JOSEPH BRENAN.

(1828-1857.)

66

JOSEPH BRENAN was born in Cork, Nov. 17, 1828. He became a journalist in 1847, and about the same time married a sister of John Savage. "Brenan," says Mr. Justin McCarthy, was one of the most powerful and eloquent of the younger writers in 1848." He contributed poems to The Nation and to The Irishman, of which latter he became editor.

He was supposed to have been concerned in an attack on the Cappoquin police barracks and in 1849 he fled to this country. In 1853 he partly lost his sight, and before he died was quite blind. He became editor of The New Orleans Times soon after he had settled in that city, and died there in 1857.

COME TO ME, DEAREST.

Come to me, dearest, I'm lonely without thee;
Day-time and night-time I'm thinking about thee;
Night-time and day-time in dreams I behold thee,
Unwelcome the waking that ceases to fold thee.
Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten,
Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten,
Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly,
Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy.

Swallows shall flit round the desolate ruin,
Telling of spring and its joyous renewing;
And thoughts of thy love, and its manifold treasure,
Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure;
O Spring of my spirit! O May of my bosom !
Shine out on my soul till it burgeon and blossom-
The waste of my life has a rose-root within it,
And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it.

Figure that moves like a song through the even-
Features lit up by a reflex of heaven-

Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother,
Where sunshine and shadows are chasing each other;
Smiles coming seldom, but child-like and simple,
And opening their eyes from the heart of a dimple-
O thanks to the Saviour that even thy seeming
Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming!

You have been glad when you knew I was gladdened;
Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened?
As octave to octave and rhyme unto rhyme, love,
Our hearts always answer in tune and in time, love;
I cannot weep but your tears will be flowing-
You cannot smile but my cheeks will be glowing-
I would not die without you at my side, love—
You will not linger when I shall have died, love.

Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow;

Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow;

Strong, swift, and fond as the words that I speak, love,
With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek, love.
Come, for my heart in your absence is dreary;
Haste, for my spirit is sickened and weary;
Come to the arms that alone should caress thee;
Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee!

CHARLOTTE BROOKE.

(1740-1793.)

CHARLOTTE BROOKE, the author of 'Reliques of Irish Poetry,' was one of the twenty-two children of Henry Brooke, the author of 'Gustavus Vasa,' all of whom she survived. She was born in 1740, and was fond of books from a very early age. In the atmosphere of a home such as hers, there was ample opportunity of gratifying her taste for antiquarian lore, and often, while the rest of the family were in bed, she would steal downstairs to the study, there to lose herself in her beloved books.

She was led to the study of the Irish language, and in less than two years she found herself mistress of it. From reading Irish poetry and admiring its beauties, she proceeded to translate it into English, one of her earliest efforts being a song and monody by Carolan, which appeared in Walker's Historical Memoirs of Irish Bards.'

Encouraged by the admiration they called forth, and by the advice of friends, she set herself to collect and translate such works of Irish poets as she could procure and were found worthy of appearing in an English dress. Her 'Reliques of Irish Poetry,' which appeared in 1788, was the result. This work has had an important influence on the study of the then almost forgotten poets who had written in the Irish language.

Miss Brooke's other works were: 'Dialogue between a Lady and her Pupils'; The School for Christians,' Natural History, etc.,' 'Emma, or the Foundling of the Wood,' a novel, and Belisarius,' a tragedy.

Unfortunately, Charlotte Brooke was influenced by the taste of the time; she translated the vigorous and natural Irish idiom into formally elegant phraseology and gave it the form of classical odes, with strophe and antistrophe, and artificialities of that kind. She had, however, a fine spirit of appreciation, and brought to her work not only her own personal enthusiasm, but the knowledge and learning which she had gained from her father (q.v.).

ODE ON HIS SHIP.

From the Irish of Maurice Fitzgerald.

Bless my good ship, protecting power of grace!
And o'er the winds, the waves, the destined coast,
Breathe, benign spirit!-Let thy radiant host
Spread their angelic shields!

Before us the bright bulwark let them place,
And fly beside us, through their azure fields!

Oh calm the voice of winter's storm!
Rule the wrath of angry seas!
The fury of the rending blast appease,
Nor let its rage fair ocean's face deform!
Oh check the biting wind of spring,
And, from before our course,
Arrest the fury of its wing,

And terrors of its force!

So may we safely pass the dangerous cape,
And from the perils of the deep escape!

I grieve to leave the splendid seats
Of Teamor's ancient fame!
Mansion of heroes, now farewell!
Adieu, ye sweet retreats,

Where the famed hunters of your ancient vale,
Who swelled the high heroic tale,

Were wont of old to dwell!

And you, bright tribes of sunny streams, adieu!
While my sad feet their mournful path pursue,
Ah, well their lingering steps my grieving soul proclaim!

Receive me now, my ship!-hoist now thy sails

To catch the favoring gales.

Oh Heaven! before thy awful throne I bend!
Oh let thy power thy servant now protect!
Increase of knowledge and of wisdom lend,
Our course through every peril to direct;
To steer us safe through ocean's rage,

Where angry storms their dreadful strife maintain,
Oh may thy power their wrath assuage!

May smiling suns and gentle breezes reign!

Stout is my well-built ship, the storm to brave.
Majestic in its might,

Her bulk, tremendous on the wave,
Erects its stately height!

From her strong bottom, tall in air

Her branching masts aspiring rise:

Aloft their cords and curling heads they bear,
And give their sheeted ensigns to the skies;
While her proud bulk frowns awful on the main,
And seems the fortress of the liquid plain!

Dreadful in the shock of flight
She goes-she cleaves the storm!

Where ruin wears its most tremendous form
She sails, exulting in her might;

On the fierce necks of foaming billows rides,
And through the roar

Of angry ocean, to the destined shore
Her course triumphant guides;

As though beneath her frown the winds were dead,
And each blue valley was their silent bed!

Through all the perils of the main

She knows her dauntless progress to maintain! Through quicksands, flats, and breaking waves, Her dangerous path she dares explore;

Wrecks, storms, and calms alike she braves,
And gains with scarce a breeze the wished-for shore.
Or in the hour of war,

Fierce on she bounds, in conscious might,
To meet the promised fight!

While, distant far,

The fleets of wondering nations gaze,
And view her course with emulous amaze,
As, like some champion's son of fame,
She rushes to the shock of arms,

And joys to mingle in the loud alarms,
Impelled by rage, and fired with glory's flame!

As the fierce Griffin's dreadful flight
Her monstrous bulk appears,

While o'er the seas her towering height,

And her wide wings, tremendous shade! she rears. Or, as a champion, thirsting after fame

The strife of swords, the deathless name

So does she seem, and such her rapid course!

Such is the rending of her force;

When her sharp keel, where dreadful splendors play,

Cuts through the foaming main its liquid way,

Like the red bolt of heaven she shoots along,

Dire as its flight, and as its fury strong!

God of the winds! oh hear my prayer!
Safe passage now bestow!

Soft o'er the slumbering deep, may fair
And prosperous breezes flow!

O'er the rough rock and swelling wave,
Do thou our progress guide!

Do thou from angry ocean save,
And o'er its rage preside!