THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY

ASTOR, LENOX ANL
ILD IN F

"Go, bring me, quick, my father's sword," the noble chieftain said;

My mantle o'er my shoulders fling, place helmet on my head;

And raise me to my feet, for ne'er shall clansmen of my foe

Go boasting tell in far Tyrone he saw O'Donnell low."

The envoys of O'Neill arrive in Godfrey's presence, and deliver their message, demanding tribute:

A hundred hawks from out your woods, all trained their prey to get;

A hundred steeds from off your hills, uncrossed by rider yet;

A hundred kine from off your hills, the best your land doth know;

A hundred hounds from out your halls, to hunt the stag and roe."

Godfrey, however, is resolved to let his foes, be they Nor man or native, know that, though dying, he is not dead yet. He orders a levy of all the fighting men of Tyrconnel :

"Go call around Tyrconnell's chief my warriors tried and true,
Send forth a friend to Donal More, a scout to Lisnahue;

Light baal-fires quick on Esker's towers, that all the land may know
O'Donnell needeth help and haste to meet his haughty foe.

"Oh, could I but my people head, or wield once more a spear,
Saint Angus! but we'd hunt their hosts like herds of fallow deer.
But vain the wish, since I am now a faint and failing man;
Yet, ye shall bear me to the field, in the centre of my clan.

"Right in the midst, and lest, perchance upon the march I die,
In my coffin ye shall place me, uncovered let me lie;

And swear ye now, my body cold shall never rest in clay,
Until you drive from Donegal O'Niall's host away.”

Then sad and stern, with hand on skian, that solemn oath they swore,

And in a coffin placed their chief and on a litter bore.

Tho' ebbing fast his life-throbs came, yet dauntless in his mood,
He marshalled well Tyrconnell's chiefs, like leader wise and good

*

Lough Swilly's sides are thick with spears, O'Niall's host is there,
And proud and gay their battle sheen, their banners float the air;
And haughtily a challenge bold their trumpets bloweth free,
When winding down the heath-clad hills, O'Donnell's band they see!

No answer back those warriors gave, but sternly on they stept,
And in their centre, curtained black, a litter close is kept;
And all their host it guideth fair, as did in Galilee
Proud Judah's tribes the Ark of God, when crossing Egypt's sea.

Then rose the roar of battle loud, as clan met clan in fight;
The axe and skian grew red with blood, a sad and woful sight;
Yet in the midst o'er all, unmoved, that litter black is seen,
Like some dark rock that lifts its head o'er ocean's war serene.

Yet once, when blenching back fierce Bryan's charge before,
Tyrconnell wavered in its ranks, and all was nearly o'er,
Aside those curtains wide were flung, and plainly to the view
Each host beheld O'Donnell there, all pale and wan in hue.

And to his tribes he stretch'd his hands-then pointed to the foe,
When with a shout they rally round, and on Clan Hugh they go;
And back they beat their horsemen fierce and in a column deep,
With O'Donnell in their foremost rank, in one fierce charge they sweep.

Lough Swilly's banks are thick with spears!-O'Niall's host is there,
But rent and tost like tempest clouds -Clan O'Donnell in the rear !
Lough Swilly's waves are red with blood, as madly in its tide
O'Niall's horsemen wildly plunge, to reach the other side.

And broken is Tyrowen's pride, and vanquished Clannaboy,
And there is wailing thro' the land, from Bann to Aughnacloy.
The red hand's crest is bent in grief, upon its shield a stain,
For its stoutest clans are broken, its stoutest chiefs are slain.

And proud and high Tyrconnell shouts; but blending on the gale,
Upon the ear ascendeth a sad and sullen wail,

For on that field, as back they bore, from chasing of the foe,
The spirit of O'Donnell fled !-oh, woe for Ulster, woe!

Yet died he there all gloriously-a victor in the fight;
A chieftain at his people's head, a warrior in his might;
They dug him there a fitting grave upon that field of pride,
And a lofty cairn raised above, by fair Lough Swilly's side.

In this story of Godfrey of Tyrconnell we have a perfect. illustration of the state of affairs in Ireland at the time. Studying it, no one can marvel that the English power eventually prevailed; but many may wonder that the struggle lasted so many centuries. What Irishman can contemplate without sorrow the spectacle of those brave soldiers of Tyrconnell and their heroic prince, after contending with, and defeating, the concentrated power of the Anglo-Norman settlement, called upon to hurriedly re-unite their broken and wounded ranks that they might fight yet another battle against fresh foes-those foes their own countrymen! Only amongst a people given over to the madness that precedes destruction could conduct like that of O'Neill be exhibited. At a moment when Godfrey and his battle-wounded clansmen had routed. the common foe-at a moment when they were known to be

weakened after such a desperate combat-at a moment when they should have been hailed with acclaim, and greeted with aid and succor by every chief and clan in Ireland-they are foully taken at disadvantage, and called upon to fight anew, by their own fellow-countrymen and neighbors of Tyrowen! The conduct of O'Neill on this occasion was a fair sample of the prevailing practice amongst the Irish princes. Factionsplit to the last degree, each one sought merely his own personal advantage or ambition. Nationality and patriotism were sentiments no longer understood. Bravely in battle, dauntless courage, heroic endurance, marvellous skill, we find them displaying to the last; but the higher political virtues, so essential to the existence of a nation-unity of purpose and of action against a common foe-recognition of and obedience to a central national authority-were utterly absent. Let us own in sorrow that a people amongst whom such conduct as that of O'Neill towards Godfrey of Tyconnell was not only possible but of frequent occurrence, deserved subjection-invited it-rendered it inevitable. Nations, like individuals, must expect the penalty of disregarding the first essentials to existence. "Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty." Factionism like that of the Irish princes found its sure punishment in subjugation.