ROSE CONDON.

A BALLAD OF FEAR-MUIGHE-FEINE.

BY FEARDANA.

OVER valley, and rock, and lea,—

Merrily strike the wild harp's strain,-
For the fairest maid in the south countrie

Hath come to our Funcheon's side again;
Far mid the mountains of green Fearmuighe,
In lone Crag Thiernat many a-day
Dwelt she long with the fairy throng,
Mourning for her home alway.

An Ardrigh's crown is yellow and bright-
Fill the glens with the wild harp's tone ;-
But it may not match those locks of light

So loosely o'er her fair brows thrown:
The glance of her eyes, oh! mortal wight
Never such glory saw before;

And her neck as the wild rose soft and white,
Lone blooming by the Funcheon's shore.

She is daughter of Condont brave

Strike the wild harp's string of pride-
The fiercest chief where thy waters rave,
Dark Oun Mór of the rushing tide.

Nine moons have silvered the Funcheon's wave
Since by the towers of strong Clochleigh
The fondness of her heart she gave

To the banished Knight of thy woods, Gailtee!

Oh! Love, thy power grows day by day-
Strike the wild harp high and bold—
Three eves had purpled the mountains grey,
And young Clongibbon had ta'en his hold-
Reta'en his hold, regained his sway,

All for the love of Condon's child,

And chased the Saxon far away

Beyond the pale of his mountains wild!

Three eves more o'er Funcheon's tide—

Strike the wild harp clear and sweet-
Rose Condon sat by the water side,

Her brave, triumphant love to meet;

Fear-Muighe-Feine-the plain of the Fenian men—which anciently included the baronies of Condon and Clongibbon, together with what is at present called the barony of Fermoy, is walled in on the south by the Nagles mountains, and on the north by the Gailtees and Ballyhouras, or mountains of Mole. It was called Armoy, and I believe Ardmulla, by Spenser.

Crag Thierna, or Corrin Thierna, a romantic steep eastward of the town of Fermoy, and celebrated in the legends of the peasantry as one of the great fairy palaces of Munster. Condon was chief of the barony which still bears his name, and lived in his castle of Clochleigh, near the junctions of the Funcheon and Ariglin with the Oun Mór-great river -the Blackwater.

*

The sun set in his purple pride

Over the far-off crests of Mole,
And through the glens and forest wide
A sweet and dreamy silence stole.

Long she waits her lover's tread—
Strike the wild harp tenderly—

Till day's bright legions all are fled,

And the white stars peer through the forest tree.
Ha! now he comes by the river bed,

With his martial step and bearing high;

But why is the maiden's heart adread

As her warrior-love draws fondly nigh?

Does victory paint a warrior's mail-
Strike the wild harp fearfully-

With swarth, gold gems and diamonds pale,
And his plume with the sun-bow's radiancy?
Her lover's armour through the vale

Sheddeth a wild and elfin gleam,

And strange sounds on the breezes sail,
Sweet echoing o'er the starlit stream.

The warrior now beside her stands

Strike the wild harp sad and low-
And takes in his her trembling hands,

But her loved knight ne'er gazèd so!
Oh! 'twas the King of the fairy bands

That bound her in his spells that night,
And bore her swift to the elfin lands,

Far, far away in his love-winged flight!

From Oun Mór's tide to Carrig'nour".
Strike the wild harp rushingly-
From far Mocollop's mighty tower

To the storied hill of Kil-da-righ,
Many a man ere morning hour

Through the wild woods rode amain;
They sought the maid in hall and bower,
But fruitless was their search and vain.

Condon sat within his hall

Strike the wild harp mournfully

Sadness did his heart enthral,

Grief for her he might not see;

Searching still, Clongibbon tall

Roamed the forests lone and drear,

Like maniac man bereft of all

The joyance of this earthly sphere!

Joy in lone Crag Thierna's steep!—
Strike the harp o'er hill and wold-
Glad feasts the Fairy King did keep

For young Rosa with the locks of gold.

Carriganour, a very ancient castle a few miles below Mitchelstown, on the bank of the Funcheon. Mocollop Castle, a huge pile, eastward of Clochleigh, near the shore of the Blackwater. Kil-da-righ, the Church of the two Kings, at present Kildorrery, a small town on the Cork border, between Fermoy and Kilmallock.

But ah! the maid did nought but weep,

And eight bright moons had lost their flame,

Yet still by Oun Mór swift and deep
In sorrow she was still the same.

Nine sweet nights have robed the dells—
Strike the wild harp bold and high-
Since out with martial trumpet swells

The fairy throngs came trooping by;
Round lone Molaga's holy cells,

Beneath the midnight moon they played,
While she, the victim of their spells,

Sat lorn within the ruin's shade.

It is beside a fountain fair

Strike the wild harp sweet and low—
With sad heart brooding on her care,
She looks into the wave below.

A shadow glides before her there,

And looking up, beside her stands
An aged man with snow-white hair,

With pitying eyes and claspèd hands!

A mitre decked in golden sheen

Strike the wild harp wond'ringly-
A vestment as the shamrock green,

And sandals of the mountain tree
He wears the ancient Saint, I ween!

Ah! he hath heard the maiden's moan,
And bids her drink, with brow serene,

One pure draught from a cup of stone.

The fays may sport o'er hill and plain-
Strike the wild harp glad and bold-

But never shall their power again

In magic gyve that maiden hold.

One cool, bright draught she scarce has ta’en,
Scarce looked upon the vestment cross,

When fearful dies the fairy strain

O'er moonlit crag and lonely moss !

Short time their splendid pageant shone-
Strike the harp with gladsome thrill-

Then faded in the moonlight wan,

Far o'er Caher Drina's castled hill;†
Short time the moonbeams glowed upon
The mitre and the vestment bright,
The maiden turned, the Saint was gone,
Impatient to his home of light!

• Teompal Molaga-the Temple or Church of Saint Molaga-an extremely beautiful and picturesque ruin, about a mile north-east of Kildorrery, on a bend of the Funcheon. Beside it is an ancient well dedicated to the saint, to which the peasantry ascribe many virtues, and of which many strange legends are told.

† Caher Drina, or Fort Prospect, a castle about three miles south-east of Carriganour. Oun-na-geeragh river, a tributary of the Funcheon. Glashmona, a stream rising in the Ballyhoura mountains. By the banks of this stream, the peasantry tell many legends relating to the battles fought there between the ancient tribes. Aha Phooka-the Ford of the Spirit is a steep and dangerous pass leading from Limerick into the Clongibbon country.

Oh! joy, she sees the eastern ray—

Strike the wild harp glad and clear—

The herald of a golden day,

The fairest in the circling year.

It is the first bright morn of May,

And stream and plain smile calmly now, And many a wild bird pours his lay

In gladness from the greenwood bough.

Oh! Freedom leadeth where she list

Strike the wild harp's string of pride— Wild joy the maid can ne'er resist

Impels toward Oun-na-geeragh's side; There, while the stream by day is kissed,

A strange sight meets her wondering eyes— It is not golden morning mist,

With glad larks o'er it in the skies:

The red fires of a Saxon raid

Strike the wild harp fierce and high-
With scattered smoke o'er many a glade,
Blue curling to the breezeless sky :
Helmet and lance, and well-tried blade,

Gleam brightly from the forest deep,
And many a creach beneath the shade
Lie silent in their morning sleep!

"Ho! wake the tired creachs from their rest !"— Strike the harp o'er hill and plain

On toward Kilfinane's mountain crest

The raiders take their course again. Fear gathereth in the maiden's breast,

As wind away that fierce-browed horde, Taking their pathway to the west,

Triumphant through the Spirit's Ford.

Is that the thunder of the flood

Strike the harp all fiercely now

She hears wild rising from the wood,
And echoing up the steep hill's brow?

Oh! rushing back in panic mood,

Like leaves before a mountain wind,

The raiders come in dust and blood,
Her father and his clan behind!

And who is he her sire before

Strike the wild harp high and grand—

Scattering the raiders evermore

Before the wide sweep of his brand? Ah well within her fond heart's core She knows her lover's martial form,

As fiercely on the river's shore

He sweepeth through the battle storm.

Oh! God, that lance-stroke through his side-
Raise the wild harp's mournful tone-
Stretches her sire where redly glide

The swift waves o'er their bed of stone !
Down speeds the maid, whate'er betide,
Swift as Glashmona's startled hare,
And soon-death, danger, all defied—
She bendeth o'er her father there!

Oh! joy-it is no mortal wound

Let the harp's glad tone arise—
She lifts his faint head from the ground
With heaving breast and tearful eyes.
With wondering gaze he looks around,

As wakening sense asserts its reign—
Oh! joy of joys! the lost is found,

To cheer his course through life again.

The clangour of the fight is o'er

Strike the wild harp's proudest lay—
Few raiders from that river shore

Passed westward through the Spirit's Way.

Glad was the look Clongibbon wore

His herds reta'en, his valleys free—

As clasped he in his arms once more

The gold-haired maid of green Fear-muighe!

THE VOICES OF THE BELLS.

I STOOD On the side of a leafy hill,
One Summer Sabbath morn,

When the fragrant air was so hushed and still,
It scarcely rustled the standing corn;
And the sun shone so bright,

And the trees looked so green,

And such heavenly light

Streamed the branches between,

That an air of delight

Seemed to dimple the scene ;-
An air of delight, as though the earth,
And the trees, and the standing corn,
Rejoiced together to welcome the birth
Of that Summer Sabbath morn.
The fragrant air was hushed and still:
Save the gurgling plash of the shallow rill,
The song of the joyous bird,

And the drowsy hum of glittering flies,
Like drops of sunshine from the skies,
No other sound was heard.

All was so tranquil above, around,

Such a sense of repose seemed to hang o'er the ground,
So lazily still the cattle lay;

It seemed as though Nature herself obeyed
The word of the Mighty Voice which said-

"Thou shalt keep holy the Sabbath day."

Why is it that, still 'mid the fairest scenes,
The heart is touched with sadness?
Why is it that grief o'er the spirit steals,
When all around is gladness?

And why, as I stood on that leafy hill,

Did a nameless fear my bosom chill,

That whispered to me, "Though the earth be fair,

And the sun shine bright, and the balmy air

Be vocal with sweetest melody,

And the flowers be beautiful to see;