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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
DEATH AND BURIAL OF RED HUGH O'DONNELL, by JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN Poet's Biography First Line: The dark day of kinsale was over Last Line: Lay their bones far away from the valleys of their fathers! | |||
I. The dark day of Kinsale was over, And Ireland lay again in thrall: No hope seemed left her to recover From this her fatal, final fall. Her goal was lost, her strength departed; The Saxon hosts had scattered far Those bright prestiges her High -hearted Had shed around her arms in war. Her glory bode a burnt-out star, A voice of wailing and lamenting, A cry of late and vain repenting Rose from the centre to the sea, Throughout the once-glad, songful isle; And ruffian Force and treacherous Wile Rode rampant o'er the Brave and Free. A Night without a Morrow , An ever-wounding Sorrow, A death - trance that might borrow No ray from Hope to gild its gloom , A wild , vague thirst unsated , For vengeance on the Hated A bondage fixed and fated, Such seemed the trampled Nation's doom! II. And He, the Chieftain of the North, The Red O'Donel, Who led her banded legions forth , In green Tyrconnel, O'er fortressed height and battle-plain , So many a day to Death or Danger, He, tended by the hireling stranger, He droops- he sinks - he dies in pain He breathes his last in far-off Spain, Alone, alas! in far-off Spain! Mourn ye the Brave! Mourn him with tears, He goes down to his grave In his youth, in his bloom! On Iberia's dusk shore, In the flower of his years, Is his life's lamp outquenched; It bides dark evermore In the gloom of the tomb! He who never once blenched Before falchions or foemen Lies low, like a tree Laid in ashes by lightning. Alas! for the omen, Sad Erin , to thee, When thy fate appeared brightening! Mourn we the Brave! Mourn him with tears! For he goes to his grave In the flower of his years! III. Behold yon pile, that rises lone Within Zimancas' cloistered walls, On whose dark arabesques of stone Scarce even the noon-day sunbeam falls --- An ancient fabric! reared, I ween, What time the Moors were here the masters, As telleth well the sombre sheen Of its carved arches and pilasters. We enter, passing court by court, And long -deserted hall and fort, And blank alcoves and corridors, And rooms whose tesselated floors And faded sandal- roofs appear To shadow forth , in many a token. The gloom and splendour blended here Before the Arab arm was broken. Now , up yonder winding stairs, Which Time day by day impairs, We wearily clamber, And lo! a long chamber, Dim -lighted and cold , Like a King's mausoléum of old; Therein sleeps the boldest of Erin's best Bold! There sleepeth, laid low Not by musquet or spear in The field , but by Sickness and Woe, The last Prince that may battle for Erin! The winds, as in pity, sweep sighing Around the pale -canopied bed Where the corpse of the Hero is lying; One brief hour ago They wailed o'er the Dying, They now pour their dirge for the Dead Two tall figures kneel beside him , These received his parting breath; These alone stood by to guide him Through the Gates of Death. Their sacred robes, their prayerful mien , At once reveal those holy priests, At home, abroad, far oftener seen At poor men's graves than rich men's feasts . Oh! blest and honoured be the names Of O'Mulconry and Dunleavy; Who, though themselves of worn-out frames, Yet, when the thought of Erin's woes And future fate lay dark and heavy, On their Prince's bleeding bosom , Nobly cheered him to the close Of this his bitterest hour of hours! May their memories ever blossom , Fresh and bright in Time's meridian bowers! IV . The moon is dawning, the West is darkening; A sighing sound haunts the bodeful air; The forest- pines appear hushed, and hearkening, Like living forms, for the Vesper prayer . Their leaves are sparkling, but not in gladness - --- Who readeth well what their sheen bespeaks, Will deem those pearly - pale dews of sadness Most like the tear-drops on weepers' cheeks. The knelling fall of the Douro's waters Floats down the dells like the saddest song, As though the flood's fabled Fairy Daughters Bewailed some victim or deed of Wrong. And, as the gold of the sunset slowly Decays and darkens, till all hath fled, Those tones appear to unite in holy And choral swell for the Lost or Dead. Is this illusion? -a poet's dreaming? An airy legend from Peristán? Or are the Thoughtful more wise in deeming That Nature sometimes may mourn with Man? V. "What, ho! my lords and lieges all! I call a Golden Revel! " The King commands; the trumpets peal; And all ranks known in Old Castile Meet in the royal palace- hall Meet on one joyous level! And Pleasure takes the reins from Power, And Mirth unbounded rules the hour! The festival -- the song - the dance The brilliant lights and gay attire Recalled those days of Old Romance, And gallant knightly Chivalrie, Even then but known through lay or lyre; A goodly sight it was to see! Here, some illustrious Caballero Bent low before an aguadara; And there, a noteless caleserot Led out the blood of Alcantara; While many Hidalgos, who, for years, Had proudly stood aloof and single, Almost from even their very peers, Cast off their state, and stooped to mingle With all who thronged around - unasked . And, what though every face was masqued! Condemn not this! for men have made Of life a darker Masquerade, Where nought is genuine more - save Guile. His wrinkles mock the Conqueror's wreath; And , where the false lips fain would smile, The veiled heart often bleeds beneath . Enough!-but if thou wilt win pleasure From pondering how the things that seem The stablest-- Beauty , Pomp, and Treasure - May vanish like a morning dream , Or turn to dolorous memories after; If thou wilt fondly mark how soon Sighs may resound where late rang Laughter, Glance round thee through this wide saloon The lights are quenched, the guests are gone, A few stray menials glide alone, Like spectres, o'er the matted floor, It is the gloomiest hall in Spain , For always tenfold Woe must reign Where Gaiety was King before! VI. And wherefore such a change? Oh, Spain, unto thee Be the tribute of those tears, that fill mine eyes unbid! Thy Sovereign sought to make my country great and free! The gay lamps are darkened , and the wine -cups are hid , Because the cold corpse of the young Irish chief, The Red Hugh O'Donel, is in Valladolid! Yes! He whose career was so bright, but so brief, He lieth on his bier in the palace- chapel aisle; And Spain shares the glory and the gloom of Erin's grief! Yet a a a few fleeting hours, and a train shall defile From hence through the city to the Place of the Dead , Such as never until now left this venerable pile! O Philip, king of Spain, be blessings on thy head! Thou honouredst O'Donel for his nobleness and worth: Thou lovest, too, the land for whose weal he fought and bled!: But this thou guessest not -- that the House that gave him birth Is matchless even in Spain for its ancientness of line Perchance is truly royaller than any on the earth! Yet, though thou givest him a tomb -- thou yieldest him a shrine Among the highest lords --the magnates of thy land! The greater meed of praise, O King, is therefore thine! VII. Hark! the Cathedralbell! One deep knoll, And no more! How it thrills through the core Of the heart and the soul , That knell! Hark! yet another and deeper knoll A long hour hath passed Since the last. Now torch- lights are fitting to and fro Around the high palace -wall, And a Hearse, with coffin and pall, Standeth anear in plumèd woe. Another hour - and a final knoll! For the night weareth late. The signal is given and obeyed , And slowly the Funeral Cavalcade Moves from the chapel- gate On the way to its last dark goal! VIII. The Bannermen lead the van , Their black flags flapping high in the wind Singly they move, man after man; After them pass The Guards and Sen³rs of the Bascalier class, Two and two, in a long, long train behind; The Torch - bearers march afoot by their side; The chief Caballeros ride On crape-covered steeds in front of the Hearse, With its coffin and pall, The Serge- bearers march afoot by their side. In silence march all No sound ariseth to pierce The ear of Night, save the moanful toll Of the far Esgueva; And so they wind through the Puerta del S³l. The Bannermen lead the van, Their black flags flapping again and again; Singly they ride, man after man . Behind them appears The line of the Guardsmen and Bass - cavaliers, Two and two, in a long, long sable train- The Torch -bearers march on foot by their side, In the rear of the Hearse -and hark! anon The King and his Nobles ride A slow musical strain, Funereal and sad, resounds from the wide Ravines to the plain , And the notes fall, one after one, Off the muffled drum, and blend with the swell Of the rolling Esgueva, Till the Cavalcade winds through the Puert' d' Isabel. The Bannermen ride in the van; Then follow the Guards, Knights, Nobles, and King; Slowly move all, as when they began . The mists of the night Dull the red glare of the torches' light; And the Hearse, with its plumes of black heron -wing, And its formless look in the dusk, damp air, Seemeth like an Embodied Despair! While the horn and the bass-bugle mingle their tones In funereal strains, That sound like the wailings of Dolorous Prayer From a soul in her pains, And seem sadder at whiles from the groans Of the muffled drum , and the mournful flow Of the rolling Esgueva, As the Cavalcade winds through the Portal of Woe IX. But lo! the Gate, with its Gothic arch, The Convent, with its mitred wall! The lurid rays of the torches fall Aslant on Saint Francis' Convent -wall. Enough! here halts the processional March. X. With measured and solemn tread , The buriers all, the King the while Advancing at their head, Move to the end of the lamp - lighted aisle, And there lay down their Dead. The Mass is chanted for the Dead, Before the altar of the LORD! The Brethren of Saint Francis raise Aloft, With one accord, The voice of prayer, the hymn of praise, To Him , the All- wise God and LORD, The only Ever-blest, Who oft Works out by chastening and mysterious ways Salvation for the souls he loveth best! And, as the midnight bell tolls forth its warning That Night is nearing Morning, The corpse is lowered into its bed of rest. XI. It is done! All is over! The too fond - hearted lover Of his Motherland is lying in his crypt of marble stone. May a blessèd resurrection Be the meed of that affection That burned in his bosom for Her, and Her alone! Many, since, have shared his doom, Of our Noble- souled and True For, woe is me, the brightest of the laurels Erin gathers Still bestow their barren bloom But on those, who, like to Hugh, Lay their bones far away from the valleys of their fathers! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SIBERIA by JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN TWENTY GOLDEN YEARS AGO by JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN DUHALLOW by JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN SOUL AND COUNTRY by JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN ST. PATRICK'S HYMN BEFORE TARAH by JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN THE DAWNING OF THE DAY by JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN THE KARAMANIAN EXILE by JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN THE NAMELESS ONE; BALLAD by JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN THE ONE MYSTERY by JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN THE RUINS OF DONEGAL CASRLE by JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN |
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