As fire-flies fade
When the nights are damp—
As meteors are quenched
In a stagnant swamp—
Thus Charlemagne’s camp,
Where the Paladins rally,
And the Diamond Valley,
And the Wonderful Lamp,
And all the wonders
Of Ganges and Nile,
And Haroun’s rambles,
And Crusoe’s isle,
And Princes who smile
On the Genii’s daughters
’Neath the Orient waters
Full many a mile,
And all that the pen
Of Fancy can write,
Must vanish
In manhood’s misty light—
Squire and Knight,
And damosels’ glances,
Sunny romances
So pure and bright!
These have vanished,
And what remains?
Life’s budding garlands
Have turned to chains—
Its beams and rains
Feed but docks and thistles,
And sorrow whistles
O’er desert plains!
The Fair Hills of Eiré, O!
(After the Irish of DONOGH MAC CON-MARA.)
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN
Take a blessing from my heart to the land of my birth,
And the fair Hills of Eiré, O!
And to all that yet survive of Eibhear’s tribe on earth,
On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!
In that land so delightful the wild thrush’s lay—
Seems to pour a lament forth for Eiré’s delay—
Alas! alas! why pine I a thousand miles away
From the fair Hills of Eiré, O!
The soil is rich and soft—the air is mild and bland,
Of the fair Hills of Eiré, O!
Her barest rock is greener to me than this rude land—
O! the fair Hills of Eiré, O!
Her woods are tall and straight, grove rising over grove;
Trees flourish in her glens below, and on her heights above;
O, in heart and in soul, I shall ever, ever love
The fair Hills of Eiré, O!
A noble tribe, moreover, are the now hapless Gael,
On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!
A tribe in Battle’s hour unused to shrink or fail
On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!
For this is my lament in bitterness outpoured,
To see them slain or scattered by the Saxon sword.
Oh, woe of woes, to see a foreign spoiler horde
On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!
Broad and tall rise the cruachs in the golden morning’s glow
On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!
O’er her smooth grass for ever sweet cream and honey flow
On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!
O, I long, I am pining, again to behold
The land that belongs to the brave Gael of old;
Far dearer to my heart than a gift of gems or gold
Are the fair Hills of Eiré, O!