O’Shaughnessy is to be ranked as an English rather than as an Irish poet; for the national sentiment played a minor, indeed hardly a perceptible part in his poetic life. The Celtic part of him found its best expression in his translations of the Lays of Marie (particularly the difficult and extraordinary “Bisclaveret”), powerful paraphrases rather than translations. The poem by which he is represented here shows the influence of Edgar Allan Poe, but is founded upon a Celtic legend. In his early youth he was appointed to a subordinate position in the Library of the British Museum, and was afterwards promoted to the Natural History Department. His first literary success was his Epic of Women (1870), a volume of exceptional promise, which, however, was never adequately fulfilled. His Lays of France (1872) was followed by Music and Moonlight (1874) and a posthumous volume, Songs of a Worker (1881). Always delicate, his death without any previous breakdown surprised none of his friends. I recollect that on the Saturday preceding his death, which I think was on a Wednesday, he came into the rooms of his brother-in-law, and fellow-poet and friend, Philip Bourke Marston, and asked me to come to his residence on the following Wednesday, to hear him read from the proofs of his new book. That evening he went to a theatre, came home on the top of an omnibus, caught a chill, and died before any of his friends knew that he was seriously indisposed. The best critical and biographical accounts of this charming if insubstantial poet, are to be found in Dr Garnett’s memoir in Miles’ Poets and Poetry of the Century, Vol. VIII., and in the biographical edition of his poems recently put forth by Mrs Louise Chandler Moulton. Of the poem here given, Dr Garnett speaks as a “miracle of melody,” and as one of the pieces in which “the poet’s inward nature has perhaps most clearly expressed itself.”
FANNY PARNELL. (1855-1883.)
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A remarkable poem by a remarkable woman. Frances Isabelle Parnell was the sister of Charles Stewart Parnell, and grand-daughter of Charles Stewart (from whom the great Irish patriot derived his baptismal names), the historic commander of the U.S. Frigate Constitution. Miss Parnell’s poems, which always appeared above the signature of Fanny Parnell, have not yet been published collectively. She was secretary of the Ladies’ Land League, and was as intensely wrought by the fervour of patriotism as was her famous brother.
T. W. ROLLESTON.
[PAGE 166]
The sometime editor of the Dublin University Review, and one of the most valued present members of the Irish Literary Society, was born at Shinrone, King’s County, in 1857. Mr Rolleston has had a cosmopolitan training since he left Trinity College, and has in particular been influenced by his long residence in Germany; but he has remained a Celtic poet and ardent Celticist through every intellectual development. While resident in Germany and in London, he wrote his Life of Lessing and his introductions to Epictetus and Plato. He is now responsibly connected with the Irish Industries Association, but is more and not less engrossed by his Celtic studies. If there were a few more poet-scholars who could translate or paraphrase so beautifully as Mr Rolleston has paraphrased the Irish of Enoch o’ Gillan (see p. 166) and other poems, there would be a wider public in England for the lovely work of early Irish poetry. “The Lament of Queen Maev,” given here in the Ancient Irish section, is also a translation by Mr Rolleston.
DORA SIGERSON.
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This young and promising writer comes of poetic stock. Her sister Hester is also a writer of verse, and her father, Dr Sigerson, is one of the foremost workers in the Gaelic Revival. Miss Dora Sigerson’s only published book as yet bears the modest title Verses. It is, perhaps, more significant in its promise than in its achievement; and I find nothing in it so mature as the poem by which she is represented here, taken from a recent issue of the Chap Book (Stone & Kimball, Chicago). The following lines, from Verses, may be given as an example of her poetic first-fruits:—
IN SOUTHERN SEAS.
In southern seas we sailed, my love and I,
In southern seas.
Death joined no chorus as the waves swept by,
No storm hid in the breeze.
Low keeled our boat until her white wings dipped half wet with spray,
And seeking gulls tossed on the passing wave laughed on our way,
The rhyme of sound, the harmony of souls—of silence too;
Your silence held my thoughts, my love, as mine of you;
The wingèd whispering wind that blew our sails was summer sweet—
I found my long-sought paradise crouched at thy feet.
In northern seas I weep alone, alone,
In winter seas.
Death’s hounds are on the waves, with many moans
Death’s voice comes with the breeze,
My helpless boat, rocked in the wind, obeys no steadfast hand,
Her swinging helm and ashing sheet have lost my weak command;
The shrieking sea-birds seek the sheltering shore,
The writhing waves leap upward, and their hoar
Strong hands tear at the timbers of my shuddering craft.
I cry in vain, the Fates have seen and laughed,
Time and the world have stormed my summer sea—
I ate my fruit, the serpent held the tree.
DR GEORGE SIGERSON.
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