But bondage worse than this remains, Karaman! O, Karaman! His heart is black with million stains: Save poison-dews and bloody rains, Hell's poison-dews and bloody rains, But life at worst must end ere long, Azreel' avengeth every wrong, Of late my thoughts rove more among The Angel of Death. MY THREE TORMENTORS. FROM THE GERMAN. Three spirits there be who haunt me always, He sits on a barrel-a chaplet of laurel And a royal and richly bubbling cup Of the blood that he drains from his victims' veins In his hand, that shakes as he lifts it up! Oh, woe, woe, And sorrow, To be, to be His slave, Through every coming morrow, Till years lay me low Low in an honourless grave! My second tormentor, a weakened old pigmy, His visage is wrinkled and dust-besprinkled, The hateful old hunks be poor or be rich! He worships it, he-and, alas! makes me, Oh, woe, woe, &c. The third-oh! the third is a marvellous creature, Infant-like, and of heavenly feature! His voice is rich as the song of the spheres; But ah! what tragic unrest its magic 2 Intemperance, Avarice, and Love. Doth bring to the bosom who shall tell of? To me that voice has been as the knell of Death and despair through bitterest years! And, then, his bright but mischievous eyes; Their mildest glance is the wound of a lance, 'Neath which the heart's blank innocence dies! Oh, woe, woe, &c. CAHAL MOR OF THE WINE-RED HAND. A VISION OF CONNAUGHT IN THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY. I walked entranced Through a land of morn; The sun, with wondrous excess of light, And lustrous gardens aleft and right. Of resplendent Spain Beams no such sun upon such a land; But it was the time, Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-Red Hand.1 Anon stood nigh By my side a man Of princely aspect and port sublime. "O, my Lord and Khan,2 What clime is this, and what golden time?" When he "The clime The clime is Erin's, the green and bland; Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand!" Then I saw thrones, And a dome rose near me, as by a spell, Of silver lyres And many voices in wreathed swell; And their thrilling chime Fell on mine ears As the heavenly hymn of an angel-band"It is now the time, These be the years, Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand!" 1 The Irish and Oriental poets both agree in attributing favourable or unfavourable weather and abundant or deficient harvests to the good or bad qualities of the reigning monarch. What the character of Cahal was will be seen from the poem. Mor means great.-Mangan. Identical with the Irish ceann, head or chief; but I the rather gave him the oriental title, as really fancying myself in one of the regions of Araby the Blest.Mangan. I sought the hall, And, behold!-a change From light to darkness, from joy to woe! Kings, nobles, all Looked aghast and strange; The minstrel-group sate in dumbest show! Had some great crime Wrought this dread amaze, This terror? None seemed to understand! 'Twas then the time, We were in the days, Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand. I again walked forth; But lo! the sky Showed fleckt with blood, and an alien sun Glared from the north, And there stood on high, Amid his shorn beams, A SKELETON!3 It was by the stream Of the castled maine, One autumn eve in the Teuton's land, "THE ONE MYSTERY." 'Tis we exhaust and squander The glittering mine of thought in vain; All baffled reason cannot wander Beyond her chain. The flood of life runs dark-dark clouds Make lampless night around its shore: The dead, where are they? In their shroudsMan knows no more! Evoke the ancient and the past Will one illuming star arise? Or must the film, from first to last, O'erspread thine eyes? When life, love, glory, beauty, wither Will wisdom's page, or science' chart, Supposest thou the wondrous powers When this decaying shell is cold, Oh! sayest thou the soul shall climb 3 "It was but natural that these portentous appearances should thus be exhibited on this occasion, for they were the heralds of a very great calamity that befell the Connacians in this year-namely, the death of Cathal of the Red Hand, son of Torlogh Mor of the Wine, and King of Connaught, a prince of most amiable qualities, and into whose heart GOD had infused more piety and goodness than into the hearts of any of his contemporaries."Annals of the Four Masters, A.D. 1224. That magic mount she trod of old, Ere childhood's time? And shall the sacred pulse that thrilled, Reborn, revived, renewed, immortal, Resume his reign in prouder might, No more, no more-with aching brow, And all philosophy, all faith, All earthly-all celestial lore, Have but one voice, which only saith, Endure-adore! WAITING FOR THE MAY.1 Ah! my heart is weary waiting, Scent the dewy way. Ah! my heart is sick with longing, Ah! my heart is sick with longing, Longing for the May. Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, Ah! my heart is pained with throbbing, 1 Command of rhythm, in almost capricious variety, with great facility and melody of rhyme, were among the poetic gifts of Clarence Mangan. The fineness of his ear, in both respects, is evident in the above exquisite lines, and it is feared his latter days were sufficiently sorrow-shaded to account for their morbidness. They are intense in feeling-sweetly poetical-bitterly sad"most musical, most melancholy."-Samuel Lover. Throbbing for the seaside billows, Ah! my heart is pained with throbbing, Waiting, sad, dejected, weary, Waiting for the May. Spring goes by with wasted warnings- THE TIME OF THE BARMECIDES. FROM THE ARABIC. My eyes are filmed, my beard is gray, I would I were stretched in my bed of clay, For back to the past, though the thought brings woe, My memory ever glides To the old, old time, long, long ago, Then youth was mine, and a fierce wild will, And a fleet foot high upon Ishkar's hill, That Khoord or Beddaween rides, One golden goblet illumed my board, At hand my tried Karamanian sword For those were the days when the angry blow Through city and desert my mates and I Our diapered canopy the deep of the sky at the conclusion was loudly cheered. About this time Sheil's father was completely ruined by the failure of a mercantile firm in Dublin in which he had invested his money, and the family residence of Bellevue had to be sold. This misfortune could not fail to affect the future of young Sheil. He gained his degree of B.A. in 1811, and was enabled to complete his studies for the bar at Lincoln's Inn by the pecuniary help of friends. In 1813 he returned to Ireland and took a leading part in the work of the Catholic Association, siding with the vetoists and against O'Connell. [This eminent orator, politician, and author | ing with his subject he gained firmness, and was born on the 16th of August, 1791, at the residence of his father, Bellevue House, on the river Suir, a little below Waterford. He received his early education from a French abbé, who had fled from his country during the revolution, and had found refuge in the hospitable home of Shiel's father. After the Peace of Amiens the refugee returned to France, and Sheil was sent to a school at Kensington, London, conducted by the Prince de Broglio, a son of Marshal Broglio. The greater number of the pupils here were sons of French refugees of rank, and Sheil became so proficient in the French language as almost to forget his own. His father's wish was that he should study for the priesthood, and with this end in view he proceeded to the Jesuit College at Stoneyhurst in Lancashire, but his own tastes led him in a different direction. He decided on the bar as a profession, and in November, 1807, entered Trinity College, Dublin. Becoming a member of the College Historical Society, he took a prominent part in its debates, but his speeches at this time were more remarkable for metaphor than argument. His figure was ungainly, his gestures theatrical, and his voice shrill. While perfectly conscious of these defects, he never entirely overcame them, though the practice of public speaking tended in time to strengthen his voice and modify his abruptness of manner. When only eighteen years of age he delivered his first speech in public at a meeting of the Catholic Association. At the outset he was received with marked impatience, but warm To aid in defraying the expense connected with his call to the bar, Sheil wrote a tragedy entitled Adelaide or the Emigrants. This play when brought out in Crow Street Theatre, Dublin gained a temporary success through the clever acting of the celebrated Miss O'Neil, who undertook the rôle of the heroine; but it possessed no intrinsic merit, and when afterwards put on the stage at Covent Garden proved almost a failure. He was called to the bar in 1814, but his engagements being as yet inconsiderable, he continued to apply himself to authorship, and produced another tragedy entitled The Apostate. In this play he seeks to demonstrate that religious intolerance under all circumstances is objectionable. The cast included Miss O'Neil, Mr. Kemble, Mr. Macready, and Mr. Young, and on the night of its first production at Covent Garden the author was called before the curtain to receive an enthusiastic ovation. paid him £300 for the copyright of this play, Mr. Murray |