A fruitful clime is Eire's, thro' valley, meadow, plain,
And the fair land of Eire, O!

The very "Bread of Life" is in the yellow grain,
On the fair Hills of Eire, O!

Far dearer unto me than the tone music yields,
Is the lowing of the kine and the calves in her fields,
And the sunlight that shone long ago on the shields
Of the Gaels, on the fair Hills of Eire!

Thomas Osborne Davis

To the revolutionary spirit which filled Europe during the '40's and which in Ireland culminated in what is known as the "'Forty-eight Movement," is to be ascribed some of the most spirited verse of the last century. Happily perhaps for Ireland, the interest which now centres in that period is largely of a literary character, as indeed its results were rather literary than political. There was good poetry written, but no revolution had to be stamped out in blood, as in the memorable year of 1798. "Meagher of the Sword" (as Thackeray named him) and others gave proof of a new birth of Irish eloquence, and the great O'Connell, who would not purchase the liberty of his country at the cost of a single drop of blood, began to decline in his marvellous popularity.

over.

For a time the Government suffered this patriotic and literary recrudescence to go on, and then when, in the phrase of the patriots, the "country was ripe for revolution," the machinery of suppression was put to work. There was very little bloodletting. Whatever the bitter regret then, we may be glad of it now. A few summary trials and transportations, and it was all "New Ireland" was discovered to be a euphemism for Botany Bay. The fatalism of Irish history had again asserted itself. In less figurative language, it was demonstrated that you cannot make successful revolution on paper, and that something more than sentiment is required with which to arm a whole people for a war of liberation. John Mitchel had said with fierce scorn that there were men who would not fight if Heaven were to send them muskets and angels to pull the triggers! The truth was

that a rebel Irish army could hardly have been equipped on any other terms.

A brief space before this revolutionary fever flickered out, there died untimely a man who had created much of its patriotic ardor, much of its generous and devoted enthusiasm. Had he lived, Thomas Davis would have found a place beside Mitchel in the dock-it may be the tragedy of the "last of the Geraldines" had been repeated. Dying at thirty-one, the grave closed over one of the noblest of Irish patriots, one of the most memorable of Irish singers.

It is true Davis would not have been content to be reckoned merely a poet, vital and authentic as was his literary vocation. His poems were written in hot haste to serve the propaganda of revolution. There is about them no smell of the lamp, no anxious striving for effect, no conscious artifice or alliteration. The burning sincerity of the sentiment, the full outpouring of passionate patriotism left little leisure to the poet for the labors of the file. Mere blemishes of form are not far to seek in the body of his work, but in the "imperishable excellence of sincerity and strength," much of this verse is not to be surpassed in the whole range of ballad poetry.

Davis has at least one glorious ballad of battle-the finest I dare say since that of Chevy Chase-which I would beg you to compare with the best performances of Mr. Kipling and his imitators. It was nobly said that the old ballad of Chevy Chase "stirred the heart like a trumpet": for the splendid rush of Davis's verse, you must pick a simile from the poem itself, in the lightning charge of the Irish Brigade at Fontenoy-his own Fontenoy, the fiercest, truest song of battle that ever sprang from the heart of poet.

Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column failed,
And, twice, the lines of Saint Antoine, the Dutch in vain assailed;
For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery,
And well they swept the English ranks, and Dutch auxiliary.
As vainly through De Berri's wood, the British soldiers burst,
The French artillery drove them back, diminished and dispersed,

* Lord Edward Fitzgerald, concerned in the rising of 1798. Died from a wound in prison at Dublin.

The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye,
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try.

On Fontenoy—on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride!
And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide.

Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread,
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head;
Steady they step adown the slope-steady they climb the hill;
Steady they load-steady they fire, moving right onward still,
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as thro' a furnace blast,
Thro' rampart, trench and palisade, and bullets showering fast;
And on the open plain above they rose and kept their course,
With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hostile force:
Past Fontenoy-past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks-
They break as broke the Zuyder Zee thro' Holland's ocean banks.

More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round:
As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground;
Bomb-shell and grape, and round-shot tore, still on they marched and
fired-

Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired.

"Push on, my household cavalry!" King Louis madly cried;

To death they rush, but rude their shock-not unavenged they died.
On thro' the camp the column trod-King Louis turns his rein:
"Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, "the Irish troops remain!"
And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo,
Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement and true.

Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's pang,

Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang;

Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their guns are filled with gore; Thro' shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled flags they tore; The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, staggered,

fled

The green hillside is matted close with dying and with dead;
Across the plain, and far away passed on that hideous wrack,
While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track.

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun,

With bloody plumes the Irish stand—the field is fought and won!

It is small matter for wonder that, as to Davis, the sword soon wore out the scabbard. "I have taken too many crops out of the brain," said Thackeray. The young Irishman needed

a frame of iron to withstand the wear and tear of his passionate thought seeking ever, in Byron's phrase, to wreak itself upon expression. It was said that Shelley had fancy enough to portion out a whole generation of poets. The poem which I have just noted might supply them with motive energy.

Poor Davis! His short life was filled with the joy of creation. If we might question the eternities, perchance we should learn that herein lies the highest compensation. The "precious porcelain of human clay " is easily shattered, but the spirit that could feel so ardently, the heart that throbbed with such rare devotion, the soul that dreamed such dreams of freedom for his loved country and shrank not from a generous martyrdomthese were of the essence of immortality.

The melancholy of Davis-that unfailing mark of the Irish poetical temperament-was twin-born with his poetic soul. Though he stands ready, like another Emmet, to offer himself as a sacrifice for his country-though the clink of the sabre is heard in many of his pieces and the fierce rush of battle in Fontenoy-yet that haunting sub-note of sorrow is never far absent, as the shower too closely attends the sunshine of the soft Irish skies. While his countrymen are drinking in the fiery songs with which he sought to rekindle the national spirit, crushed under age-long oppression, the poet puts aside the martial lyre to tell this secret of his heart:

Shall they bury me in the deep,

Where wind-forgetting waters sleep?
Shall they dig a grave for me

Under the greenwood tree?

Or on the wild heath

Where the wilder breath

Of the storm doth blow?

O, no-O, no!

No, on an Irish green hill-side,

On an opening lawn-but not too wide;
For I love the drip of the wetted trees-
I love not the gales, but a gentle breeze
To freshen the turf-put no tombstone there,
But green sods decked with daisies fair,

Nor sods too deep; but so that the dew
The matted grass-roots may trickle thro'.
Be my epitaph writ on my country's mind,
"He served his country and loved his kind."

Davis often seems a sort of poetic Sarsfield. He has the dash of the hero cavalryman, the fierce onslaught of his attack, and the fanciful likeness may be carried out in the touches of tenderness common to both. The martial poet can plan a sortie, like the famous night ride of Lucan through the Kieper mountains; and when he falls on the enemy the surprise rivals that of the capture and explosion of William's siege-train—" Sarsfield is the word and Sarsfield is the man!"

It was fit that this Anglo-Irish poet should sing in matchless verse the glory of that proud race who were "more Irish than the Irish themselves "; whose mournful yet inspiring history, extending over many ruin-marked centuries, forms part of the chief tragedy of Ireland. The poet was worthy of his theme, and never did he strike grander notes than when he chanted the splendid lay of The Geraldines.

The Geraldines-the Geraldines! 'tis full a thousand years

Since, 'mid the Tuscan vineyards, bright flashed their battle spears;
When Capet seized the crown of France, their iron shields were known,
And their sabre-dint struck terror on the banks of the Garonne;
Across the downs of Hastings they spurred by William's side,
And the gray sands of Palestine with Moslem blood they dyed;
But never then, nor thence, till now, has falsehood or disgrace
Been seen to soil Fitzgerald's plume, or mantle in his face.

Ye Geraldines-ye Geraldines!—how royally ye reigned

O'er Desmond broad, and rich Kildare, and English arts disdained;
Your sword made knights, your banner saved, free was your bugle call
By Glyn's green slopes, and Dingle's tide, from Barrow's banks to

Youghal.

What gorgeous shrines, what brehon lore, what minstrel feats there were
In and around Maynooth's gray keep, and palace-filled Adare!

But not for rite or feast ye stayed, when friend or kin were press'd;
And foeman fled, when "Crom abo" bespoke your lance in rest.
True Geraldine! brave Geraldine!—as torrents mould the earth,
You channelled deep old Ireland's heart by constancy and worth;
When Ginckle 'leaguered Limerick, the Irish soldiers gazed
To see if in the setting sun dead Desmond's banner blazed!