Borne on the current the vessel glides smoothly but
By Carrigaholt, and by many a green sloping headland and bay,
’Twixt Cratloe’s blue hills and green woods, and the soft sunny shores
And now the fair city of Limerick spreads out on the broad bank below;
Still nearer and nearer approaching, the mariners look o’er the town,
The old man sees nought but St. Mary’s square tower, with its
He listens—as yet all is silent, but now, with a sudden surprise,
A rich peal of melody rings from that tower through the clear evening
One note is enough—his eye moistens, his
heart, long so wither’d,
He has found them—the sons of his labours—his musical, magical bells!
At each stroke all the bright past returneth, around him the sweet Arno
His children—his darling Francesca—his purple-clad trellis of vines!
Leaning forward, he listens, he gazes, he hears in that wonderful strain
The long-silent voices that murmur, “Oh, leave us not, father again!”
’Tis granted—he smiles—his eye closes—the breath from his white lips
The father has gone to his children—the old Campanaro is dead!
94. The hills of Else. See Appendix to O’Daly’s “History of the Geraldines,” translated by the Rev. C. P. Meehan, p. 130.
96. The country of youth; the Elysium of the Pagan Irish.
97. Camden seems to credit a tradition commonly believed in his time, of a gradual increase in the number and size of the lakes and rivers of Ireland.
98. The beautiful hill in Lower Ormond called “Knockshegowna,” i.e., Oonagh’s Hill, so called from being the fabled residence of Oonagh (or Una), the Fairy Queen of Spenser. One of the finest views of the Shannon is to be seen from this hill.
Ah! the pleasant time hath vanished, ere our wretched
All the graceful spirit-people, children of the earth and sea,
Whom in days now dim and olden, when the world was fresh and golden,
Every mortal could behold in haunted rath, and tower, and tree—
They have vanished, they are banished—ah! how sad the loss for thee,
Still some scenes are yet enchanted by the charms
that Nature granted,
Still are peopled, still are haunted, by a graceful spirit band.
Peace and beauty have their dwelling where the infant streams are
Where the mournful waves are knelling on Glengariff’s coral strand;
Or where, on Killarney’s mountains, Grace and Terror smiling stand,
Like sisters, hand in hand!