Such was the brother's tale of earthly love-- He ceased, and sadly bowed his reverend head: For us, we wept, and raised our eyes above, And sang the 'De Profundis' for the dead.

A freshening breeze played on our moistened cheeks, The far horizon oped its walls of light, And lo! with purple hills and sun-bright peaks A glorious isle gleamed on our gladdened sight,

THE PARADISE OF BIRDS.

"Post resurrectionis diem dominicae navigabitis ad altam insulam ad occidentalem plagam, quae vocatur PARADISUS AVIUM."--"Life of St.

Brendan," in Capgrave, fol. 45.

It was the fairest and the sweetest scene-- The freshest, sunniest, smiling land that e'er Held o'er the waves its arms of sheltering green Unto the sea and storm-vexed mariner:-- No barren waste its gentle bosom scarred, Nor suns that burn, nor breezes winged with ice, Nor jagged rocks (Nature's grey ruins) marred The perfect features of that Paradise.

The verdant turf spreads from the crystal marge Of the clear stream, up the soft-swelling hill, Rose-bearing shrubs and stately cedars large All o'er the land the pleasant prospect fill.

Unnumbered birds their glorious colours fling Among the boughs that rustle in the breeze, As if the meadow-flowers had taken wing And settled on the green o'er-arching trees.

Oh! Ita, Ita, 'tis a grievous wrong, That man commits who uninspired presumes To sing the heavenly sweetness of their song-- To paint the glorious tinting of their plumes-- Plumes bright as jewels that from diadems Fling over golden thrones their diamond rays-- Bright, even as bright as those three mystic gems, The angel bore thee in thy childhood's days.[60]

There dwells the bird that to the farther west Bears the sweet message of the coming spring;[61]

June's blushing roses paint his prophet breast, And summer skies gleam from his azure wing.

While winter prowls around the neighbouring seas, The happy bird dwells in his cedar nest, Then flies away, and leaves his favourite trees Unto this brother of the graceful crest.[62]

Birds that with us are clothed in modest brown, There wear a splendour words cannot express; The sweet-voiced thrush beareth a golden crown,[63]

And even the sparrow boasts a scarlet dress.[64]

There partial nature fondles and illumes The plainest offspring that her bosom bears; The golden robin flies on fiery plumes,[65]

And the small wren a purple ruby wears.[66]

Birds, too, that even in our sunniest hours, Ne'er to this cloudy land one moment stray, Whose brilliant plumes, fleeting and fair as flowers, Come with the flowers, and with the flowers decay.[67]

The Indian bird, with hundred eyes, that throws From his blue neck the azure of the skies, And his pale brother of the northern snows, Bearing white plumes, mirrored with brilliant eyes.[68]

Oft in the sunny mornings have I seen Bright-yellow birds, of a rich lemon hue, Meeting in crowds upon the branches green, And sweetly singing all the morning through.[69]

And others, with their heads greyish and dark, Pressing their cinnamon cheeks to the old trees, And striking on the hard, rough, shrivelled bark, Like conscience on a bosom ill at ease.[70]

And diamond birds chirping their single notes, Now 'mid the trumpet-flower's deep blossoms seen, Now floating brightly on with fiery throats, Small-winged emeralds of golden green;[71]

And other larger birds with orange cheeks, A many-colour-painted chattering crowd, Prattling for ever with their curved beaks, And through the silent woods screaming aloud.[72]

Colour and form may be conveyed in words, But words are weak to tell the heavenly strains That from the throats of these celestial birds Rang through the woods and o'er the echoing plains.

There was the meadow-lark, with voice as sweet, But robed in richer raiment than our own; And as the moon smiled on his green retreat, The painted nightingale sang out alone.[73]

Words cannot echo music's winged note, One bird alone exhausts their utmost power; 'Tis that strange bird whose many-voic'ed throat Mocks all his brethren of the woodland bower; To whom indeed the gift of tongues is given, The musical rich tongues that fill the grove, Now like the lark dropping his notes from heaven, Now cooing the soft earth-notes of the dove.[74]

Oft have I seen him, scorning all control, Winging his arrowy flight rapid and strong, As if in search of his evanished soul, Lost in the gushing ecstasy of song; And as I wandered on, and upward gazed, Half lost in admiration, half in fear, I left the brothers wondering and amazed, Thinking that all the choir of heaven was near.

Was it a revelation or a dream?-- That these bright birds as angels once did dwell In heaven with starry Lucifer supreme, Half sinned with him, and with him partly fell; That in this lesser paradise they stray.

Float through its air, and glide its streams along, And that the strains they sing each happy day Rise up to G.o.d like morn and even song.[75]

THE PROMISED LAND.

[The earlier stanzas of this description of Paradise are princ.i.p.ally founded upon the Anglo-Saxon version of the poem "De Phenice," ascribed to Lactantius, and which is at least as old as the earlier part of the eleventh century.]

As on this world the young man turns his eyes, When forced to try the dark sea of the grave, Thus did we gaze upon that Paradise, Fading, as we were borne across the wave.

And, as a brighter world dawns by degrees Upon Eternity's serenest strand, Thus, having pa.s.sed through dark and gloomy seas, At length we reached the long-sought Promised Land.

The wind had died upon the Ocean's breast, When, like a silvery vein through the dark ore, A smooth bright current, gliding to the west, Bore our light bark to that enchanted sh.o.r.e.

It was a lovely plain--s.p.a.cious and fair, And bless'd with all delights that earth can hold, Celestial odours filled the fragrant air That breathed around that green and pleasant wold.

There may not rage of frost, nor snow, nor rain, Injure the smallest and most delicate flower, Nor fall of hail wound the fair, healthful plain, Nor the warm weather, nor the winter's shower.

That n.o.ble land is all with blossoms flowered, Shed by the summer breezes as they pa.s.s; Less leaves than blossoms on the trees are showered, And flowers grow thicker in the fields than gra.s.s.

Nor hills, nor mountains, there stand high and steep, Nor stony cliffs tower o'er the frightened waves, Nor hollow dells, where stagnant waters sleep, Nor hilly risings, nor dark mountain caves; Nothing deformed upon its bosom lies, Nor on its level breast rests aught unsmooth, But the n.o.ble filed flourishes 'neath the skies, Blooming for ever in perpetual youth.

That glorious land stands higher o'er the sea, By twelve-fold fathom measure, than we deem The highest hills beneath the heavens to be.

There the bower glitters, and the green woods gleam.

All o'er that pleasant plain, calm and serene, The fruits ne'er fall, but, hung by G.o.d's own hand, Cling to the trees that stand for ever green, Obedient to their Maker's first command.

Summer and winter are the woods the same, Hung with bright fruits and leaves that never fade; Such will they be, beyond the reach of flame, Till Heaven, and Earth, and Time, shall have decayed.

Here might Iduna in her fond pursuit, As fabled by the northern sea-born men, Gather her golden and immortal fruit, That brings their youth back to the G.o.ds again.

Of old, when G.o.d, to punish sinful pride, Sent round the deluged world the ocean flood, When all the earth lay 'neath the vengeful tide, This glorious land above the waters stood.

Such shall it be at last, even as at first, Until the coming of the final doom, When the dark chambers--men's death homes shall burst, And man shall rise to judgment from the tomb.

There there is never enmity, nor rage, Nor poisoned calumny, nor envy's breath, Nor shivering poverty, nor decrepit age, Nor loss of vigour, nor the narrow death; Nor idiot laughter, nor the tears men weep, Nor painful exile from one's native soil, Nor sin, nor pain, nor weariness, nor sleep, Nor l.u.s.t of riches, nor the poor man's toil.

There never falls the rain-cloud as with us, Nor gapes the earth with the dry summer's thirst, But liquid streams, wondrously curious, Out of the ground with fresh fair bubbling burst.

Sea-cold and bright the pleasant waters glide Over the soil, and through the shady bowers; Flowers fling their coloured radiance o'er the tide, And the bright streams their crystal o'er the flowers.

Such was the land for man's enjoyment made, When from this troubled life his soul doth wend: Such was the land through which entranced we strayed, For fifteen days, nor reached its bound nor end.

Onward we wandered in a blissful dream, Nor thought of food, nor needed earthly rest; Until, at length, we reached a mighty stream, Whose broad bright waves flowed from the east to west.

We were about to cross its placid tide, When, lo! an angel on our vision broke, Clothed in white, upon the further side He stood majestic, and thus sweetly spoke: "Father, return, thy mission now is o'er; G.o.d, who did call thee here, now bids thee go, Return in peace unto thy native sh.o.r.e, And tell the mighty secrets thou dost know.

"In after years, in G.o.d's own fitting time, This pleasant land again shall re-appear; And other men shall preach the truths sublime, To the benighted people dwelling here.

But ere that hour this land shall all be made, For mortal man, a fitting, natural home, Then shall the giant mountain fling its shade, And the strong rock stem the white torrent's foam.

"Seek thy own isle--Christ's newly-bought domain, Which Nature with an emerald pencil paints: Such as it is, long, long shall it remain, The school of Truth, the College of the Saints, The student's bower, the hermit's calm retreat, The stranger's home, the hospitable hearth, The shrine to which shall wander pilgrim feet From all the neighbouring nations of the earth.

"But in the end upon that land shall fall A bitter scourge, a lasting flood of tears, When ruthless tyranny shall level all The pious trophies of its early years: Then shall this land prove thy poor country's friend, And shine a second Eden in the west; Then shall this sh.o.r.e its friendly arms extend, And clasp the outcast exile to its breast."

He ceased and vanished from our dazzled sight, While harps and sacred hymns rang sweetly o'er For us again we winged our homeward flight O'er the great ocean to our native sh.o.r.e; And as a proof of G.o.d's protecting hand, And of the wondrous tidings that we bear, The fragrant perfume of that heavenly land Clings to the very garments that we wear.[76]

53. So called from the number of holy men and women formerly inhabiting it.

54. The Atlantic was so named by the ancient Irish.

55. Ardfert.

56. The puffin (Anas leucopsis), called in Irish 'girrinna.' It was the popular belief that these birds grew out of driftwood.

57. St. Fanchea.