O'MORE'S FAIR DAUGHTER; OR, THE HAWK OF BALLYSHANNON,

AN ODE.

TRANSLATED BY THOMAS FURLONG.

Flower of the young and fair,
'Tis joy to gaze on thee;

Pride of the gay hills of Maile,
Bright daughter of the princely Gael,

What words thy beauty can declare ?
What eye unmov'd thy loveliness can see?

Fond object of the wanderer's praise,
Source of the poet's love-fraught lays,
Theme of the minstrel's song,
Child of the old renown'd O'More,*
What charms to thee belong!

Happy is he who wafts thee o'er

To yon green isle, where berries grow-
Happy is he who, there retired,

Can rest him by thy side,

Marking, with love's delicious frenzy fir'd,
Thy young cheeks changing glow,

And all the melting meaning of thine eyes;
While round and round him, far and wide,
On the shore, and o'er the tide,

Soft strains of music rise,

Varying thro' each winning measure,
Soothing every sense to pleasure.

This family holds a conspicuous place in the annals of Ireland."

He to whom such joy is given,
Hath while here his share of heaven.

Happy is he who hath gained thy love-
Happy is he who hath won thee;
Thy princely sires look from above,
And smile in their pride upon thee:

The race of Tarah, the men of name,
First in the gory fields of fame.

Oh, fair one! wherever thou art

There is light for the eyes and balm for the heart; The desire of desires, the essence of all

That can torture, or soften, or soothe, or enthral; Thy step is life and lightness,

And thy glance hath a thrilling brightness;

Thy waist is straight and slender,

And thy bosom, gently swelling, Outdoes the swan's in whiteness,

When she starts from her tranquil dwelling,
And breasts the broad lake in splendour.

Sweet girl, those locks so wildly curled,
Have snares and spells for many;

Oh, far may we range thro' this weary world,
And find thee unmatch'd by any.

Art thou a thing of earth-
A maid of terrestrial birth?
Or a vision sent from on high,

In peerless beauty beaming,

Like those shapes that pass o'er the poet's eye,
When he lies all idly dreaming.

Rejoice, rejoice, with harp and voice,

For the hawk of Erne is near us;

She comes with a smile our cares to beguile,
She comes with a glance to cheer us:

Not lov'd and lovely alone is she,

But bounteous as high-born dames should be.
On she moves, while the eyes of all

Hail the ground where her footsteps fall;
Sweet are her tones as the treasur'd store
Which the weary, weary bee

Culls from the flowers he lingers o'er,
When he wanders far and free;
Sweeter far than the cuckoo's lay,
That rings on the ear of a summer's day :
But come, let this the rest declare-
In this bumper flowing o'er
We pledge the fairest of the fair—
The daughter of old O'More.

This exquisite ode is one of the finest productions of Carolan. The English version is, no doubt, to a considerable extent, like many of the others, paraphrastical. But may not the same be said of the finest poetical versions of the classics we possess? Who imagines that the great Grecian bard possessed the polish in the original which he has received at the hands of his English interpreter, the poet of Twickenham, though he has thereby been shorn of much of his majesty. And perhaps, after allliteral translations apart-paraphrases are not the least satisfactory, for the great felicity is to translate the spirit as well as the letter of poetry. This is a task, doubtless, which requires great ability and great judgment to preserve the essential spirit of the original, and yet to adapt it to the genius of the language into which it is transfused, and to the style of thought and feeling

of the people, and the times for which is intended. This is only to be attained by hitting the happy medium.

The lady to whom the following is addressed, belonged to the family inheriting the possessions once the property of the bard's ancestors :

GRACE NUGENT.*

TRANSLATED BY S. FERGUSON, M.R.I.A.

Brightest blossom of the spring,
Grace, the sprightly girl, I sing;
Grace who bore the palm of mind
From all the rest of womankind:
Whomsoe'er the fates decree,
Happy fate for life to be,

Day and night my coolun near,
Ache or pain need never fear.

Her neck outdoes the stately swan,
Her radiant face the summer dawn;
Ah, happy thrice the youth for whom
The fates design that branch of bloom!
Pleasant are your words benign,
Rich those azure eyes of thine;

Ye who see my queen, beware

Those twisted links of golden hair!†

"The fair subject of this song was sister to the late John Nugent, Esq. of Castle Nugent, Calumbre. She lived with her sister, Mrs. Conmee, near Balanagar, in county Roscommon, at the time she inspired our bard."-Historical Memoirs of Irish Bards, Appendix, p. 78.

"Hair is a favourite object with all the Irish poets, and endless is the variety of their descriptions:- Soft, misty curls' thick, branching tresses of bright redundance'—'locks of fair waving beauty'-'tresses flowing on the

This is what I fain would say
To the bird-voiced lady gay-
Never yet conceiv'd the heart
Joy that Grace cannot impart:
Fold of jewels, case of pearls!
Coolun of the circling curls!
More I say not, but no less

Drink your health and happiness.

In 1733 the bard was bereft of his wife. The beautiful elegy which he composed on this occasion has been much and deservedly admired. The following version by Miss Brooke appeared originally in Walker's Bards, where it was introduced with this elegant compliment:— "For the benefit of the English reader, I shall here give an elegant paraphrase of this monody, by a young lady whose name I am enjoined to conceal; with the modesty ever attendant on true merit, and with the sweet timidity natural to her sex, she shrinks from the public eye.' There is also another version in the "Minstrelsy.”

CAROLAN'S MONODY ON THE DEATH OF HIS WIFE.

TRANSLATED BY MISS BROOKE.

Were mine the choice of intellectual fame,
Of spellful song, of eloquence divine,
Painting's sweet power, philosophy's pure flame,
And Homer's lyre and Ossian's harp were mine,

wind, like the bright waving flame of an inverted torch.' They even affect to inspire it with expression, as 'locks of gentle lustre'-' tresses of tender beauty -the maid with the mildly flowing hair,' &c., &c."