By the same Author.
A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.
1 VOL., 12MO.
FAITH AND FANCY.
1 VOL. 12MO.
A GOBLIN ROMANCE,
IN FIVE PARTS.
AUTHOR ov "SYBIL, A TRAGEDY," "FAITH AND FANCY,"
NEW YORK :
JAMES B. KIRKER,
(LATB EDWAKD DUNIGAN & BKOTHER,)
599 BROADWAY, (UP STAIRS.)
Entered according to Act of Congress, In the year ISM,
BY JOHN SAVAGE,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of
ROBERT SHELTON MACKENZIE, D. C. L.
MY DEAR DOCTOR:
I feel a pardonable pride in offering you this little book.
Were its merits but equal to the gratification experienced in
dedicating it to you, its reputation would be a foregone conclu
sion, and only make me more happy that it was in some de
gree worthy of your acceptance. I pray you, however, to take
it, such as it is, as a small token of my appreciation of your in
defatigable labors in the cultivation and dissemination of a
healthy and hearty Polite Literature, of your high sense of
professional independence, and of your generosity to profes
sional juniors a generosity the more gladly recorded here be
cause I have been a partaker of its fruits.
Among contemporary writers, I am not aware of any more
ready to welcome and endorse what your judgment recognizes
as deserving; or who, being forced into an opposite course,
justifies his disapproval out of resources more complete, or by
standards more compatible with common sense and the dig
nity of letters. These characteristics, so widely valued and
respected, fortify the desire of personal regard to inscribe this
romance with your name.
A word as to the work itself. While illustrating the plot
if I may call it such by the resources Fancy and Imagination
conjure up as lying within the supernatural and fairy realms,
and by the reflection of the scenery, occasion, and moods of the
actors upon each other, I have attempted like an old-fashioned
Btory-tellor more than once to point a moral : and in the con-
eluding part, to lead the mind to dwell on the still higher,
more enduring, and more consoling teaching of Christianity,
that, amid the vicissitudes which rack man not the least
crushing of which is a transition from the egotistic rapture of
a passionate young love to the humiliating consciousness of
moody despair his only comfort and lasting reward is to be
found in the self-sacrifice, the resignation in a word the
humble, but heroic virtues symbolized by THE CBOSS.
Accept, my dear Doctor, this dedication, with the affectionate
FOKDHAH, September 25, 1865.
THE evening Sun was setting fair
Beneath a sky of blue,
And Nature's charms on earth, in air,
Were fading into dew :
The sun's broad beams athwart did lie
The crimson-mantled West,
As a golden Cross of Chivalry
Charged on a purple vest :
The evening star, with tender freight
Of charitable mirth,
Did seem to cheer and gratulate
The day-tired sons of earth.
A gentle breath the shrubs arnong-
A gentle sisrh of air.
As though a gentle maiden's song
Was lilting here and there ;
The busy bushes keeping time,
The tendrils join each note,
And all is soft as silv'ry rhyme
From out a silv'ry throat :
The grass assumes a whimpering thrill
As through it wings the wind,
So gently though, it scarcely speeds
To coax a chorus from yon weeds,
Ere all is &till behind :
The dry stems wheeze a tiny pipe
To show they wakeful lie,
As urchins mumble unknown type
When pedagogue struts by :
The wild rose blushes on the eve
Of going to its rest,
And bends its crimson cheek to grieve
On mother Earth's calm breast.
The dew steals o'er primroses pale
Which deck yon shady place ;
And clustering in a shy delight,
Help to shake the tears of night
From off each others' face :
And hawthorn blossoms titter low,
For fear their joyaunce reach
The matron-like and crabbed boughs,
While am'rous Air essays its vows
And steals a kiss from each :
The mountain Ash, gay lithe and young,
With knowledge of its grace,
TTnheedful hears the gallant's song,
Nor cares be won by secret tongue,
It bends to bolder face.
The evening calm as the smile of Him,
Who said, " Thy Will be done,"
And the pious air seemed hushed in prayer
Like a seraphic nun.
The scene was wild, yet Fancy made
Its features full of balm
As though it joined the lengthening shade
To make the day's death calm.
In truth it was a placid scene
Where awe did wonder woo :
Yea, such as men full seldom ken
The coming twilight through.
It is a brocken valley wild,
The Dodder streaming down
Its centre, and the mountain heath
Envelops with a purple wreath
Kippure's age-mottled crown.
O valley ! consecrate to song,
In poet-warrior's soul,
"Where memories of Ossian throng
Delightful Grlan-nis-mole ! l
O valley ! famed in Ancient days
"Not more by Ossian's voice,
Than thrushes', whose bewildering maze
Of melody made all thy braes
And hundred dells rejoice.
Romantic, rugged, sombre, grand,
The hills jut out and fall
Into the devious vale, as though
To stay the Dodder's reckless How :
Which, foams, and frets, through all.
They drive the stream from shore to shore ;
It shakes with rage, then sweeps
Around the base, with lengthening pace,
With sullen surge, breaks through the gorge,
And frothing, onward leaps.
By Alyagower, clear as glass
The pools glide smoothly free,
Till further down, a group of rocks,
Like bathing dwarfs, jumps up and mocks
Their placid ecstasy.
Then like branch-broken rays from sun
Or sparks from the blacksmith's blow
Or, shattered gems, they flash and run
To frothen the angry flow.
And now they chant a boisterous song,
United, now they hymn,
And anon they murmuring lilt along
In the shade of yon brockeu, dim.
The brave ship many leagues must tack
As air and ocean wills :
So strove the river, making track
Athrough this sea of hills.
An ivy-quilted scanty ruin
Lies hugged i' the valley wild ;
And tombs there tell, of all save hell
To martyr, man, and child.
In the shade of the lonely pile,
Like life within a dream,
In the shade of the holy aisle
A listening to the stream
A listening to the Dodder's woes
A-neath the ivy green,
A damsel and youth, the like in sooth
I'm sure you ne'er have seen.
Ye sprites, it was a dreamy scene
And a witching wild one, too,
Such as we but seldom see,
The elfin twilight through.
The youthful maid an angel's face
And angel's form, I ween,
A mingling grace lit up her face
Of blooming ripe sixteen.
Tresses like an autumn night
Hang o'er her ioreueau o aaj
Darkly rich a pearly light
Outlines each curling spray
Eyes of such unearthly light,
Though dark as ever wrought ;
By Heaven ! they twist me as a sprite,
Though I but see in thought.
Much more they twisted yon poor soul,
The brave youth by her side,
Whose pupils rise to the maid's dark eyes
And in the wild glance dies, and dies
To live in hopeful pride.
He sighs, that wily nature should
Play freaks to show her might,
And make in witching maidenhood
The darkest eyes most bright.
Her forehead, as white marble, pale,
The veins an azure river,
Where tints of Ireland's skies prevail
In softness, softening ever.
Her cheeks, the dainty tenderness
As when at morning's dawn,
The sun-beam is shed, through a rose-leaf, red,
On a neighboring ceanavaun. 2
Her lips ! a healthy pure repast
A sylph's or mortal's, which ?
The upper like the bright spring cast,
The under autumn rich :
And both control a fragrant breath
Like breeze o'er summer flowers,
When jocund morn enliveneth
Earth's re-awakened powers.
Her voice was like a happy thought
Whose speaking smile did sun you,
And ere you heard the opening word
The movement had undone you.
A raiment white with girdle green
Her dainty waist about,
For as her heart was pure within,
Her garb was pure without.
So take the fair for all In all :
Such a pure though tempting smile,
Ne'er shone from maid
As on him who strayed
Through that old monastic aisle.
Comely shaped the youth, and slender ;
With four summers o'er her own :
And ever since they gambolled
On the hill-paths over-brambled,
In sunny childhood's days, the tender
Passion, with their growth had grown.
Never slept it : for their sleeping
Ne'er was by its dreams forsaken
Sleep, our Nature's El Dorado,
Only held it by a shadow
"While they gathered golden dream-tales
To be told when they'd awaken.
Tims their nights were but as segments
Of the circle of their days ;
And their young hearts, sunny centres,
Rich with Love's converging rays.
Young Kevin Dhu, so was he hight,
For ay, was youth as good
As e'er bent bow on Saxon foe,
Or boasted the commingling flow
Of Celto-Norman blood.
His voice is full and freshly clear
As the breeze on Comm'ragh's crown ;
His hand can harp to a maiden's ear
Or strike a foeman down.
The brown locks cluster on his brow,
Like grapes on the brow of Pan,
And you see a man in the youth though now
The youth is scarcely man.
Lonely looks the ancient pile ;
But love is lonely never,
When loving eyes exchange the while
The arrows from Love's quiver.
Solemn the weird and lonely scene,
Solemn the tombs arraigned
It looks as Life had all buried been,
And they alone remained.
In truth, it was a holy scene,
And a lonely wild one too,
Such as men full seldom ken
The dusky twilight through.
A harp, Love's vibrant symbol, rude
In shape, but sweet in tone,
Lay o'er a tomb, as though its mood
Was dirging the dead alone.
She sate her down upon a tomb,
A cross rose high before,
With mossy shapes from Time's gray womb,
Emboss'd and stained o'er.
" What hopes !" he cried, " what love, what truth,
These ancient crosses speak !
What chastening thoughts for strength and
What sinews for the weak !
u With Vandal Time, their Sculptures rude
But sacred combat well ;
Like trusty friends, they have outstood
The wealth that from us fell.
u ' T would seem the centuried bones beneath,
With strength of faith had grown
To mark the true soul's hope in death,
And rose in sculptured stone.
" Ye granite graybeards of the past
Wlio watch our kindred o'er,
With us may e'er thy teachings last,
That we the Cross adore.
" These crosses, like great note-marks, stand
O'er all the Celtic sod,
Grown gray in agony of love
Referring us to God 1" 3
And then, as dropping in the tide
Of thought his fervor sprung,
The youth in Celtic anguish sighed
Its mysty waves among.
'Twas but a moment, though it seemed,
In retrospection, years,
And waking from the life he dreamed
Ancestral blood and tears
He leaned against the carven cross,
That rood of holy stone,
In love's weird tremors both at loss,
To claim each heart their own.
He brushed his brow, he snatched his harp,
A prelude wildly rang ;
Then melting to a plaintive width
Of soul, he to her sang :
A love-lorn minstrel once there dwelt,
In a valley fair to view,
Whose young rapt soul and senses knelt,
A heavenly maid to woo.
His love was fierce as Saint Kevin's hate, 4
Pure as yon spring of Saint Ann,
He loved with the fervor soul doth create,
As a minstrel only can.
He roamed like spirit called from earth,
Chimed from its grave of rest,
Penance to eke for some worldlie mirth,
Or for some act mi blest :
For his love was fierce as Saint Kevin's hate,
Killing as e'en the Saint's ban :
Oft voiceless, his was an ideal state
Of loving, as minstrel can.
He tracked her steps, o'er vale and hill,
True as the shadow she made ;
He blessed the sod whereon she trod,
And the breeze that round her played.
For never to him had the sense of sound
So lovingly tender grown,
As when the air, caressing the fair,
Partook of her dulcet tone.
The Holy Well at which she drank
To him more holy grew
Each tree that gave her shade, each bank
She rested on, he knew !
For he gazed on his love as Martyr would
On the hope that raised his soul,
And his eyes to her rolled as the halo should
Bound the head of the Yirgin 'roll.
Oh, this maid was his sole divinity 1
A model for aye far above
Aught his brain, in its minstrel affinity
To heaven, could weave for his love !
And he loved her as Kate loved Saint Kevin,
And he traced her as dial the sun ;
For at morning, at noon, or at even,
By either you'd find t'other one.
And though they had gambolled in youthhood,
From childhood to each other clung,
Yet neither had strength in their truthhood,
Nor perfectly freedom of tongue :
For love, when it grows up from childhood,
Ne'er thinks to seek deeper the clue,
But looks on each face as the wildwood,
Where unconscious their heart-flowers grew.
And though he had laughed forth his fancies,
And though she reechoed his tale,
Yet for one word each heart inward glances
That one word of blessing or bale.
; ' Ah, sad is the time !" spake Eva,
" When hearts are unconsciously tost ;
'Twere better that one should have spoken
Than voiceless that both should be lost.
" Ah," sighed she, " I pain for the maiden !"
-"And I," quoth he, " wail for the youth !"
" And did neither make them an Aiden,
By shriving the other from ruth ?
" And did neither think of presuming
On friendship that from their birth grew?"
" Ah, no !" said the young bard resuming
His harp, and its love-burdened clue :
" Though the youth but in her saw his heaven,
Still spake not, or heard not the word ;
For," he faltered, " the youth's name was KEVIN,
And EVA, the maid he adored !"
With modest, not unconscious air,
Dear Eva heard him close :
And looked, but spoke not, worlds of prayer.
That only true love knows.
She felt she knew, she had his heart,
And that it spake through her,
And waited her responsive part
From him, nor dared to stir,
Nor dared to stir, lest she displace
The accents she well knew
Her heart must make ; but woke apace
To her own maiden view.
" Ah, Kevin ! in my maiden soul
Is the heart that I bereft
Thee of that I, unconscious. stole,
Yet, willing tor the theft :
" Ay, willing for tlie theft ! O youth,
O Kevin dear ! 'tis frail
That Eva's tongue should tell; but truth
And love's a sad tell-tale."
" Angel of Eva ! let me hear
Those kindling thoughts again ;
That Hope's clear light may shame the bier
Where chilling Doubt lies slain !"
" My Kevin dear, fain would I tell,
My tongue but shames its place,
My lips but mock the inward spell
That needs would outward trace.
" My heart is throbbing like a sea,
And could sea span the skies above,
I feel its vast immensity
Could not cradle half my love."
Entranced in her speech, he gazed
As though a statue still
Or like a breathless sculptor, dazed
At his creative skill.
But suddenly he started, bright,
His thankful gestures spoke,
As vocfii as a host of light,
In cave dawn never woke.
His harp fell on the tufted moss,
His tongue seemed in his fingers, 5
That motion all his words, at loss
While speech on his dumb mouth lingers.
He wrapt her to his burning breast,
That love should fear no cheating ;
He prest her, that each pledging test
Should feel each other beating.
Exchanged troths of love were given,
And Echo sealed each tone,
Before the Cross, and the holy heaven,
In the ivied ruin lone.
As thus the pair entranced were,
Each with the other's love;
Unseen, unheard, about them there
A horrid pageant wove.
Old name-lost tombs 'gan start to life
The dead 'gan hobbling out,
Martyrs and monks, and man and wife,
To witness what they're about.
As lumberingly moved the mounds
That did the ground encumber, .
The headstones cracked their lichen skins,
And yawn'd, like sots in slumber.
Old battered memories on the walls,
Took shape and left their places ;
Crushed effigies in crumbling stalls,
Resumed their forms and faces.
And skeletons helped with rattling noise
To empty each other's graves,
To witness the troth and hear the voice
Of love that daintily raves.
The oldest trees did shake and quake
Up to their farthest shoots,
As each skeleton pulls
Might and main for the skulls,
Meshed in the tangled roots.
You'd think it was a lashing hail
Upon the branching eaves ;
Or wild despoiling autumn gale
A throttling all the leaves.
And while the groups are gathering round
From out their dim abodes,
The woes and state of some create
Grim ghastly episodes.
A horrid shape from the path to hell
Escaped to quench his thirst,
For his inside scorch'd as flames do dwell
In house pent ere they burst.
He came to drink of the mystic Well
Blessed by the good Saint Ann,
Whose waters boast the purest spell
From Tallaght to Lough Dan. 6
And deftly to the holy pool
This ghastly shape forsooth
Did speed, with shrined wave to cool
His hellish scorching drouth.
He snatched the bo\vl from the holy stone,
And dived it in the Well ;
But yet Avhile there flew
His pr.rehed frame through
A bliss from the hoped-for spell,
A hurrying sprite
Dashed the cup from his sight,
And he felt o'er again pangs of hell.
Oh could he but drink of the shriving wave,
'Tvvould give him the freedom of soul
To think of a heav'n ; his body 'twould save
From the torturing pangs of a hell-bound grave
He snatches again at the bowL
Is it Saint Ann ? or a guarding band ?
Or hath he a soul conscience-barred ?
Again the cup from his flaming hand
Is dashed by some unseen guard
And a voice, like the rending of great forest oaks,
Begat on his ear, with a yell,
The sentence of Fate "Hence slave to your
And your purgatorial cell."
He shrunk aback, as his head had been
Clove with Saint Peter's key,
And he durst not look, for bell and book
Had told him where he would be.
And a group kept watching a tomb in the aisle,
And they grinned a wrathful, vengeful smile,
In wait for its inmate's skull ;
For he was a lord,
Whose only word
Was of hate to the poor,
And death to the boor
Who made not his door
And halls with venison full ;
And oft had tins baron been known to brag,
The number of vassals he clove with his mace ;
And he took less delight racing after the stag,
Thau he did in staying the human race.
And one yelled forth a merry stave,
A hundred choruss'd the verse ;
And from under a cowl,
A relentless jowl
Mumbled a hopeful curse.
And one whose flesh was half decayed
Poured forth a troublous groan,
Which shook the slime from his wormy side,
And bared it to the bone.
Some had on cerements gray, which flapped
As loose sails on the spars of a ship ;
And some, half-rotted on what they wrapped,
Were as cobwebs caught on a chip.
One looked at her tomb as at her glass,
Ne'er doubting herself 'twould bear,
But she yelled her joy
At the fond foul lie
Pier husband had sculptured there.
And calling a troupe of like wild wives,
She bade them see themselves
All scampered away as they did in their lives
A pack of mad vain elves.
And they laughed, did this brood of wanton
At their sculptured acts, and cried
" Ho ! ho ! for those who have led good lives,
They'll have no surprise when they've died."
And as the " Yes" from Eva's mouth
Proclaimed young Kevin's bride,
All swirled as though the grapes of the South
Were gurgling their skulls inside.
And a jolly mob around the pair
Prankt madly in a reel,
And chattered, and bowed, and flattered aloud,
The lovers with devilish zeal.
But lovers' eyes, though ope are blind,
And lovers' ears are deaf;
'Tis but in loving lovers find
Love's grief or love's relief.
Young Kevin clasped the maid again,
The embrace was soft and sweet ;
The bubbling love of the wooers twain,
At parting was as they'd meet.
And as love's tender stupor sheds
Its filmy mask, they thought
The air was dotted with strange heads,
And with strange noises fraught.
Their skinny digits clasping fast,
The mouldy dancers spin
Swiftly past their skulls are cast
Into one circling grin.
The fluttering Eva nestled close
Unto her Kevin's breast,
They soothed the sudden fears that rose,
By being both caressed.
" The noise" it was the weary breeze,
Or Dodder's plaining tones :
" The faces" moonshine through the trees
Upon the quaint old stones.
And wilder, swifter speed the wraiths,
As on a whirlpool leaves,
Until they fade, and the speering maid
Feels she herself deceives.
The moon breaks from her camp of clouds,
And roams the clear expanse ;
The ghosts glide into their slimy shrouds,
Tired with the trysting dance.
The moon was taking her highest roll,
And the light from her regnant head,
Enwrapped the stars, like a mighty scroll,
With eternity's language spread.
The crystal blue of the amhient sky,
The crystal light of the moon,
The crystal note of the black-bird nigh,
Makes echo a crystal tune.
The stars like strings of a heavenly lyre,
Swept by the hands of Night,
Fill with joy the cathedral choir ;
And echo is turned to light.
And down the moonlight flutes the air,
Each beam a choral column ;
And earth's calm but responsive prayer
Blends in the midnight solemn. <
And heavenly smiles and earthly thanks
In their descent and upward flight,
Pass in joyed and bowed ranks
Through night's corridors of light.
The wakeful crags, Kippure's broad brow
Stand out in bright relief,
Attendant on the moon ; and throw
The glens in shadowed grief.
Scarce a stir was up in the air,
Scarce a stir on the earth,
Save lyrical rills from the elfin hills
Gamb'Uing in wildsome mirth.
They staved and raved adown the stones,
A stop-note every pebble,
To quiver the chant into tinkling tones
Of a dulcet treble.
At the time of fair Eva's vows
To Kevin's love-lit power,
The elfin queen her courtiers did rouse
To meet over Alyagower.
Bustling, yet noiseless, came along
The elves from midnight sprees,
Lowly but sweet as ever was song
They lilted their gathering glees :
So genial the flow, so num'rous the throng,
It was as a perfumed breeze
Or, like a forethought of Zephyr's song,
Balmy, without the breeze.
As diamond thoughts in quaint bard's brain,
This aeriel world 'gan float ;
And linked, as the gems of a fountain rain
By the mist, with a dewy note.
A haze of sound enwrapped the elves
As the mist o'er a wayward stream ;
They must have thought, the imps themselves,
They were in an elfin dream.
And hither they come, so various dight-
So brilliant their guises were,
It was as a sudden May that night,
And they the flow'rs o' the air.
Spirit of Heath and Daisy-dew,
And tiny Blue-bell first,
Bounding came, with the elfin crew,
That followed in a burst.
Honey-suckle and Primrose-tip,
Arm in arm, I wist
And Evening-sigh and Tulip-lip,
And the Fog-sprite, Dodder-mist :
Jessamine-breath and Woodbine-brow,
Blessing each other's way,
And Honey-tongue and Folks-glove^ now,
And many a valley fay :
The scarlet Dragon's-head came up,
And Morning-glory too,
Bearing a monstrous purple cup