A Curse on a Closed Gate

BE THIS the fate

Of the man who would shut his gate

On the stranger, gentle or simple, early or late.

When his mouth with a day's long hunger and thirst would

wish

For the savour of salted fish,

Let him sit and eat his fill of an empty dish.

To the man of that ilk,

Let water stand in his churn, instead of milk

That turns a calf's coat silk.

And under the gloomy night

May never a thatch made tight

Shut out the clouds from his sight.

Above the ground or below it,

Good cheer, may he never know it,

Nor a tale by the fire, nor a dance on the road, nor a song by a wandering poet.

Till he open his gate

To the stranger, early or late,

And turn back the stone of his fate.

JAMES H. COUSINS

From the Irish.

O'Hussey's Ode to the Maguire

WHERE is my chief, my master, this bleak night, mavrone?

O cold, cold, miserably cold is this bleak night for Hugh! Its showery, arrowy, speary sleet pierceth one thro' and thro', Pierceth one to the very bone.

Rolls real thunder? Or was that red vivid light

Only a meteor? I scarce know; but through the midnight dim

The pitiless ice-wind streams. Except the hate that persecutes him,

Nothing hath crueler venomy might.

An awful, a tremendous night is this, meseems!

The flood-gates of the rivers of heaven, I think, have been burst wide;

Down from the overcharged clouds, like to headlong ocean's tide,

Descends grey rain in roaring streams.

Tho' he were even a wolf ranging the round green woods, Tho' he were even a pleasant salmon in the unchainable sea, Tho' he were a wild mountain eagle, he could scarce bear, he, This sharp sore sleet, these howling floods.

O mournful is my soul this night for Hugh Maguire! Darkly as in a dream he strays. Before him and behind Triumphs the tyrannous anger of the wounding wind, The wounding wind that burns as fire.

It is my bitter grief, it cuts me to the heart

That in the country of Clan Darry this should be his fate!
O woe is me, where is he? Wandering, houseless, desolate,
Alone, without or guide or chart!

Medreams I see just now his face, the strawberry-bright, Uplifted to the blackened heavens, while the tempestuous winds

Blow fiercely over and round him, and the smiting sleetshower blinds

The hero of Galang to-night!

Large, large affliction unto me and mine it is

That one of his majestic bearing, his fair stately form, Should thus be tortured and o'erborne; that this unsparing

storm

Should wreak its wrath on head like his!

That his great hand, so oft the avenger of the oppressed, Should this chill churlish night, perchance, be paralysed by frost;

While through some icicle-hung thicket, as one lorn and lost, He walks and wanders without rest.

The tempest-driven torrent deluges the mead,

It overflows the low banks of the rivulets and ponds;
The lawns and pasture-grounds lie locked in icy bonds,
So that the cattle cannot feed.

The pale-bright margins of the streams are seen by none; Rushes and sweeps along the untamable flood on every side; It penetrates and fills the cottagers' dwellings far and wide; Water and land are blent in one.

Through some dark woods, 'mid bones of monsters, Hugh now strays,

As he confronts the storm with anguished heart, but manly brow,

O what a sword-wound to that tender heart of his, were now A backward glance at peaceful days!

But other thoughts are his, thoughts that can still inspire With joy and onward-bounding hope the bosom of MacNee; Thoughts of his warriors charging like bright billows of the

sea,

Borne on the wind's wings, flashing fire!

And tho' frost glaze to-night the clear dew of his eyes,
And white ice-gauntlets glove his noble fine fair fingers o'er,
A warm dress is to him that lightning-garb he ever wore,
The lightning of his soul, not skies.

Avran.

Hugh marched forth to fight: I grieved to see him so depart.

And lo! to-night he wanders frozen, rain-drenched, sad betrayed;

But the memory of the lime-white mansions his right hand hath laid

In ashes, warms the hero's heart!

Translated by JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.

See Note Page 350.

A Lament for the Princes of Tyrone and

Tyrconnel

WOMAN of the piercing wail,

Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay

With sigh and groan,

Would God thou wert among the Gael!

Thou would'st not then from day to day
Weep thus alone.

'Twere long before around a grave
In green Tyrconnel, one could find
This loneliness;

Near where Beann-Boirche's banners wave,
Such grief as thine could ne'er have pined
Companionless.

Beside the wave in Donegal,

In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore,

Or Killilee,

Or where the sunny waters fall

At Assaroe, near Erna shore,

This could not be.

On Derry's plains, in rich Drumcliff,

Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned

In olden years,

No day could pass but woman's grief
Would rain upon the burial-ground
Fresh floods of tears!

O no! From Shannon, Boyne, and Suir,
From high Dunluce's castle-walls,

From Lissadill,

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