THE GERALDINE.
I.
A mournful wail, all sad and low, like the murmur which the breeze On an Autumnal eve might make among the sere-leaved trees,-- Then a rapt silence, soul subdued; a listening silence there, With earnest supplicating eyes, and hand-clasped hush of prayer. Talk not of grief, till thou hast seen the tears which warriors shed, Where the chief who led them on to fame lies almost of the Dead; Where the eagle eye is dim and dull, and the eagle spirit cold; Where fitfully and feebly throbs the heart which was so bold,-- Thou might'st have fancied grief like this, if ever it were thine, To hear a minstrel sing the deeds of the valiant Geraldine.
II.
Where is that gallant name unknown? wherever Valour shone, Wherever mightiest chiefs were named, the Geraldine was one; Wherever Erin's banner waved, the Geraldine was there, Winning honour from his prince's praise, and favor from the fair,-- But now his course is closing, for his final hour has come, And, like a peaceful peasant, 'tis his hap to die at home. The priest hath been to shrive him, and the leech hath been to tend, And the old man, with a Christian heart, prepared to meet his end: "It is God's will, the Abbot says, that, unlike to all my line, I should die, not on the battle-field," said the gallant Geraldine.
III.
Within his tent the warrior lay, by his side his children three; There was Thomas, with the haughty brow, the Lord of Offaley; There was gentle Ina, wedded to proud Desmond's gallant son; There was Richard, he the youngest born and best beloved one. Lord Thomas near his father stood, fair Ina wept apace, Young Richard by the couch knelt down and hid his pale, sad face; He would not that the common eye should gaze upon his woe, Nor that how very much he mourned, his dying sire should know;-- But the old man said, "My youngest born, the deepest grief is thine," And then the pent-up tears rained fast on the face of Geraldine.
IV.
"Lead out my steed--the Arab barb, which lately, in Almaine, I won in single combat, from a Moorish lord of Spain,-- And bring my faulchion hither, with its waved Damascene blade, In temper true, and sharpness keen as ever armourer made. Thou seest, my son, this faulchion keen, that war-horse from the plain, Thou hearest thy father's voice, which none may ever hear again; Thou art destined for the altar, for the service of the Lord, But if thy spirit earthward tend, take thou the steed and sword. Ill doth it hap, when human thoughts jostle with thoughts divine, Steel armour, better than the stole, befits a Geraldine!"
V.
"My father, thou hast truly said:--this soaring spirit swells Beyond those dreary living tombs--yon dark monastic cells. The cold in heart and weak in hand may seek their pious gloom, And mourn, too late, the hapless vow which cast them such a doom: Give me the flashing faulchion and the fiery steed of war-- The shout--the blow--the onset quick where serried thousands are. Thine eldest-born may claim and take thy lordships and thy land, I ask no more than that bold steed, this good sword in my hand, To win the fame that warriors win, and haply to entwine, In other lands, some honours new round the name of Geraldine."
VI.
Flashed then into the Chieftain's eyes the light of other days, And the pressure of the old man's hand spoke more than words of praise: "So let it be, my youngest-born! thine be a warrior's life, And may God safely speed thee through thy coming deeds of strife. Take knighthood from thy father's sword, before his course be run,-- Be valiant, fortunate, and true; acquit thee as my son! My harper here?--ere life depart, strike me some warlike strain; Some song of my own battle-field I would hear once more again: Unfurl the silken Sunburst[6] in the noontide's golden shine, In death, even as in pride of life, let it wave o'er Geraldine!"
[6] "The Sunburst," says Moore, "was the fanciful name given by the ancient Irish to the royal banner."
VII.
The banner fluttered in the breeze, the harper's strain went on, A song it was of mighty deeds by the dying Chieftain done. At first he listened calmly,--the strain grew bold and strong,-- Like things of life within his heart did Memory's quick thoughts throng: Louder and stronger swelled the strain, like a river in its course; From his couch the Chieftain started,--"To horse!" he cried, "to horse!" And proudly, like a warrior, waved his sword above his head: One onward step--one gurgling gasp--and the Chief is of the Dead! The harper changed his strain to grief: the Coronach was thine, Who died, as thou hadst lived, a Man, oh mighty Geraldine!
CAPTAIN ROCK.