To Editor of the Carlow Senitinel    (Jul. 12th, 1843)¹

11 Duttons St Preston No 6

Sir

Perhaps you’d be kind enough to allow the following a place in the Sentinel²

John Tyndall

The Ed³ of the Sentinel

The day is gone, no golden beam

Now smiles upon the fair hill side,

And cheerless flows the darkling stream

By weeping flowers which fringe its side.

The day is gone, and darkness flings

Her mantle over crag and dell

Its caroll now no warbler sings,

Amid the brakes of Berkenfell:⁴

But higher notes convulsive rise,

The booming of the angry sea,

The thrilling war song of the skies

Now dwells in wildering melody.

There’s something in the lofty feeling,

That swathes my soul with burning glow,

Too grand, too glorious for revealing,

Too high to grovel here below:

When fancy spreads her daring plume,

And curbless⁵ wings amid the gloom,

Her welkin⁶ sweeping flight to rise,

And mingle with her native skies!

Past hours into existence start,

And scenes long lived round my heart:

yes, burning thro’ the gloom afar

Is seen the golden glowing star

of memory, whose brilliant rays

sheds glory over bygone days.

The days when boyhoods reckless joy

Rung forth unmingled with alloy;

When generosity and truth

Shone frontlets⁷ on the brow of youth;

When with a swimmers dauntless pride,

I skimmed the barrows⁸ placid tide.

Oh! these give memory a zest,

And sheds a halo round my breast.

The ‘decent church’⁹ still topples¹⁰ there,

Where first my childhood lisped a prayer;

While round are strewn the graven¹¹ stones,

Chill records of the mouldering bones

Which lie beneath, as sadly waves

The rank grass o’er the lonely graves.

Ah! how I loved when smiling even

Blushed beauteous in the western heaven;

As rose the merle’s¹² farewell note,

To clamber up the lofty mote,¹³

And from the fairy legioned mound,

To view the lovely scene around.

The ripple of the brooklet near¹⁴

Struck sweetly soothing on mine ear;

And rich in beauties varied dies,

The groves of Burgage¹⁵ blessed my eyes.

Beyond, amid the stately trees,

Where softly crept the evening breeze,

Which as it sighed o’er lawn and bower,

Kissed perfume from each drooping flower,

‘The Lodges’¹⁶ appeared – beneath me rolled

The gentle barrow tinged with gold

How calmly would the sunbeams smile

Upon the castle’s hory pile:¹⁷

Not always thus¹⁸ – the sabres flash

Glanced lightning there – the commons crash

Rung thunder o’er the startled flood,

And stained its chrystal waves with blood!

But peaceful is his war seared brow

And silent are his thunders now:

The pall of centuries is spread

In gloom oer many crested head,

Where proudly waved the nodding plume,

Amid the battles deepest gloom:

They’re gone – and now the ivy clings,

And many a songster safely sings,

Where erst the clarion blasted far

The thrilling notes of blood and war!

Oh! how would thoughts like these unbind

The trammels from my embryon¹⁹ mind:

Aroused as by a glowing beam,

The young chrysalis ceased to dream

Assumed the wing and stretched its flight

Thro’ scenes by fancy rendered bright.

’Twas then I ventured first to fling

My hand across the trembling string;

Tho’ wild and broken was its tone,

I loved it, for it was my own,

Oft would my straggling bosom long

To wreak its thoughts on nobler song.

Hail! happy hours e’en now ye shine,

The brightest gems in memorys chime

Hail! blissful scenes, between us swell

The crested wave and towering fell

And now perchance the surging gale

Sweeps oer you wild with frenzied wail.

Hark how it sobs – its murderous breath

Now haply strews the shore with death.

The embers of a wasted fire,

Now quickly one by one expire,

A waning lamp in

Flings oer my page its dying blaze;

Admonished by the midnight chime

My wary pen I now resign

My couch to seek while wild and high,

The tempest sings my lullaby

(finis)

RI MS JT/8/2/1/20–1