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DEATH AND BURIAL OF RED HUGH O'DONNELL, by                     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!






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