89.  St. Columba, who was an O’Donnell.

90.  “This bird (the Gannet) flys through the ship’s sails, piercing them with his beak.”—­O’Flaherty’s “H-Iar Connaught,” p. 12, published by the Irish Archaeological Society.

91.  She was the wife of Oisin, the bard, who is said to have lived and sung for some time at Cushendall, and to have been buried at Donegal.

92.  The Rock of Clough-i-Stookan lies on the shore between Glenarm and Cushendall; it has some resemblance to a gigantic human figure.—­“The winds whistle through its crevices like the wailing of mariners in distress.”—­Hall’s “Ireland,” vol. iii., p. 133.

93.  “The Gray Man’s Path” (Casan an fir Leith) is a deep and remarkable chasm, dividing the promontory of Fairhead (or Benmore) in two.

THE BELL-FOUNDER.

PART I.—­LABOUR AND HOPE.

In that land where the heaven-tinted pencil giveth shape to the
  splendour of dreams,
Near Florence, the fairest of cities, and Arno, the sweetest of streams,
’Neath those hills[94] whence the race of the Geraldine wandered in ages
  long since,
For ever to rule over Desmond and Erin as martyr and prince,
Lived Paolo, the young Campanaro,[95] the pride of his own little vale—­
Hope changed the hot breath of his furnace as into a sea-wafted gale;
Peace, the child of Employment, was with him, with prattle so soothing
  and sweet,
And Love, while revealing the future, strewed the sweet roses under his
  feet.

Ah! little they know of true happiness, they whom satiety fills, Who, flung on the rich breast of luxury, eat of the rankness that kills.  Ah! little they know of the blessedness toil-purchased slumber enjoys, Who, stretched on the hard rack of indolence, taste of the sleep that
  destroys,
Nothing to hope for, or labour for; nothing to sigh for, or gain; Nothing to light in its vividness, lightning-like, bosom and brain; Nothing to break life’s monotony, rippling it o’er with its breath:  Nothing but dulness and lethargy, weariness, sorrow, and death!

But blessed that child of humanity, happiest man among men,
Who, with hammer, or chisel, or pencil, with rudder, or ploughshare, or
  pen,
Laboureth ever and ever with hope through the morning of life,
Winning home and its darling divinities—­love-worshipped children and
  wife,
Round swings the hammer of industry, quickly the sharp chisel rings,
And the heart of the toiler has throbbings that stir not the bosom of
  kings;
He the true ruler and conqueror, he the true king of his race,
Who nerveth his arm for life’s combat, and looks the strong world in the
  face.