"On that lake, whose gloomy shore
Skylark never warbles o'er,
Where the rocks hang high and steep,
Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep."
"Twas in Avoca's pleasant vale,
Whose crystal waters meet and mingle;
Where nature breathes, in ev'ry gale,
She never meant we should be single;
For in the water, rock, and tree,
The vale below, and Heav'n above,
The universal law we see
Of sacred unity and love.
"Twas here-some centuries ago,
The year I can't exactly state,
But what of that? who cares to know
In tales of love about a date?
The sky was then as blue-the sun
Was just as bright—the waters too
Ran murmuring, as now they run,
Reflecting Heav'n, as now they do.
"Twas in this sweet sequester'd scene
That Kevin met the fair Kathleen.
I am not very certain whether
'Twas owing to the lovely weather,
Which always wears a double grace
When we are in a pleasant place,
With nature's beauties o'er us stealing,
Inspiring ev'ry softer feeling,
That Keven, when he saw the fair,
With all her maiden grace about her,
Fresh from her native mountain's air,
Felt that he could not live without her;
Perhaps too he was partly led
By nature's gen❜ral hint to wed.
However, Keven lov'd the fair,
That she lov'd him I think we'll see;
They were, indeed, just such a pair
As Love should say to-follow me.
I wish I had a simile;
The lake of Glandelough, near the seven churches, in the lovely and ro mantic county of Wicklow, in Ireland, is not more celebrated for its wild and melancholy scenery than for its having been the chosen retreat of the youthful Saint Kevin, when he fled from the vanities of the world and the smiles of the fair Kathleen. The guide who accompanies you round the shore points out a cavity in the rocks, which he calls the bed of Saint Kevin. It is fearfully situated, and requires something more than a steady head to enter it. You are also shewn the identical rock from which, as the story runs, the inexorable Saint pushed the unsuspecting girl into the lake below, when her love had traced him to his hiding-place. Mr. Moore has availed himself of this legend, which he has made the subject of one of his exquisite Irish Melodies. To the credit of the Saint, however, the catastrophe of the following little poem differs, in some degree, from the popular story. The vale of Avoca, in the same county, where the lovers are supposed to have passed the morning of their love, is also celebrated by Mr. Moore, in his no less beautiful ballad of “The Meeting of the Waters."
I mean one quite above the common,
To suit a young and lovely woman
Just budding into life and beauty,
And feeling that to love-was duty.
And then-if I could find another,
For him she fondly call'd her brother,
As on his arm she'd hang, or cling
Around his ivory neck, or sit
Beside him when the flow'rs of Spring
Said that for love the time was fit.
Your fancies, I, my readers fair,
Might help to paint a lovely pair.
As yet they both were new to life,
And only saw its sunny side,
Nor deem'd that sin, and care, and strife,
The bright and pleasant stream divide.
To them the sky was always blue,
The valley always deck'd with flowers;
While laughing Time, as on he flew,
Strew'd with fresh sweets their happy hours.
Why is it that in youth we see>
The sky a gilded canopy;
A smiling Paradise the earth,
Teeming with all that's good and fair, Giving to flowers an endless birth
To scent the ever balmy air?
And why when youth's delicious season
Gives way to all the gifts of Reason;
Why must we find that we have been
Deceiv'd by a delusive scene?
To prove it false we fret and toil
For knowledge by the midnight oil;
And waste our prime in learning this,
That earth affords no real bliss ;
That all our youthful dreams were made
To charm awhile and then to fade;
That Joy is nothing but a sound,
And Love is but an idle toy;
That Hope's a phantom never found,
More false than even Love or Joy.
If, Knowledge, this is all you teach,
Alas! to me you vainly preach;
For dearer are my youthful hours,
My smiling Paradise of flowers,
My gilded canopy above,
My budding hopes, my early love.
Oh! give me back my youthful season,
And take the boasted gifts of Reason!
Thus flew the morning of their love,
No weed below, no cloud above
Intruded on their path, or cast
A shadow on the way they'd pass'd.
Beyond that happy valley they
Had never felt a wish to stray;
Their chaste desires, their joys and dreams,
Were mingl'd like its peaceful streams.
Their food was simple, and, for books,
They only read each other's looks;
From thence they drew great information,
And always felt an inclination,
So much the subject did engage,
To re-peruse the pleasant page.
Then for Religion they discern'd,
(Without pretending to be learn'd
In theological debate,)
There must be such a thing as fate
To rule the world, and still keep turning
The stars, for ever bright and burning.
And feeling thus, with rev'rence due,
And just as nature's children do,
They prais'd and worship'd Heav'n together-
Felt gratitude for pleasant weather,
And managed one way or other
To beg a blessing for each other.
But in their fervent adoration
They never dream'd of Revelation ;
Nor did they once their thoughts engage
With holy writ; the sacred page,
On which the Christian faith is founded,
Had not been here as yet expounded;
And so they could not be to blame
For never having heard the same.
But soon through all the island ran
The rumour that a holy man
Had come to preach a doctrine new,
And list'ning hundreds round him drew.
Princes and warriors gather'd near hint,
And sages, as they press'd to hear him,
Heard how the Son of God expir'd;
Till all around became inspir'd,
With holy ardour mothers rais'd
Their lisping infants-old men gaz'd
In wonder and in rev'rent awe,
Pond'ring on all they heard and saw;
As high above the silent crowd
The missionary preach'd aloud.
And where was Kevin then? and where
His gentle mistress ? both were there;
All eye and ear the youth was seen
To stand beside the sweet Kathleen.
His eager look bespoke how well
He treasured up the words that fell;
No human thing he saw or heeded,
But that same holy man who pleaded
The cause of Christ-in Kathleen's eye
A milder spirit seem'd to lie ;
'Twas holy awe, but not unmix'd
With earthly love, for oft she fix'd
An anxious look on Kevin, who
Observ'd her not, nor car'd to do.
From that day forth 'twas found that Kevin
Had anchor'd all his hopes above;
Resigning for a future Heav'n
His present Paradise of love.
His haunts he left, Avoca's vale
No longer heard his gentle tale;
And stranger yet-he shunn'd the view
Of her for whom he fram'd it too.
In solitude his joy was only;
And to some glen remote and lonely,
His pensive steps he'd trace, and there
His soul he'd loose in fervent prayer,
Imploring Heav'n that he might be
Its true and worthy votary ;
For he was willing to resign
His earthly pleasures at its shrine;
Yea, from his bosom he would tear
Each fond impression printed there.
Oh! did he mean by this resolve
The vow he'd plighted to absolve,
And cast her off his admiration,
The idol of his adoration :
The thing on which his fancy dwelt,
In which his being seem'd to melt
Till both were blended into one;
The face, the form, he doated on,
With such a deep intense delight,
That she would swim before his sight
Like some blest vision in a dream,
That floats upon a heavenly beam;
Till eye, and ear, and soul, and heart,
Of her dear essense had a part?
'Twas even so-and he must sever
From her from love and bliss for ever!
And how did Kathleen bear the blow?
Alas! she could not think it sc
That he who shar'd her hopes, her heart,
And love, could play so false a part.
Yet-yet he shunn'd her anxious eye;
And why was this-Oh! Kevin, why?
His steps she trac'd from glen to glen,
And saw him not but once, and then,
Before a cross in prayer intent,
The youthful proselyte was bent;
But when he turn'd, and saw her here,
He vanish'd like a startl'd deer.
Oh! woman's love's a holy light,
And when 'tis kindl'd ne'er can die;
It lives, tho' treachery and slight
To quench the constant flame may try. Like ivy where it grows 'tis seen To wear an everlasting green: Like ivy, too, 'tis found to cling Too often round a worthless thing! Oh! woman's love-at times it may Seem cold or clouded, but it burns With true undeviating ray,
Nor ever from it's idol turns.
It's sunshine is a smile, a frown,
The heavy cloud that weighs it down ;
A tear it's weapon is-beware
Of woman's tears, there's danger there!
It's sweetest place on which to rest,
A constant and confiding breast;
It's joy, to meet-it's death, to part-
It's sepulchre, a broken heart!
Such love was Kathleen's-Oh! 'twas hard
To pay it with such disregard ;
To shun her smiles and chaste embraces,
And seek these solitary places
To kneel and pray-'twas hard, she thought,
And must our future bliss be bought
By thus resigning all that Heav'n
Of happiness on earth had given,
A virtuous love?-but if, indeed,
'Twas in this new created creed
That earthly ties we must forego,
And yet, how strange it should be so!
Since it was clear that Heav'n had fashion'd
Our natures thus, to be impassion'd;
Yet, if 'twere so, she'd even try
To win a passport to the sky;
But only let the road to Heav'n
Be shar'd with him, her gentle Kevin.
But he, it seem'd, felt otherwise;
Perhaps he rightly thought her eyes
Might cross his holy path too often,
And use their wonted art to soften.
And then her voice had something in it,
Could stir within him in a minute
A cord that woke, no matter what,
A feeling that of Heav'n was not.
No, no, 'twould never do, she may
Find out the path to bliss without him;
But where he shortly meant to stay
She could not, must not be about him.
I long have thought, and think so yet,
Your saints a very selfish set.
He soon withdrew, nor left a trace
Behind him of his hiding place;
And only wrote two lines to tell
She must accept his last farewell;
That Heav'n had call'd him from her love,
But surely they should meet above!
The first was meant in explanation,
The latter for her consolation;
Alas! but little it bestow'd,
Or only added to the load,
The heavy load of woe she felt
Oppress her, and refuse to melt.
"We'll meet again"—it is a knell,
A heavy and foreboding bell,
Which falls too often on the ear,
To tell us we are lonely here.
I heard it once-'twas from the tongue
Of a dear friend who died when young:
With fancies fraught, by genius nourish'd,
And full of hopes that never flourish'd!
I then was young and ardent too,
And fondly thought as youth will do,
That death's dread dart was only made
To strike the aged and decay'd.
I saw the hectic flush arise,
And mark'd the lustre of his eyes,
The more than human light they gave,
Nor thought these signs foretold-the grave.
When pain subsided for awhile
We'd sketch our future happy days,
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