"Frances," the fairest of three sisters, who had only beauty to recommend her, for after encouraging his passion for a time, and cruelly amusing herself with his fervour, she contemptuously dismissed him. About 1830 his contributions to the Dublin periodicals of short poems from the Irish and German began to attract attention, and through the interest of Drs. Anster, Petrie, and Todd he got employment in preparing a new catalogue for Trinity College Library. His appearance at this time is thus described: "It was an unearthly and ghostly figure in a brown garment, the same garment (to all ap The blanched hair was totally unkempt; the corpse-like features still as marble; a large book was in his arms, and all his soul was in the book. I had never heard of Clarence Mangan before, and knew not for what he was celebrated, whether as a magician, a poet, or a murderer." [Much of the personal history of this gifted | affections upon an unworthy object, a certain but unfortunate son of genius is involved in obscurity. He was born in Dublin in the year 1803, and his education was received at a humble school in Derby Square, near to his father's grocer shop and to Dean Swift's birthplace. When fifteen years old he was placed in a scrivener's office, where, as a copyist, he laboured for seven years at a small weekly salary. He left this employment for an attorney's office, where he spent about two years. During these years, says his biographer Mr. Mitchel, "he must have been a great devourer of books, and seems to have early devoted himself to the exploration of those treasures which lie locked up in foreign languages.pearance) which lasted till the day of his death. Mangan had no education of a regular and approved sort; neither in his multifarious reading had he, nor could he brook, any guidance whatever." These years of his life were spent in misery. His fellow-clerks, with whom he had no thought in common, laughed at what they could not understand; and he early realized the truth of the sacred words, "A man's foes are those of his own household," in a home where he was constantly reminded of his poverty, and the necessity of unceasing toil for his own and the household's support. The family at this time consisted of a mother, sister, and brother. As is sometimes the case, the constant reproaches of these relatives, and their want of affection or even common gratitude, at length did their fell work upon the sensitive nature of the unhappy poet. We may well ask with his biographer: "Is it wonderful that he sought at times to escape from consciousness by taking for bread opium, and for water brandy?" To add to his misfortune, also, it seems that the poet had fixed his About 1833 he was employed in conjunction with O'Donovan, Eugene O'Curry, and others, on the staff of the topographical department of the Ordnance Survey, under the direction of Dr. Petrie. In this congenial work he continued for some years, at the same time contributing poems to the magazines. In 1840, when Dr. Petrie edited The Irish Penny Journal, he was one of its principal contributors. He wrote much, but many of his poems are either now altogether lost or exist without his name; even Mr. Mitchel, who has made a large collection of them, states that he believes the work does not contain more than twothirds of the poet's productions. As to his translations, those from the Irish were supplied to him in literal prose translations by his | his conduct more than himself, the constant friends O'Donovan, O'Daly, and others; yet, cry of his spirit being, "Miserable man that from the spirit of the original being so happily I am, who will deliver me from the wrath caught, as in the poems "Dark Rosaleen" and to come?" His German Anthology was pub"The Woman of Three Cows," many of his lished in 1845. It comprises his translations readers have concluded that he had a sufficient from the German, many of which are remarkknowledge of the language to translate it for able for sweetness and beauty of finish. Early himself. His poems from the German were in June, 1849, he was seized with cholera, and chiefly and avowedly translations. In this although he rallied from the disease itself, his department of literature Mr. Hayes does not constitution was too much enfeebled to overhesitate to say of him: "As a translator he was come the strain, and on the 20th of that month inimitable; and he translated from the Irish, he died. His remains were laid in Glasnevin the French, the German, the Spanish, the Cemetery, and no memorial as yet marks the Italian, the Danish, and the eastern languages, spot of his last resting-place. Let us hope with such a versatile facility as not only to that the wish he expresses in his poem "The transfuse into his own tongue the substance Nameless One," for "a grave in the bosoms of and sense of his original, but the appropriate the pitying," may be accorded to the gifted graces of style, and ornament, and idiomatic but ill-fated poet. In 1859 Mr. John Mitchel expressions which are peculiar to the poetry published in New York a collection of his of every country." poems with a memoir prefixed, from which we take the most of our facts. It has been supposed that his translations from the Ottoman are really original poems, but there is no definite proof on the subject. His own admission, that "Hafez is more acceptable to editors than Mangan," is the only evidence adduced in proof of their originality. Certain it is that they show as intimate a knowledge of the idioms of eastern poetry as does Moore's Lalla Rookh. In 1842 he began to contribute to The Nation newspaper, and some of his best productions appeared in its columns during a period of five years. When Mr. Mitchel started The United Irishman Mangan, although taking no active part in politics, yet sympathized so deeply in his friend's sentiments that during its brief career he wrote almost entirely for this paper. In spite of his own and the efforts of his friends, Mangan's habits of intemperance continued to hold sway over him, and he found himself drifting towards what he himself calls "the gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns." Day by day, as he became more feeble, he the more persistently flew for comfort to the twin fiends (brandy and opium) which were sapping his life. "Sometimes," says his biographer, "he could not be found for weeks; and then he would reappear, like a ghost or a ghoul, with a wildness in his blue glittering eye, as of one who has seen spectres." Through all his degradation and misfortune his tried friends never deserted him, and had he only permitted Father Meehan, Petrie, Anster, and others to assist him in the right way, his fate might have been a happier one. But he would brook neither advice nor remonstrance, and held to his own course, although no one could bewail Notwithstanding Mangan's genius his name is very little known, except among his own countrymen, who, it is said, "prize him above all the poets that their island of song ever nursed.” "He has not, and perhaps never had," says the Hon. Charles Gavan Duffy, "any rival in mastery of the metrical and rhythmical resources of the English tongue; his power over it is something wholly wonderful.” Mr. Hayes, in a short sketch of Mangan in his Ballad Poetry of Ireland, tells us that in the library of Trinity College "he acquired that knowledge of languages which he afterwards turned to such good account," but that "he frequently surpassed his originals in the freedom and fluency of his language; and many of the poems which he has called translations are entirely his own." At the same time he observes that Mangan was a Dervish among the Turks, a Bursch among the Germans, a Scald among the Danes, an Improvisatore in Italy, and a Senachie in Ireland." Mr. Mitchel says: "Mangan's pathos was all genuine, his laughter hollow and painful. In several poems he breaks out into a sort of humour, not hearty and merry fun, but rather grotesque, bitter, fescennine buffoonery; which leaves an unpleasant impression, as if he were grimly sneering at himself and at all the world; purposely marring the effect of fine poetry by turning it into burlesque, and showing how meanly he regarded everything, even the art wherein he lived and had his being, when he compared his own exalted ideal of art and life with the littleness of all his experiences and performances."] THE NAMELESS ONE.1 Roll forth, my song, like the rushing river, That sweeps along to the mighty sea; God will inspire me while I deliver My soul of thee! Then show the world, when my bones lie whitening Amid the last home of youth and eld, That there was once one whose veins ran lightning Tell how his boyhood was one drear night-hour, Roll on, my song, and to after ages Tell how, disdaining all earth can give, He would have taught men, from wisdom's pages, The way to live. And tell how trampled, derided, hated, And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong, With song which alway, sublime or vapid, Tell how this Nameless, condemned for years long For even death. Go on to tell how, with genius wasted, Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others, And some whose hands should have wrought for him; (If children live not for sires and mothers,) And he fell far through that pit abysmal, But yet redeemed it in days of darkness, Amid shapes and signs of the final wrath, And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow, 1 A picture of the poet's own life and sorrows. And lives he still, then? Yes! old and hoary Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble, Deep in your bosoms! There let him dwell; He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble Here in hell! DARK ROSALEEN. TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH. O my dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep; The priests are on the ocean green, There's wine. . . from the royal pope, Upon the ocean green; And Spanish ale shall give you hope, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, Shall give you health, and help, and hope, My dark Rosaleen! Over hills, and through dales, Have I roamed for your sake; at its highest flood, I dashed across unseen, For there was lightning in my blood, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! Oh! there was lightning in my blood, All day long, in unrest, To and fro, do I move, The very soul within my breast Is wasted for you, love! My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! To hear your sweet and sad complaints, My life, my love, my saint of saints, My dark Rosaleen! Woe and pain, pain and woe, Are my lot, night and noon, To see your bright face clouded so, Like to the mournful moon. But yet... will I rear your throne Again in golden sheen; 'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! 'Tis you shall have the golden throne, 'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, My dark Rosaleen! Over dews, over sands, Will I fly, for your weal: Your holy delicate white hands Shall girdle me with steel. At home. . . in your emerald bowers, From morning's dawn till e'en, You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers, My dark Rosaleen! My fond Rosaleen! You'll think of me through daylight's hours, I could scale the blue air, I could plough the high hills, And one. . . beamy smile from you Would float like light between Would give me life and soul anew, My dark Rosaleen! O! the Erne shall run red With redundance of blood, The earth shall rock beneath our tread, Wake many a glen serene, Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, My own Rosaleen! The Judgment Hour must first be nigh, A HIGHWAY FOR FREEDOM. "My suffering country shall be freed, And shine with tenfold glory!" Shall cross or darken my way!" But, chief or none, through blood and fire, The men must fight who dare desire For Freedom's course a highway! Alas! I can but idly gaze Around in grief and wonder; The people's will alone can raise The people's shout of thunder. Too long, my friends, you faint for fear, In secret crypt and by-way; At last be men! Stand forth and clear For Freedom's course a highway! You intersect wood, lea, and lawn, So do. Such work is good, no doubt; Yes! up! and let your weapons be In void and vain defiance, 'Tis deeds, not words, that I weighYour swords and guns alone can give To Freedom's course a highway! THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS.1 TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH. O Woman of Three Cows, agragh! don't let your tongue thus rattle! O don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have cattle. I have seen-and, here's my hand to you, I only say what's true A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you. Good luck to you, don't scorn the poor, and don't be their despiser, For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser; And death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows; 1 This ballad, which is of a homely cast, was intended as a rebuke to the saucy pride of a woman in humble life, who assumed airs of consequence from being the possessor of three cows. Its author's name is unknown; but its age can be determined, from the language, as belonging to the early part of the seventeenth century. That it was formerly very popular in Munster may be concluded from the fact, that the phrase, "Easy, oh, woman of three cows" has become a saying in that province, on any occasion upon which it is desirable to lower the pretensions of a boastful or consequential person.-Mangan. Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good | And I'm too poor to hinder you; but, by the cloak Woman of Three Cows! See where Momonia's1 heroes lie, proud Owen More's descendants, 'Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants! If they were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows, Can you be proud, can you be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows? The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning! I'm wearing, If I had but four cows myself, even though you were my spouse, I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows? THE EXPEDITION AND DEATH OF KING DATHY. TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH. Mavrone!2 for they were banished, with no hope King Dathy assembled his Druids and Sages, of their returning Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house? Yet you can give yourself these airs, O Woman of Three Cows! Think of Donnell of the Ships, the chief whom nothing daunted See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted! He sleeps, the great O'Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse Then ask yourself, should you be proud? good Woman of Three Cows! O'Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined in story Think how their high achievements once made Erin's greatest glory Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress boughs, And so, for all your pride, will yours, O Woman of Three Cows! Th' O'Carrolls also, famed when fame was only for the boldest, And thus he spake them-"Druids and Sages! What of King Dathy? What is revealed in Destiny's pages Of him or his? Hath he Aught for the Future to dread or to dree? Is he a foe of the Gall Fitted to conquer, or fated to fall?" And Beirdra, the Druid, made answer as thus- Thou shalt work thine own will! Thou shalt slay-thou shalt prey- Thee the Earth shall not harm! Thee the laurel shall crown! Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and Thou, therefore, be fearless and fierce, And sail with thy warriors away To the lands of the Gall, There to slaughter and sway, And be Victor o'er all!" So Dathy he sailed away, away Over the deep resounding sea; Sailed with his hosts in armour gray Over the deep resounding sea, Many a night and many a day, And many an islet conquered heHe and his hosts in armour gray. And the billow drowned him not, And a fetter bound him not, And the blue spear found him not, And the red sword slew him not, And the swift shaft knew him not, And the foe o'erthrew him not. Till, one bright morn, at the base Of the Alps, in rich Ausonia's regions, |