Part 16 (2/2)
”Where beauty dwells the bard should dwell, What sweet lips speak the bard should tell; 'Tis he should look for starry eyes, And tell love's watchers where they rise: To-night, if lips and eyes could do, Bards were not wanting in Tirhugh; For where have lips a rosier light, And where are eyes more starry bright?”
Then young hearts beat along the board, To praise the maid that each adored, And lips as young would fain disclose The love within; but one arose, Gray as the rocks beside the main,-- Gray as the mist upon the plain,-- A thoughtful, wandering, minstrel man, And thus the aged bard began:--
”O Con, benevolent hand of peace!
O tower of valour firm and true!
Like mountain fawns, like snowy fleece, Move the sweet maidens of Tirhugh.
Yet though through all thy realm I've strayed, Where green hills rise and white waves fall, I have not seen so fair a maid As once I saw by Cushendall.[84]
”O Con, thou hospitable Prince!
Thou, of the open heart and hand, Full oft I've seen the crimson tints Of evening on the western land.
I've wandered north, I've wandered south, Throughout Tirhugh in hut and hall, But never saw so sweet a mouth As whispered love by Cushendall.
”O Con, munificent gifts!
I've seen the full round harvest moon Gleam through the shadowy autumn drifts Upon thy royal rock of Doune.[85]
I've seen the stars that glittering lie O'er all the night's dark mourning pall, But never saw so bright an eye As lit the glens of Cushendall.
”I've wandered with a pleasant toil, And still I wander in my dreams; Even from the white-stoned beach, Loch Foyle, To Desmond of the flowing streams.
I've crossed the fair green plains of Meath, To Dublin, held in Saxon thrall; But never saw such pearly teeth, As her's that smiled by Cushendall.
”O Con! thou'rt rich in yellow gold, Thy fields are filled with lowing kine, Within they castles wealth untold, Within thy harbours fleets of wine; But yield not, Con, to worldly pride Thou may'st be rich, but hast not all; Far richer he who for his bride Has won fair Anne of Cushendall.
”She leans upon a husband's arm, Surrounded by a valiant clan, In Antrim's Glynnes, by fair Glenarm, Beyond the pearly-paven Bann; 'Mid hazel woods no stately tree Looks up to heaven more graceful-tall, When summer clothes its boughs, than she, MacDonnell's wife of Cushendall!”
The bard retires amid the throng, No sweet applause rewards his song, No friendly lip that guerdon breathes, To bard more sweet than golden wreaths.
It might have been the minstrel's art Had lost the power to move the heart, It might have been his harp had grown Too old to yield its wonted tone.
But no, if hearts were cold and hard, 'Twas not the fault of harp or bard; It was no false or broken sound That failed to move the clansmen round.
Not these the men, nor these the times, To nicely weigh the worth of rhymes; 'Twas what he said that made them chill, And not his singing well or ill.
Already had the stranger band Of Saxons swept the weakened land, Already on the neighbouring hills They named anew a thousand rills, ”Our fairest castles,” pondered Con, ”Already to the foe are gone, Our n.o.blest forests feed the flame, And now we lose our fairest dame.”
But though his cheek was white with rage, He seemed to smile, and cried--”O Sage!
O honey-spoken bard of truth!
MacDonnell is a valiant youth.
We long have been the Saxon's prey-- Why not the Scot as well as they?
He's of as good a robber line As any a Burke or Geraldine.
”From Insi Gall,[86] so speaketh fame, From Insi Gall his people came; From Insi Gall, where storm winds roar Beyond the gray Albin's icy sh.o.r.e.
His grandsire and his grandsire's son, Full soon fat herds and pastures won; But, by Columba! were we men, We'd send the whole brood back again!
”Oh! had we iron hands to dare, As we have waxen hearts to bear, Oh! had we manly blood to shed, Or even to tinge our cheeks with red, No bard could say as you have said, One of the race of Somerled-- A base intruder from the Isles-- Basks in our island's sunniest smiles!
<script>