Ione's Dream, and other poems

Front matter

IONE'S DREAM IONE'S DREAM, aud OTHER POEMS. ny JANE EMILY HERBERT, Author of " The Bride of Imael," &c, &c. AI.ni D I S C I V. ANGLVS LONDON: WILLIAM PICKERING, PICCADILLY. 1853. To CAPTAIN LE HUNT, R.N. Knight of the Order of St. Ferdinand and Merit, ffiljts ittalnnre is inscribed with feelings of sincere respect by THE AUTHOR. CONTENTS. Page. Ione's Dream . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 Notes to do. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 125 Glendalough .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 135 Feagh O'Byrne .. .. .. .. .. .. 140 O'Brien's Bridge .. .. .. .. .. .. 143 The death of Hy Niall .. .. .. .. .. .. 154 On, on, on .. .. .. . .. .. ..157 Nora O'Tool .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 159 The Mountain Path . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 62 The O'Donnel's Last Prayer .. .. .. .. .. 164 The Crowd .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 165 Home of the Minstrel's Dream .. .. .. .. .. 167 The Beltinne Tree .. .. .. .. .. .. 169 Spring .. .. .. .. .. .. ..172, 176 Where the Breezes roam . . . . . . . . . . 175 Summer .. .. .. .. .. 178 Days of my Childhood .. .. .. .. .. .. 181 Autumn .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 182 do. .. .. .. .. .. .. 184 Winter time . . . . . . . . . . . . . 186 My gentle Harp .. . .. .. .. ..187 Spirit of Song .. .. .. .. .. .. 189 Names we love .. .. .. .. .. .. 191 Madeline .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 192 Alone .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 194 'Twas a morning of rapture .. .. .. .. .. 195 Yes, I once .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 196 Oh! our dreams .. .. .. .. .. .. 197 Oh!

Pleasure's but a fleeting ray .. .. .. .. 198 Twilight dreams .- ■■ •• ■■ ■. .. 199 Stanzas .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 200 Lines to J. II-* d .. .. .. .. .. vi CONTENTS. Page. Time - •• 203 Oh for Life's young dream of gladness . . . . - • * • 205 I saw a young blossom . . . . . . . . • ■ ■ ■ 206 The flower types . . . . . . . . • - ■ • 207 Girlhood .. .. .. .. .. •- •■ 210 I love the breath of the changing breeze . . . . • • • • 211 Stanzas .. .. .. .. .. .. , -• 213 Our Summer dream of happiness .. .. .. •• 214" They tell us oft .. .. .. .. .. .. 216 What is Money after all .. . . .. •• •• 217 Shadows of the passing time . . . . ■ ■ . ■ • • 220 Thou shalt remember yet .. -. .. •- •• 221 Fancy's reign .. .. .. .. .. .. ■■ 223 Ohl it's sad .. .. .. .. .. -- -. 225 I see thee .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 226 The memory of the past . . . . . . . . . . . . 227 Together .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 228 The same to me . . . . . . . . . . . . 229 Watch thy words . . . . . . . . . . . . 230 I met thee .. .. .. . .. .. ..231 When soft voices . . . . . . . . . . . . 232 How sweet it is to linger . . . . . . . . . . 233 A Dirge for Wellington . . . . . . . . , . TONE'S DREAM.

Chapter I

No more with toils the forest to beset, No more for war his heroic arms to whet ; But thus intent a quiet life to lead. Irish Poem on Innisfallen. How small, of all that human hearts endure, That part which laws or kings can cause or cure ! Still to ourselves in every place consign 'd Our own felicity we make or find. Goldsmith . It was not in the sunny lands, where glow Eyes glorious and intense, as are their skies ; "Where placid waters image, as they flow, A soft reflection of the burning dies That radiate their heavens — or murmured low ; The lover breathes, not words, but raptur'd sighs ; Where perfumed zephyrs float in ambient light, And kiss the slumbering lake and bowers at night. Not where thy impassioned sons, 0 Italie ! Sleep in their chains, and dream their lives away ; Land of the gifted — crown and panoply — Land of old glories buried in decay, B Fain would we linger with thy paths and thee, Where round the broken column the flowerets stray, Even as a trace of freedom still remains, Clinging around the memory of Pome's great battle plains Not where the broad and peaceful ocean flows, O Greece, amongst thy rich and countless isles ; "Where the fall'n ruin still its shadow throws, Old Time's memorial of departed piles, And mould 'ring grandeur — where the ocean goes Up like a mourning child, when morning smiles, And ever for ever guardeth with its wave, Thy land's most sacred spot — great Homer's grave.

Not where the Adriatic flows and falls In through thy channels, where gondolas glide, 0 Venice, by thy wondrous city walls, Rear'd up by mighty hands in stately pride, When islets grew unto the suffering calls Of heroes — one great city on the tide, More in its palaces, its wealth, and power, Than all the cities of its fall'n hour. Not where among the Rhætian Alps, the feet Of fearless Cimbri once in thousands pass'd By rocks where stern and pathless gorges meet, And as the swelling torrent swift and vast In strength as storm-lash'd waves, as thunders fleet, Through the Tridantine gorge, like lightnings cast, In savage grandeur peopling the plains, And peace and beauty die in lawless chains. fall Where flows the Ænus down the Inspruck vale, And Tyrol's capital rears up its wall Below the glaciers, in the snow clouds pale, Where glittering ice-drops through the sunbeams Or falls the avalanche — fell'd by the gale — Rent from the Alps — bold, turret-like, and tall- Its path destruction, by the hills of snow, As whirlwind spent where Alpine flowerets grow.

Where golden flowers adorn the swelling glen — Woods rising up upon its sloping sides ; Where caves are hid, and ancient homes of men Out-top in ruins, which Time's passing strides Has only left the beast another den ; Or still the clinging weed in love divides The tottering ruin, with the stern decay, That wastes, and wears, and scatters it away. Nor thou, Bernacus, famed by Virgil's muse, And by Catullus' more impassion'd lay, Nor thou Argnato, where the falling dews "Weep by Petrarca's grave — yet could I stray From my poor land, my fancy could but choose To linger there — and Angering so — to pray That some sweet spirit by that grave asleep, Might make my numbers flow, bold, tender, deep. But thou, 0 Spain, where ancient pride and name Make monstermountains out of hate — and fear Is never known — and man is bold for fame — True to his virtues, in his wrath sincere, And wild dark eyes flash with a living flame, And lashes never tremble to a tear Their pride can hide — in wild devotion strong.

Of such, and of thy children's truth, my song. Of thee, and of our lov'd, our colder clime, "Where mountains sadly veil them in a cloud, Like dreamy memories of the olden time, From misty vapours peer the snowy brow'd, Where down from pinnacles the streams descend, 'Till torrents swelling, with their voices loud, And louder growing, in one mighty fall, They wake the mountain echoes with their call. "Where glens are wild, and richly passionate, And rivers flow through vales of living green, And bright as pearls in kingly crowns of state, The lowly flower that holds the mountain sheen, Or on the brooklet lays its gentle weight, Or turns to sunbeams, where the alders lean ; And willows lithe with budding hazel twine Beneath the cliff, full crown'd with stately pine. Where nature bloom'd, and only homes were cold, For battle's sanguine path lay far away ; But son and sire went forth in days of old, And no one ask'd if that or these be they Who warlike deeds confess'd, for all were bold, And with their chieftain sought the dread affray The -trumpet sounded, and the noisy gong, And woman's wail, above the harper's song.

How many a breaking heart was left behind, To pour its tears and sorrows to the wind ; To look away unto a world of war, And see their brave beneath the victor's car : How many a noble youth, the village pride, Returns no more — they know not where he died : Does he with other wretches share the grave Dug deep and wide by yonder lonely wave ; Or in some mountain gorge, where eagles feed, Lies the lone dead beneath the waving reed ? They know not — none may ever know — when strife Gives to the brother's hand the murderous knife. When civil war breaks o'er a doomed land, Religion, Virtue, Truth, no longer stand Beside the household fire — Peace, takes her flight, And all the desert shore is bath'd in night. Blind with a fierce intoxicating rage, Uncaring why the furious zealots wage War with their neighbours first, and then, untired, Turn on the very men their rage had fired.

And here in this mysterious clime Sweet lone dwelt — child of my rhyme — Not in the proud luxurious town, Where stately dames walk forth at noon Beneath a mountain's dusky frown, Where rocks fling shadows to the moon, And ocean billows rock and roar Along a wild uneven shore ; Where waving broom, and feather'd fern, Stand round the homes of mountain kern ; ') Where sea pink's bloom, and heather bell Make bright the lone and darksome dell ; Where rocky peaks out-top the chase, There dwelt our gentle lone Grace. Her castle home was stern and bold — It mock'd the ocean as it roll'd ; The fortress of its rocky sides Gave battle to the surging tides. An ocean tower with many a stone, By moss and sea-flowers overgrown, Projecting from the broken arch, Half shattered by Time's hurried march ; The heaving billows swept the steep, Indented by their changeless sweep, While beetling rocks kept mighty hold Against the waters fierce and bold.

High o'er the castle proud and tall, Stood up the mountain's stately wall, Amongst the thunders, stern and lone — Its brow the Eagles' lofty throne. A many a sunny nook was there, And there the rest of harried deer, And summer sun and floweret fair Vied with the mist and darksome meer ; And there our lovely forest child Grew up as beautiful as wild. Sir Raymond was a noble knight, And well the foeman knew His steed fierce prancing through the fight Where the boasting banners flew. They knew the waving of his spear — They knew his bended bow — They knew his men like mountain deer When sweeping on the foe. But now his sword in rusted shade, No longer cuts the blast; No longer shews the polish'd blade He wielded in the past, His dismal battle-axe is lying Against the ancient wall ; The ghost of fame is ever sighing In that armorial hall ; Where coats of mail, and trophies won On many a well fought field, Proclaim the hero's hand is done With glave, and spear, and shield.

That spear was first, in high career, To sweep the dangerous pass — To bear upon the hidden foe, Down through the deep morass. But fate a darksome doom decreed; The hero found no victor's meed ; No annals of his fame were laid "Within the Abbey's stately shade. His lost, and lone, and shatter'd band, Remain'd without their guiding hand ; No more the minstrel strings his lyre, To chant his soul of patriot fire, He turned with war's uneven tide, And laid his martial helm aside. The loveliest of her Saxon race, Was wedded to Sir Raymond Grace ; As fresh as Morning's earliest rose, Just burst in Summer's sweet repose : A gem of Beauty's living light, Yet gaining something still more bright, More glowing from the spotless mind Where all was lovely — all refined. Beside a broad expanded lake, Upon whose glowing breast, Green isles among its ripples, break The quiet of its rest.

Beneath the Curlew's fertile crest, The Ke and Meelagh ever hold The waters from the brimming Gara ; And tall Benbulben, black and bold, Lies far beyond Derreenasallagh ; And Lough-na-Sheidh, and Loughnagalleah- All tending to the Sea of Sheen — The mighty Shannon — on its breast A hundred isles of living green Lying at rest. Where groves of oak, in belted streaks, Lie dark against the skies, With turrets tall, and carved peaks, His lordly halls arise. And there the reign of mirth and joy, Mocks at the phantom shade — alloy ; Young faces clustered round his knee — Sweet voices laugh'd in summer glee ; Light footsteps bounding swift and bold, Their echoes to the valley told ; Young heads suntinged and ringleted Danced in the morn, and sweet young eyes Heaven's light upon his spirit shed — They were the star-beams of his skies ; But now — and bud and blossom rest, Beside Lough Meelagh's peaceful breast.

The pinnacle of joy was gained, For which his heart had madly strain'd ; The voice of country, honor, pride, Grew dim and distant — faded — died. His foot had touched the height of joy, Where Pleasure's lamp beamed to decoy ; His all was in that household band, When death flung in his burning brand. And voice by voice the copsewood lost — The glee within its shingles toss'd — The ripples of the murmuring lake With sad and mournful dirges break Upon the lonely shore : the song That cheer'd its moaning wave so long — The laugh of childhood, never more Returning, shall its waves deplore ; And zephyrs, sounding in the dell, Mourn for the bright things lov'd so well. B The last of all, with golden hair, In clusters falling low, Young Walter plays like floweret fair, The roses ruddy glow Fresh on his cheek — what deadly foe, — "What deadlier wave's encircling flow, Has won Sir Raymond's child?

In vain The madden'd father rides the plain ! A wither'd waste of agony, The stately warrior dwells Beside the ocean's thund'ring swell, By haunted caves and wells. Within this dark and shadowy home The fairy-footed lone grew, A thing of light — a wayward gnome A gem for ever new : For ever lighting up, and giving Back to his heart the thought of living. Of all the memories of the past, She lived the brightest and the last — A blossom growing out of care, And sorrow, oft she tried to share ; Her silken curls laid back, she'd twine Her hands in his, and thus divine The shadow of Iris thought — no speech. No power of earthly words could teach The faintest shadow of the love That so did move The grief-worn ruin wreck 'd and lost, A waif on Time's destroying coast, And her the infant dove — As each by tenderest accents prove.

And yet, how changed the heroic son of fame ! For laurels now he seeks the Christian's name — The living spirit born and sent by love From halls immortal — high, as truth above The false — above the trickeries of earth, Had grown within his heart, ripe at its birth Tho' young, yet strong in charity and grace : His name became an annal in the place. He lived in silent solitude, Far from the world, its storm and feud. Young lone, now a girl, almons his care — A sun of joy illumining despair; She moves along a path of peace and flowers — Her deepest pleasure giving to the poor, Not gifts alone, but that which like soft showers Unto the parched earth, and even as pure, Revived the fainting — sweet and tender thought ! — The thing unask'd, in gracious bounty brought ; And so to Misery's heart-wrung children given, Those proud who still without complaint had striven, That not a shadow of their pride destroyed, They took the gift, nor felt the good alloy 'd — They took their need — they fancied it a loan — Such loving grace was round her accents thrown.

Behind the rock and stately town A river to the ocean roll'd, Its banks were hung with many a flower, And purple bloom, and tint of gold ; And pale white lily blossoms lay Like gems upon its tide, Far slowing to the distant bay, Wider, and still more wide. Beneath the mountain's heath-crown'd peak, In shelter of a western hill, The wandering footsteps still may seek That little town — it standeth still — With steeple high, and ruined tower ; But little better now than then, When war was king of every hour, And this was but the outlaw's den, It stood beside that widening stream. A transient time of peaceful rest, Has left the corn in ripening gleam Upon the hillock's crest ; And hearts are light, and skiffs are cast Where ocean meets the northern blast. It was an early morn in June, When fairies take them to their dreams, And birds give out their heavenly tune, And zephyrs play on thrilling streams Amongst that lovely caroling, Where aspens twitter in the wind, And willows shade the mountain spring — Where stands the panting hind.

The copse-hung glen lies hush'd and still — The castle darkens o'er the hill — And black and dim the mountain lies, WTith woody waste and shaggy path ; Its shapeless forms like clouds arise Above the haunted rath. All nature hail'd the rising dawn. In that old summer time, When purple heather deck'd the lawn, And the trumpet's shrilly chime Awoke the echoes in the glen, And the wild birds in the brake, The groaning wolf in his distant den, And the children of the lake. How sweet the youthful voices chiming Down on the bent-clad shore, Where Ocean's waves come climbing, climbing. It's murmurs evermore, Mixing with theirs eternally A sweet music of its own — For ever still in the whispering sea Do we hear the same sweet tone ; — The same at first, the same at last, The ocean owns no past; Its briny waters are still the same As the day when first it own'd its name !

The voices chime, and the fingers meet, And the spreading net is laid ; The sunny-hair'd, with their glancing feet. Amongst the sands have play'd ; The rosy cheek, and the flashing eye, With the voice so fresh and blithe, And the flowing robes of their native dye Round figures so supple and lithe. They look'd like fairy nymphs at dawn, By the edge of the murmuring foam ; But the light on the lip of Alena Bawn Was like the smile of a gnome. This was the soft-eyed fisher maid Who oft had trip'd through the summer glade And gathered gems from the silv'ry tide By our lovely Ione's side — The curious pebble and fretted stone By moss and shells all overgrown. For far on a rock that toppled the wave Our ocean child had a curious cave, And there was a grotto mysterious, wrought Of diamond stones from the ocean brought, Strange shells from the golden sand below, It glittered bright in the morning's glow ; But another hand and a loving care Had plac'd the bright memorial there.

The hues of eighteen summers' rays Lay on the cheek and glittering hair, And placed that shadow in the eye As darkly grey as autumn sky, Of young Alena Hays ; Her footstep has a thoughtful air, And on her smile a shadow falls, When standing by the stream at eve Where soft the cushat's nursling calls, And forest boughs strange fancies weave. As many years but two have shed Their fight on Ione's thoughtful head — A mountain child, rear'd up in dreams, Amid the splash of mountain streams, Beside the raging voice of waves, And mystic echoing of caves ; As fearless as the sea-bird seen Perch'd on the billow's topmost sheen, Or eaglet on the peak, alone, Secure upon its native throne ; Yet gentle as the doe at rest, Beside the broad lake's peaceful breast. No softer heart e'er rose and fell To feeling's sympathetic swell ; And yet as wayward, passionate, and proud, Cold as the northern wind when in her soul The haughty spirit rose above control ; Tho' oft to softer tones that spirit bow'd : Pure as the snow-white kid on northern steep, The taintless thoughts within that bosom's keep The Fileah sat in the ancient hall, Where trophies hung on the dusty wall ; The knight was there, and an ancient dame Within the bannered portal came, With flowing garments, silver cased, And petticoat of woollen cloth, And scarlet sandals, tightly laced Above her ankles, Grace Fitzmaurice, Sister of our Ione's mother ; While lone, in a crimson bodice And petticoat of green below A snow-white coachal's ample flow, Sat by her father and another Ancient chieftain from the wars, Wearing his armour and his stars.

The Filea sang, and Ione's cheek Grew paler than the milk-white kid ; Twas well her lip had nought to speak- 'Twas well her paling cheek was hid ; Her dark eye rested on the ground, Her hair fell round her like a cloud, From out its golden net unbound, As low her head was bowed. This was the purport of his lay — That Ione's hand was pledg'd and given Her father's plighted word had bound A chain that never might be riven. Maiden of the curling hair, Daughter of the dark-eyed race, Bend thine eyes of purest light, Veil the blushes on thy face. In thy mystic cloud of tresses Hide thy pearly throat of snow; And thy figure's graceful curvings In thy mantle's spreading flow. Dark Iberians come to woo thee, Queen of this lone ocean fort : Never shall they match thy beauty In their proud and haughty court.

Let the son of the Hidalgo Search the castle homes of Spain, He shall never match our blossom, Rear'd beside the flowing main. Raise thine eyes and hear, oh, daughter, Thou wert pledg'd in deadly strife — Pledg'd to save thy noble father — Pledg'd to be the Spaniard's wife ! lone did not faint nor tremble ; Softly glides her light foot-fall, Tho' a simoom sweeps her bosom As she leaves that olden hall. Alena sat at Ione's feet Upon the tall cliff's calm retreat ; They stray'd as oft they roved of old Along the mountain's heathy wold ; They watched the wild bird's plumage drink The nectar from the ocean's brink. If lone, from a very child, Had grown the Peri of the wild — Beloved by all that little town, As something high o'er fortune's frown ; And lone loved the fisher maid — A gem on Nature's bosom laid — A smiling treasure, all her own, For ever on her pathway thrown : Like angel shrine to bend before — A thing she almost dare adore, '> lone was in Alena's heart Enshrined — almost a very part Of all her thoughts.

With sudden flush From Ione's glance she takes her wish, And falls her cloud of massy hair Full streaming in the morning air ; She stoops to hide the starting tear — Within her heart a sudden fear Had call'd to life — a secret thought Must now, in fancied colours wrought, Be bared before another's eyes. And thus it is Alena sighs ; But sees upon the glittering brine A hand fling forth the corded line, And true to feelings strong as death, She tries to calm her panting breath, And tell her simple tale, Thus pointing to the golden sail : — " There, Lady of the shining hair, Far out in light of summer air, Upon that curragh's bounding deck, Now seen a far and distant speck Upon the ocean's silver wave, There stands Alena's life or grave ; For where the spirit seeks its rest, There lies its grave, or there it's bless'd !

She touch'd the Keirnine's glowing chords. And sang the inspired Fileah's song, Once chaunted for an honour'd name To a proud and stately throng. O'TOOL. Like the deer through the heather the foot os O'Tool, As he skims the tall cliffs that hang over Glencool, Or mounts to the rocky peak, rugged and bare, Where the eagle king dwells in his turrets of air ; Like the osier that bends o'er the breast of the wave Is the bow in the hand of the son of the brave ; And fleet as the thunder-shafts cast from the sky Were the arrows he sprung o'er the vale of Glenrigh. In his might, like the rivers o'er cataracts borne, With his clan he comes forth at the dawn of the morn. He's the son of the mighty — the lord of the field — The proud king of the mountain ; why slumbers his shield ? In the hall of the spears there is woe in the song, There is rust on the sword, there's a moan in the gong ; For the son of the mighty — the last of his race — Is no more among warriors, no more in the chase.

By the forests wild waving in lone Glenmalure Has the spear of the stranger sprung deadly and sure ; O'er the halls of his fathers the ivy has grown, Like the son of O'Tuthal bereft and alone. A something in the melody — A something in the murmuring sea — Touch'd on a chord in Ione's breast, And woke it from its quiet rest ; A transient flush of girlish shame A moment fell upon her brow To think she dwelt upon a name ; — But suddenly her vow, Like a dark spectral form of death, Stop'd the soft movement of her breath. With her rich flowing garments drawn More closely on her breast of dawn, That rose and fell like heaving snow, Stirr'd by the sudden thought below ; The hood of crimson stuff's drawn down Beside her clustering curls of brown — Beside her cheek's soft down — her eyes In new and glorious power arise Beneath their heavy lids : at last That transitory woe has pass'd. But never more the ruffled thought Shall lose the wondrous hues it caught From that one moment's inward light, So transient in its flight ; Alena wondered at the tears, The sudden paleness of her cheek, That through her smile appears In many a changing streak ; She knew not of the sound that fell, Like echo, from the lonely dell, On stately Ione's memory; Tones of a voice that still awake, Like breeze the ripples of the lake Or morn the silent lea.

The joyous laugh that oft had shook The stillness of the mountain nook — The voice whose liquid music told Of battle-field and foray bold ; But grief — stern grief, is resting now Upon the maiden's heart and brow ; She sees a form of stately mien, With glittering spear and cloak of green, Such as old Moma's voice has sung When last the ancient harp was strung, Where late she gave that pledge that cast Annihilation on the past. Thus born to grief her spirit sighs, When first awake the ecstacies Of love. No air had ever moved That bore the sound that she was lov'd ; 'Twas but the earliest dawning gleam Of earth's most wild and stormy dream ; And thus it was she felt a shame At even the memory of a name : She almost long'd to share the lot Of the humble fisher child, In tho peaceful rest of her lowly cot, With her hopes so free and wild.

And yet a-many a shade may fall On the lowly heart in the cabin wall ; For Alena wandering down the path, By the lowly wood and the ancient rath, Sigh'd, sadly sigh'd, tho' the lov'd was there And the sunset glow'd on his golden hair. Mac Dermot, of the falcon eye,the heir Of many a king of haughty race and bold, Now made his home by western waters, where The rocky cliffs redoubling echoes roll'd ; And mountains up into the wild clouds cast Their cone-like pinnacles, blue, stern, and cold : His clan, a remnant of the ages past ; His name within his lonely castle told By aged minstrels : and his son, a youth Of haughty mien, last of his race and name — The soul of honour — mighty in his truth — Had liv'd since childhood with this son of fame. Even as his own the noble Raymond sought To make the boy the model of the man ; And all the knight so well and truly taught Sprung up in Connor's heart, and there began To grow and flourish where all else was fair ; His voice fell softly on the summer air ; But soul and beauty mingled when he smiled, And fell upon the heart of this sweet child.