the sacred tree was held in former days, and they are loth to hurt it with the loss of a single leaf. All impressive is the desolate majesty of Muckross, whatever time it is visited!
"But the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild but to flout the ruins grey."
At night, when the pale ghost of the moon looks across the lake, when the mountains are shrouded in shadows, when the waters are lulling the slumbering land,
"And the owlet hoots o'er the dead man's grave,"
the solemnity of the scene surpasses even that of fair Melrose, by the distant Tweed, of which Sir Walter Scott tells.
Driving past the modern mansion in the demesne, along Torc Lake, by the groves of Dinis, and through the arches of the Old Weir Bridge, the river glistens and sparkles in the sun, while the distant calmer water lies deep in sleepy shadows. Beyond the peculiar rock known as the White Deer we pass through the Tunnel cut under the huge slope of the mountains. Here is a point of view which fascinates all visitors, and from which an ample picture of the surroundings may be secured. A mile further we cross the Galway river, rushing down a well-worn channel through Cournaglown, the valley sides of which are covered with oak trees. Already the ceaseless chorus of Derrycunnihy Cascade fills our ears. With tumult and cries of havoc, the water springs from an altitude on the mountain side, dividing its force into many minor cataracts, as it forces the passage barricaded by rocks and boulders, to unite them again in a deep pool, and after a second's rest, it musters its full strength, and falls in a torrent towards the Middle Lake. Colman's Leap, across the stream beneath the Eagle's Nest, is shown here, and of it a legend similar to others in many parts of Ireland is told. A mile eastward, along the Kenmare road, we come to Torc Waterfall, lovely as a capricious colleen, whose modes are all the more "deludering" for their uncertainty—Torc, whether tripping gently or rushing angrily, "to one thing constant never," makes its bed in a fairy realm, a leafy garden of ever-changing beauty. Larch and alder, arbutus, oak, and hazel thickly curtain the Fall from the passing glance. But a sylvan path o'erstrewn with leaves, and bordered with many fronded ferns, discovers the fountain in full bearing. White with foam, and angry for its long delay in the grip of Mangerton, and the hollow of the Devil's Punch Bowl, the flood breaks through the wall of rocks seventy feet high, and spits a shower of spray on every futile thing which attempts to stem its course or stay its purpose. The panorama spread out beneath the rocks of Torc comprehends, in all their glory of colour and contrast, the Middle and Lower Lakes beneath the mountains.