« AnteriorContinuar »
late of a wedding; "I cannot deny it, and by tare-an-ounty," says she, " I am unworthy to be either his wife or yours, for except I marry you both, I dunna how to settle thisarlair between you;—oh, murther sherry! but I'm the unfortunate orathur, entirely." "Well," says Jack to the officer, "nobody can do more than be sorry for a wrong turn; small blame to her for taking a fancy to your humble servant, jMr Officer,'*.—and he stood as tall as possible to show offa bit: "you see the fair lady is sorryful for her folly, so, as it's not yet too late, and as you came in the nick of time, in the name of Providence take my place and let the marriage go on." "No,"says she, " never; I'm not worthy of him, at all at all; tundheran-ouns, but I'm the unlucky thief!" \Vhile this was going forward the officer looked closely at Jack, and seeing him such a fine handsome fellow, and having heard before of his riches, he began to think that, all things considhered, she wasn't so much to be blempt. Then, when he saw how sorry she was for having forgot him, he steps forrid; "Well," says he, " I'm still willing to marry you, particularly as you feel conthrition for what you were going to do;'' so with this they allgotherabout her,and, as the officer was a fine fellow himself, prevailed upon her to let the marriage be performed, and they were accordingly spliced as fast as his Reverence could make them. "Now, Jack," says the dog, " I want to spake with you for a minnit; it's a word for your own ear:" so up he stands on his two hind legs, and purtinded to be whispering something to him ; but what do you think—he gives him the slightest touch on the lips with his paw, and that instant Jack remimbered the lady and every thing that happened betune them. "Och! tundher-an-ages," says Jack, "where is the darling at all at all?" Jack spoke finer than this, to be sure, but as I can't give his tall English, the sorrow one of me will bother myself striving to do it. "Behave yourself," says the dog, "just say nothing, only follow me." Accordingly, Jack went out with the dog, and in a few minnits comes in again, leading on the one side the loveliest lady that ever eye beheld, along with him, and a beautiful, illegant jintleman on the other. "Now Father Flanagan," says Jack, " you thought awhile ago you'd have no marriage; but, instead of that, you will have a brace of them;" up and telling the company, at the same time, all that happened him, and how the beautiful crathur that he brought in with him had done so much for him. When the jintlemen heard this, as they were all Irishmen, you may be sure there was nothing but hazzaing and throwing up of hats from them, and waving of handkerchers from the ladies. Well my dear, the wedding dinner was ate in great st) le: the nobleman proved himself no disgrace to his cloth at the trencher: and so, to make a long story short, such faisting and banqueteering was never
III. 2 E
seen since or before. At last night came, and among ourselves, not a doubt of it, but Jack thought himself a happy man: and maybe, if all was known, the bride was much of the same opinion; be that as it may, night came—the bride, all blushing, beautiful, and modest as your own sweetheart, was getting tired after the dancing; Jack, too, though much stouter, wished for a trifle of repose, and many thought it was near time to throw the stocking, as is proper of coorse, on every occasion of the kind. Well, he was just on his way up stairs, and had reached the first landing, when he hears a voice at his ear, shouting, "Jack—Jack—Jack Magennis!" Jack could have spitted any body for coming to disturb him at such a criticality —" Juck Magtnnis," says the voice. Jack looked about to see who it was that called him, and there he found himself lying on the green rath, a little above his mother's cabin, of a fine calm summer's evening in the month of June. His mother was stooping over him with her mouth at his ear, striving to waken him, by shouting and shaking him out of his sleep. "Tundher-an-age, mother," says Jack, "what did you waken me for?" "Jack, a-vourneen," says the mother, "sure and you were lying grunting, and groaning, and snifthering there, for all the world as if you had the colic, and I only nudged you for fraid you were in pain." "1 wouldn't for a thousand guinneys,"said Jack, "that ever you wakened me, at all at all: but whisht, mother, go into the house and I'll be afther ye inles than no time." The mother went in, and the first thing Jack did was to try the rock; and sure enough, there he found as much money as made him the richest man that ever was in that country. And what was to his credit, when he did grow rich, he wouldn't let his cabin be thrown down, but built a fine house on a spot near it, when he could always have it under his eye. In the coorse of time, a harper hearing the story, composed a tune upon it, which every body knows is called the "Little House under the Hill" to this day
« Hi for it, ho for it, hi for it still; < Vb, and whoo! your sowl—hi for the little house under the hill."
I weep for Auonais—he is dead!
O! weep for Adonais; though our tears
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!
And thou, sad Hour, selected from aJi years
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers,
And teach them thine own sorrow; say—with me
Dipd Adonaia ;—till the Future dares
Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay,
When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies
In darkness? where was lorn Urania
When Adonais died? With veiled eyes,
'Mid list'ning Echoes, in her Paradise
She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath,
Rekindled all the fading melodies,
With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath,
He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death.
O, weep for Adonaia—he is dead!
Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep
Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed
Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep
Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep;
For he is gone, where all things wise and fair
Descend;—oh, dream not that the amorous Deep
Will yet restore him to the vital air;
Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair.
Most musical of mourners, weep again!
Most musical of mourners, weep anew I
Not all to that bright station dared to climb ,
And happier they their happiness who knew,
Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time
In which suns perished; others more sublime,
Struck by the envious wrath of man or God,
Have sunk extinct in their refulgent prime;
And some yet live, treading the thorny road,
Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's serene abode.
But now the youngest, dearest one, has perished,
To that high Capital, where kingly Death
Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay,
He came; and bought, with price of purest breath,
A grave among the eternal.—Come away!
Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day
Is yet his fitting charnel-roof! while still
He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay;
Awake him not! surely he takes his fill
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill.
He will awake no more, oh, never more !—
Within the twilight chamber spreads apace
The shadow of white Death, and at the dooi
Invisible Corruption waits to trace
His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place -t
The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe
Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface
So fair a prey, till darkness, and the law
Of mortal change, shall fill the grave which is her maw.
O, weep for Adonais!—The quick Dreams,
The passion-winged Ministers of thought,
Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams
Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught
The love which was its music, wander not,—•
Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain, But droop there, whence they sprung; and mourn their lot Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet pain, They ne'er will gather strength, or find a home again.
And one with trembling hand clasps his cold head,
And fans him with her moonlight wings, and chest
"Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead;
See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes.
Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies
A tear some Dream has loosened from his braiu."
Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise!
She knew not 'twas her own; as with no stain
She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain.
One from a lucid urn of starry dew
Washed his light limbs, as if embalming them;
Another clipp'd her profuse locks, and threw
The wreath upon him, like an anadem,
Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem;
Another in her wilful grief would break
Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stera
A greater loss with one which was more weak;
And dull the barbed fire against his frozen cheek.
Another Splendour on his mouth alit,
That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the breath
Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit,
And pass into the panting heart beneath
With lightning and with music : the damp death
Quenched its caress upon his icy lips;
And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath
Of moonlight vapour, which the cold night clips,
It flushed through his pale limbs, and pass'd to its eclipse.
And others came,—Desires and Adorations,
Winged Persuasions and veiled Destinies,
Splendours, and Glooms, and glittering Incarnations
Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies;
And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs,
And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam
Of her own dying smile instead of eyes,
Came in slow pomp;—the moving pomp might seem
Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream.
All he had loved, and moulded into thought,
From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound,
Lamented Adonais. Morning sought
Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound,
Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground,
Dimmed the aerial eyes that kindle day;
Afar the melancholy thunder moan'd.
Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay,
And the wild wings flew round, sobbing in their dismay.
Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains,
And feeds her grief with his remembered lay,
And will no more reply to winds or fountains,
Or amorous birds perched on the young green spray,
Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing day;
Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear
Than those for whose disdain she pined away
Into a shadow of all sounds:—a drear
Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear.
Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down
Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were,
Or they dead leaves; since her delight is flown
For whom should she have walked the sullen year?
To Phcebna wae not Hyacinth so dear
Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both
Thou Adonais : wan they stand and sere
Amid the drooping comrades of their youth,
With dew all turned to tears ; odour, to sighing ruUi.
Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale