Western Lyrics

Front matter

Western ygrua. BV ANNA LOUISA HILDEMAND, (A. L. H.) DUBLIN : McGLASHAN & GILL, UP. SACKVILLE STKEET ; LONDON : SIMPKIN, MARSHALL & CO. ; EDINBURGH: J. MENZIES & CO. 1872. DUBLIN : PRINTED by w. j. ALLEY AND CO., ryder's row, capel street. DEDICATION. Was my best guerdon in the days gone by, If that departed spirits for a while May stoop to us, poor mortals 'neath the sky, I would now dedicate with tears to thee These flow'rets gathered from fond memory. Take them, oh friend, thou wert my teacher first In poesy's divinest, noblest art, It was thy sweet companionship which nurst The infant germs within me, and my heart Goes back in tender musing to the days When that my new-born Muse first won thy praise. IHE DEDICATION. Take them, they are the better part of me, They are the untrained breathings of my soul, Aught in me fair or pure I give to thee.

As backward from life's cave the stone I roll, The world may scoff at them and me, but I Have that within which 'bove it lifts me high. And when my name from its great roll departs, And low beneath its dust my body lies, If that my simple songs can touch some hearts, And dim with thoughtful tears some gentle eyes, Methinks 'twill gladden me to feel thy name Was interwoven close with my poor fame. A. L. H. PEEFACE. As with, many hopes and fears a mother commits her first-born to the great ocean of life, so do I commit this volume of poems, the first born of my sonl and of my heart, to the sea of public opinion. I know that to a critical eye many faults will be evident in the following verses. My love for them, though great, is not so blind as not to be fully alive to this ; but they have been my earliest friends, the companions of my thoughtful moments, the solace of lonely hours, the comforters of dark days — therefore, I hold them dear, and, therefore, I strive to win for them a place, however humble, however retired, in the grand edifice which the heads and VI

Preface

. hearts of noble-minded men and thoughtful, tender women have erected in our midst. The literature of a country is its noblest monument ; and to be permitted to add even a pebble to the pile is an honour I, humble though I be, aspire to. If failure iu this hope is to be my doom, let the critic pause ere he condemn me to the torture of his lash, for to quote the words of the author of " Endymion" — " There is no fiercer punish ment than the failure of a great object." A. L. H. Turloug-h, Castlebar, Co. Mayo. CONTENTS. Page. A Connemara Girl ... 97 A Child's Questions . . .110 A Defence of Woman . . 27 A Happy Home .... 42 A Greeting and Farewell . 50 A Good Woman .... 121 A Friendly Greeting . . . 190 A Legend of the Middle Ages 45 A Remembrance . . . .102 A Retrospect — Sold . . .170 A Slanderer Rebuked . . 81 A Woman of Fashion . .100 All Things Must Die . . 20 Allan and Bessie . . . . 32 All for Love, or, the World Well Lost 92 An Old Song 75 An Invocation .... 105 By the Fire 14 Betrayed 73 By the Hope Within Me Springing 109 Broken Vows 155 Christmas Day, 18 — . . 39 Church of St. Nicholas, Galway 117 Cornelia 142 Consolation . - . . . .178 Chance Meetings . . . .188 Dean KLirwan's Last Charity Sermon 186 Page.

Echoes 30 Emmet's Capture .... 128 Erin, My Country . . .136 Eleanore's Picture . . . .172 Edith's Sacrifice .... 183 Frozen to Death .... 15 Free 82 Fairy Land 147 Fleeting 148 Home 13 Home From the Wars — " Disfigured" 18 Historic Kisses .... 27 Home Sickness .... 66 In Memoriam 53 Incorruptible Treasure . . 62 Invocation to the Muse . . 94 Ida's Faith ...... 179 Kylemore Lake . , . . 86 Life's Lessons 70 Love versus Fame .... 149 Leonore 159 My Alice 17 My Colleen 40 Maelise's Last Painting . . 52 Mabel's Lovers . . . . 77 My Star CONTENTS. Page. No Man Hath Hired Us .127 No Irish Need Apply . .166 Our Blind Child .... 72 Out of Danger . . . .104 Our Little Princess . . .152 Peaceful Evenings . . . 151 Remorse 183 Rosamond's Bower . . . 139 Stella's Epitaph . . . . 26 Spring Flowers .... 41 Song 49 Spirit Music 55 Sir Philip Sidney J. ... 93 Sucked Oranges . . . .116 The Eagle and the Dove . 7 The Maid and the Rose . 21 The Sicilian Mother's Lament for her Daughter ... 22 Time Brings Roses ... 24 The Hidden Wound ... 25 The Lovers 29 The Huguenot Lovers . . 31 The Blind Man's Bride . . 44 The Haven of Rest ... 51 To One'.Beloved .... 57 The Forsaken 58 Page.

The Letter-Box .... 60 The Burial of Napoleon in Paris 64 True Fortitude .... 67 The Haunted Mind ... 68 The Waves' Replies ... 76 The Escape -83 Turning Over the Leaves . 87 To A. M. H. on her 17th Birthday 90 To — on R — Weeping . 96 The Post Bag 107 The Turlough River. . .112 The Muse's Defence on Hearing Her Contemned . . 122 The Devil's Holiday . . 125 The Old Story 131 The Way of the World . . 134 To a Sea Bird 143 Through Evil Report . . 146 The Approach of Summer . 156 The Grave of Balfe . . .163 The Spectre Bridegroom . 173 The Ballad of Effie Burton . 175 The Turning of the Tide . 187 Woman's Rights . . . .168 Union is Strength . . . .119 "VacVictis" "WtsAmt jlpa" THE EAGLE AND THE DOVE. COME rest thee, beside this river, And sing me that plaintive air, While I watch thy starry eyes peeping Thro' the clouds of thy silken hair.

And I will forget my sorrows, And my spirit will glide along As this stream thro' the fragant meadows On the wings of thy sweet old song. And 'twill waft me back to the springtide That in visions I behold ; 'Twill turn dim eyes to sapphires, And silver locks to gold. 'Twill banish the scars and furrows From many an aching brow ; 'Twill call back the vanished faces That are dust in the churchyard now. Yes, sing me the song of my childhood, That I learned at my mother's knee, In each pause of thy tender music I will catch the deep voice of the sea. I will hear its waves repeating In tender and tuneful tone, The burden of that old ballad Which around my heart has grown. 'Twas the tale of a lordly eagle Who had wooed a forest dove, To share his lofty eyrie And yield her heart's deep love. But she told him she was not worthy, That no fitting mate was she For him in his power and beauty ; That her home was a greenwood tree.

But he came in the early morning, And he came in the twilight grey, And at last to his rocky fortress He bore the sweet dove away. But her soul was sick within her For the bowers of her forest home, And ever her eyes were turning Away o'er the salt sea's foam. And ever above the thunders That shook her cloud-capt nest, She heard the song of the woodlands In their rustling raiment drest. Then day by day she faded, And day by day she sighed For the home of her snowy sisterhood, Who in leafy coverts hide. i The voice of her lordly lover, Or the kingly love he gave, Could not still her spirit's yearning — But wherefore so pale and grave ? Does it grieve thee to think, one evening When the waves 'neath the sun blushed red In the home where her lord had borne her The forest dove lay dead ? Ah, child, would'st thou know the meaning Of this quaint old tale I tell ?

Nay, turn not thine eyes from me, Ethel, Methinks thou knowest it well. And he of the stately presence, And he of the eagle eye, Whom yester eve in the gloaming I saw passing our dwelling by, In whose veins the blood of monarchs With quickened tide doth flow, Must not pluck our one sweet violet To twine round his lordly brow. Why does he covet the fiow'ret, That low by the wayside grows, When within his pleasaunce stately Blooms many a queenly rose. Bethink thee, child of the eyrie, Of the eagle's woodland mate ; Bethink thee of one who watches E'en now, by the garden gate. He has loved thee from thy childhood, No belted knight is he ; But the heart that beats in his bosom Is true as heart may be. And better the woodman's cottage, Better an honest name, Than the silken couch of a noble, And a heritage of shame.

Now hie thee to thy chamber, The wind blows cold and chill ; Long since in his car of glory Sank the sun behind the hill. And when to-night thou'rt saying Thy prayers by thy quiet bed, Bethink thee, child, of the eyrie Where the forest dove lay dead. 'Twas night, but no moon was shining In thro' the lattice pane, When the maiden rose from her pillow, While her tears fell fast as rain ; And with footsteps light as the snowflake That floats thro' the midnight air ; Like a shadowy ghost from a churchyard. She stole down the creaking stair. And out into the darkness With lapwing's haste she sped ; Then paused as she reached the covert, To list for her warrior's tread. A moment, and crushing the fern leaves, With eager steps he came, And bent on the shrinking maiden His eyes of ardent flame. And swept back the veiling tresses, Her sweet young face to see ; But e'er he could clasp her to him She sank down on her knee.

" My Lord, I have sinned deeply, The eagle's no mate for the dove — To-night they told me a story — A story of hapless love. " They told me of shame and sorrow, They told me of doom and death ; Nay, seek not to raise me fondly, Here will I breathe my last breath." " Now by the Holy Virgin, And by mine ancient name, Methinks thou hast grown fickle — As fickle as courtly dame. •'What aileth thee, little Ethel, That thou ravest thus to-night ? S'death, girl, thou shak'st like an aspen, And thy cheek is ashen white. " Here on the heart that loves thee, Mine own sweet flow'ret rest ; May the foul fiend blast the babbler That has tortured thy timid breast. " Does not love make all men equal ? And what is my wealth to me, If 'neath my castle's rooftree No shelter is found for thee ? " Now by mine ancient lineage, And by my father's sword, By the knightly faith of the warrior Who never broke plighted word, " This hand that thine is clasping In honour thine doth hold.

Aye, cling closer, little trembler, Deem not I think thee bold." May God in his mercy shield them. These lovers fond and true ; For e'en now thro' the wood's green tresses A winged arrow flew, And o'er his faithful bosom Her pure blood spouted red — In the arms of her lordly lover, The forest Dove lay dead. HOME I HOME. j AN humble room, but rich to me, As tho' with silken broidery Its walls were hung ; Not e'en the palaces of kings Have in them two more precious things Their gems among. It holds my all, this little place, A gentle woman's winsome face With feeling lit ; The index to the tender heart On which, methinks, the largest part Has my name writ. And, if you look, you well can see Something reposing on her knee Her child and mine. Our one wee lamb, our pure pale pearl. Our darling little baby girl, With eyes divine.

Her mother's eyes, so dark, so deep, So wond'rous, waking from her sleep. Sweet wife let me Just kneel beside thee for awhile, And watch her happy dimpling smile Regarding thee. Which is the dearer ; she or thou ? All, love that I can never know, I only feel That thou, sweet child, and thou, sweet wife Are both far dearer than my life As thus I kneel. BY THE FIRE. j BY THE FIRE. f WITHOUT 'tis bleak and bitter cold A wild and stormy night, But sit thee here my own sweetheart, Here in the warm firelight — The warm firelight, my own sweetheart, The blessed warm firelight. Hark ! how the sullen thunder peals, How loudly booms the sea ! But closer cling to me sweetheart Still closer unto me. Closer to me, my own sweetheart, Still closer unto me. How sweet to look in those dear eyes, To know them answering mine : To feel my burning soul, sweetheart, Is echoed back by thine.

Is echoed back by thine, sweetheart, Is echoed back by thine. We have not much of worldly gear, But better far than gold Is true fond love, my own sweetheart, That is not bought nor sold. That is not bought nor sold, sweetheart That is not bought nor sold. In storm or calm we'll ever keep Our guiding star in sight, And to life's close may we, sweetheart, Love as we love to-night. Here in the warm firelight, sweetheart, The blessed warm firelight. FROZEN TO DEATH. 1 FROZEN TO DEATH. | [In Sir Leopold McClintock's Artie Expedition the body of a young Spaniard was found in the ice in a state of perfect preservation.] HE lies not asleep 'neath his sunny vines Or his fragrant orange bowers, The budding spring will ne'er deck his grave With all its wealth of flowers. No loving footsteps will ever break That slumberer's repose ; For he lies on the shores of the frozen main Where the icy north wind blows.

No cross erected by pious hands A watch o'er his grave will keep, No maiden will come in the dewy eve Beside his couch to weep. For him was no mournful death wail sung, No funeral masses said, In the loving breast of our mother earth His form will ne'er be laid. For he sleeps, he sleeps, and nor prayers nor tears Can break his profound repose ; He lies on the shores of the frozen main, Where the icy north wind blows. A robe of snow was his winding sheet, His winding sheet and grave, His masses were sung by the whisp'ring sea, In many a far off cave. FROZEN TO DEATH. tears The lovely stars of a polar night Were the tapers round his bed ; He slept his last sleep with a pillow of ice Beneath his weary head. The cold north winds sang his lullaby, As round his couch they crept, And the moon was the only mourner there To watch him as he slept.

He had laid him down in the soft soft snow. And in thought he was at home, He had 'scaped from his dreary solitude, He had crossed the ocean's foam ; He stood 'neath the vine clad hills of Spain, He saw his cottage door, Then softly softly he sank to sleep To awaken nevermore. Oh ! mother, mother, that keepest watch, Still waiting from day to day, Go not at morn to the Holy Well, To our Lady's grace to pray. .Oh, maiden fix not thy longing eyes For ever on the sea, He cometh not back, he cometh not back, He will never come back to thee. For he sleeps, he sleeps, and nor prayers nor Can break his profound repose, He lies on the shores of the frozen main, Where the icy north wind blows. MY ALICE. I MY ALICE. I MY sister, my soul's love, my darling, my own, I am parted from thee and my heart feels alone, I yearn, but in vain, for thy sweet winsome face, And I long for the touch of thy tender embrace, My Alice !

I can see thee before me, thy dark braided hair, That droops like a cloud o'er thy forehead so fair, And thy lovelighted eyes, that like stars shining out, Fling a shower of glory and radiance about. My Alice ! Yet it is not thy beauty, my darling, I prize, Not thy rose tinted mouth nor thy silken fringed eyes. 'Tis the soul and the heart that so truly can speak, In thy eloquent glance and thy swift changing cheek. My Alice ! 'Tis the feeling, the rapture, that of thy warm heart, With its pulses all fire, my life has a part, That whatever my sins or my shortcomings be, I am sure of fond pity and pardon from thee, My Alice ! Oh ! girl of my blessing and girl of my prayers, In this cold world of sorrow and sighing and tears, In this wilderness path that thy dear feet must tread. May the rainbow of promise hang over thy head, My Alice !

My love is but weakness, but better than mine Is' the love that God gives thee, that ever is thine, Bethink thee my dear one, whatever the gloom, We look for a better and happier home, My Alice ! HOME FROM THE WARS " DISFIGURED. Now farewell my own love, keep ever my place, I hold thee to-day in my spirit's embrace ; And thou, ne'er forget me when years have gone by, And time steals life's music to leave but its sigh. My Alice ! Yes, love of my heart, when thou art grown old, And this poor form of mine in the churchyard is cold, And this voice that's now speaking is silent and still, May a mem'ry of me give thy bosom a thrill, My Alice •*■" ' 'L llllllUIUIIMUk. j HOME FROM THE WARS— " DISFIGURED." f SUMMER in the sunshine, Summer in the air, Summer in my bosom, Summer everywhere, Why ? because she loves me, She will not despise All these scars and seamings, Dearer in her eyes.

Shrunk I from the meeting, Feared to seek her door, Lest one glance should tell me Everything was o'er. But my darling clasped me Closer to her breast, And on my scarred forehead Tender kisses prest. HOME FROM THE WARS "DISFIGURED." 19 Said I was her hero, Chid me for my fears, Stroked my empty coat-sleeve, 'Dewed it with her tears ; Brought the softest pillows, Made me lie quite still, Said she was my captain, I should do her will. Said that since I left her, Light had left the day ; 'Tis a way with women, Such a winning way. God for ever bless her, God for ever spare Her who makes my summer, Summer everywhere. ALL THINGS MUST DIE. _^____ 'ilium ALL THINGS MUST DIE? ALL things must die, so saith the proverb olden, Yet to the sad refrain I make reply, Write thou the glorious truth, each word is golden, Deep in men's hearts, some things can never die.

The whispered word of trust and fond affection, The lofty musing in the thoughtful hour, The glance that was the upright soul's reflection, The song that nerved our failing hands to power The record of some vict'ry o'er temptation, The generous impulse and the purpose high, The noble deed, the spirits glad elation — These things can never fade, can never die. Dust must return to dust, the grave must cover What most we value from our yearning eye, Low lies the child, the father, husband, lover, All that is mortal must decay and die. But fadeless and undying, the glad spirit Flings off the fetters that upon it weighed, Aud in that world which patient souls inherit, Nothing shall ever die, or change, or fade. ■11 THE MAID AND THE ROSE. THE MAID AND THE ROSE. HOW chill and cold, Widely unrolled, Cloud banners float athwart the sky, And on her bed The rose lies dead, Who poured her soul out in a sigh.

Oft in these bowers, In byegone hours, She to the breezes sweets has poured. But now their breath Chills her to death, And slays the beauty they adored. E'en so the maid Whose hopes are laid Upon the shrine of traitor's faith; His love once past Droops i' the blast And withers, like the rose, to death. THE SICILIAN MOTHER'S LAMENT THE SICILIAN MOTHER'S HER DAUGHTER. LAMENT FOR FROM THE ORIGINAL. HERE she lies my little daughter, Maiden fair of fifteen years ; Christ unto himself has caught her, But all fastly flow my tears. When I see her thus before me, A chill agony comes o'er me. With her tresses all unbraided, In her richest robes arrayed, Save that her rose cheek has faded, None could dream death's hand had laid His dread signet on her brow, — Ah, my girl, where art thou now ? Born wert thou for bowers celestial, Thou our queenly radiant rose !

Thou wouldst droop 'neath skies terrestrial Where the wintry tempest blows. Stolen awhile from Paradise, Now thou seek'st thy native skies. As the moon the stars outshineth Thou all others didst outshine, Many a heart in sorrow pineth, Grief is not alone in mine. I have seen full many an eye Brighten as thy form drew nigh. THE SICILIAN MOTHER'S LAMENT. 23 In the holy chapel kneeling I have watched their hearts grow faint ; While the fading sunlight stealing Down o'er sculptured nun and saint. Filling all the sacred place, Flung a glory on thy face. I have seen the red blood flushing To thy modest downcast brow, All the pure stream swiftly rushing, Crimsoned the fair front of snow, As their glances met thine eye, As thine ears caught each fond sigh. Who will now console or cheer me ? Thou my only hope art gone, When I call who now will hear me, I must ever be alone.

Why did God desire thee so ? Why, my daughter, didst thou go ? If I could but die and meet thee, Be wherever now thou art, Hear thy sweet voice once more greet me, Clasp thee to my aching heart, If I could but find the shore Where I ne'er should lose thee more. Child I know thou art in Heaven, Kneel thee ever at God's feet, 'Till thou hear'st the summons given And the swift-winged angels fleet Bear me to a perfect rest In the mansions of the blest. TIME BRINGS ROSES. TIME BRINGS ROSES. OLD PROVERB. DARKNESS changeth into light, Trials turn to treasure, Heaviness endures a night, Dawn brings pleasure. Flowers bud from rotting leaves, Joys chase sorrow, He, to-day, who groans and grieves Smiles to-morrow. Bitter is the proffered cup, Wild the wailing, But be brave and drink it up Heart ne'er failing.

Cowards only turn and fly, Brave men strength discover ; Sweet the smile that hides the sigh, Anguish masking over. Grasp your nettle, 'twill not sting, Grasp it boldly, brother, Be o'er circumstance a king, Vain repining smother. Darkness changes aye to light, Trials turn to treasure, Heaviness endures a night, Dawn brings pleasure. THE HIDDEN WOUND. 25 THE HIDDEN WOUND. YOU bid me dry the foolish tears With which my cheeks are wet, You tell me life has nobler aims Than useless vain regret, I thank the kindly Provideace That's done so much for me, But there's a wound within my breast No eye but God's can see. I strive to do my household work As it is right and meet, I joy me in the children's talk And in their kisses sweet ; But when they're nestling in their beds And silence dwells with me, I feel the wound within my breast No eye but God's can see.

I love to see the wakened earth Blush 'neath the rising sun, I love to hear the lark's loud song That tells the day's begun ; But when the twilight's misty veil Falls soft o'er hill and lea, I feel the wound within my breast No eye but God's can see. When all my daily tasks are done I put my work away, Arid kneeling down beside my bed I strive to think and pray ; But in the strange weird world of sleep Dead faces peer at me, And oh the wound within my breast No eye but God's can see. Stella's epitaph. | STELLA'S EPITAPH. | Kl "' •*_!hi nii:iillli IIINIIIlNillllLU^ "ONLY A WOMAN'S HAIR." ONLY a woman's hair, Only a heap of dust, Only a life woe darkened, Only a murdered trust. Only a soul troth slighted, Only a little token, Only a mute memento Of a heart by anguish broken. Only a world of passion Prest into one short hour, Only a sweet bud blasted Just as it set to flower.

Only a noon of rapture Ending in nights of tears, Only a wearing burden Borne thro' weary years. Only a sick, sick longing, Only an aching care, Only a hope deep nurtured Under a deep despair. Only a love undying In a wild warm heart repress, Only a dream departed, Only a life's unrest. HISTORIC kisses. Only a ceaseless craving Ne'er to be satisfied, Only a woman's passion Mightier than woman's pride. Oh what a mournful story, Oh what a hurt laid bare, Oh what a wail of sorrow, " Only a woman's hair." 10 A DEFENCE OF WOMAN. TO ONE WHO SAID ALL WOMEN WERE MERCENARY. TOUR satire is severe yet I can't blame you, 'Tis aimed at those who ventured to defame you, Yet of high treason do you stand attainted, Women are not so black as you have painted, Tho' some to win a home and to escape A life of toil — too often wed an ape, Needs must when some one drives, and Oh, Sir Poet, We oft can't help ourselves and Well you know it. ■00 I HISTORIC KISSES. 1 THE Mss that, on the fair and sunny brow Of Petrarch's Laura, once was humbly prest By a most gallant monarch, kneeling low Beside the footstool of his gentle guest.

HISTORIC KISSES. The kiss Paolo gave a soft cheek's bloom Upon that day in which they " read no more Oh fatal kiss that doomed their souls to roam For countless ages on the Stygian Shore ! The kiss of Gauffre Rudel, Prince of Blaye, Who pined for love, and sailing o'er the sea With dying haste, cast anchor in the bay That laves the shores of sunny Tripoli. And when they told the Ladye of his love How that to death the noble prince was nigh, She came, and pitying hung his couch above To feel upon her lips his latest sigh. And then that other, precious fatal kiss That Raimon's wife to her fond lover gave, So full of anguish, rapture, sorrow, bliss — That hurried both to an untimely grave. There was the kiss of haughty Marguerite, Of which the happy poet sung so oft, When kneeling humbly at his mistress' feet He felt its touch so exquisite — so soft.

The kiss that fair, ill-fated Mary gave The sleeping boy, in presence of her court, She saw not then dim shadows o'er her wave, When she bestowed that kiss in playful sport. Sweet is the kiss the faithful maiden gives To her young lover, in the Peri's tale, For ever in our hearts that fond kiss lives, Mixed with the anguish of her bosom's wail. "The last long kiss which she expires in giving," When from his lips she stole the poisoned breath ; For her no aching void, no bitter grieving, " Lovely in life, united in their death." THE LOVERS. Mournful the kisses of that hapless pair Whose story yet can thrill us, while we read How young they were, how faithful and how fair, How helpless, friendless, in their direst need. Full of poetic fancy, to our eyes, Is the first kiss of her, the Night's fair queen ; While on Mount Ida's tops Endymion lies, And droops she o'er him clad in silver sheen. 10 I THE LOVERS | Mill I — ...II lllnW CARESSED and caressing She lies on his breast, His pride and his blessing His dearest and best ; Caressed and caressing She pillows her face On the arms fondly pressing In tender embrace.

The paleness of feeling Is over his brow, His spirit is kneeling In reverence now ; Divine and yet human Half earth and half heaven Seems blent in the woman Who to him is given. The world all unheeded, Cheek prest unto cheek ; No language is needed Their rapture to speak ; ECHOES. In tremulous breathing The story is told, In arms fondly wreathing The page is unrolled. The angels in heaven Are smiling at this, For in Eden was given This exquisite bliss, And beings immortal Untainted by sin, Keep watch by the portal That shutteth love in. ___.ll lllr MM' IINIIIIIIIIMIHfc. 1 ECHOES. j (From an Arabic MS.) THE days of my youth, oh ! where are they ? I seek, but I may not find ; They're past, like a dream of morn, away, Or an echo on the wind. The voices of youth, they, too are fled, I seek them in many a hall, But a dreary silence reigns instead, None answer to my call.