SHEELA NA GUIRE.1
BY JOHN D'ALTON.
On the height of Lisgreny2 cried Daniel O'More,3
"Oh, Erin! dear maiden, how long shall it be.
Ere thy bridesman in triumph will come to thy shore?—
But ruin has fallen on thy warriors—and thee!
Yet the torch, that must kindle a world in thy cause,
May haply the zeal of our cannons inspire,
Against those who would trample thy freedom and laws,
And flout at the wedding of Sheela na Guire.
"These vallies shall ring with the triumph of hosts!
The signals shall flash—and the thousands obey!
Bards, Heroes, they hear me—they flow from their
coasts —
Proud hill of Lisgreny! thou'lt triumph that day.
Echo will forward the beat of our drum.
What chiefs in the hearts of our mountains 'twill fire!
O'Brien of Ara,4 exulting will come,
And Charles the bridesman bless—Sheela na Guire.
"When to Erin was whispered the name of her spouse.
The laugh of her heart5 over Europe was heard;
In Spain 'twas received with a kindred carouse,
And in France and in Italy gladly declared.
The homes, that our fathers—our childhood endeared,
That our memories cling to with pining desire,
Shall be ours—ours again—and the brave will be heard,
The long exiled brave—cheering Sheela na Guire.
"And will not our hearts pulse triumphantly dance,
When the Major, the gallant, the graceful, the brave,6
With his chivalrous comrades shall fearless advance
A tyrant to crush—and a country to save!—
Where art thou our Charles! ah, linger no more,
One flash of thy sword—and our foes shall retire;
A clang of thy trumpet once heard on our shore,—
And we'll start to thy wedding with Sheela na Guire.
"The spring flowers are budding—the blossoms look gay
But the winter of tyranny never departs;
The birds warble sweet from each feathery spray,
But 'tis night—starless night, o'er our hopes and our
hearts.
All nature's awake!—and will not the fame
Of heroes, your fathers—O'Brien your sire,
Arouse you to glory—to vengeance—or shame?
Shall the base churls still mock your own Sheela na
Guire?
"Her vallies but echo the voice of her woe,
In the fears of her people I hear her upbraid,
How long shall I bleed to a merciless foe?
How long shall my heart's secret wish be delayed?
But Saint Peter will sanction the welcome divorce.
From him who would ne'er be our maiden's desire;
A monster whose bonds are the fetters of force.
Ne'er by heaven designed for our Sheela na Guire,
"My heart, how it pines when I think of the wretch,8
Without honour or principle, virtue, or truth;
Whose guilt could design, and whose power could
reach
To assail our beloved in the hills of her youth.
I'm the oldest—the last of her sages confest,
And she, dearest maid, can alone still inspire
A joy and content o'er the gloom of my breast.
When Charles shall espouse her, my Sheela na Guire!
"Speak only to me of the days when ere long,
Proud Spain and his guards in transplendent array,
Shall environ our cause—when our chiefs shall be strong,
And no tribute or fealty to tyranny pay.
When France and his hosts shall horse the broad main.
And the Despot shall crumble—while nations in choir
Awake the glad heavens with liberty's strain,
And light up the churches of Sheela na Guire."