AN GAODHAL.
353
TRANSLATION
By MICHAEL CAVANAGH.
On The Death of The High Lion of The West, JOHN MACHALE,
Archbishop of TUAM.
November, 1881,
By CRAOIBHIN AOIBHINN.
Chill clouds of grief athwart the sky loom heavy, thick and dun,
Misfortune dims the pleasant light of Heaven's brilliant sun;
The lark's melodious voice is mute, the robin's notes are still,
The kine, in silence, ruminate on pasture-field and hill.
The gentle zephyrs cease to sway the branches of the trees,
The bloom clings strangely to the bush, unshaken by the breeze,
The stars within the firmament shine with a lurid glare,
It feels like choking now to breath, the heavy, clammy air.
The mountain-streams come rushing down with sullen thunder-boom
(But yesterday they lightly sang among the heath and broom:)
The little trout within the pool no longer sprightly bounds,
No lap-wing's call, no plover's cry, above the moor resounds,
The stinging nettle by the wall — wild, russet-hued, and rank,
The hateful thistle, hard and rough, the chick-weed thick and dank,
And all the herbs that spring from earth, their baneful shade beneath,
Seem in their still and ghastly gloom, similitudes of Death.
Oh! sure 'tis easy now to see that Death is 'ound us here,
Well may we know why Nature wears that aspect dull and drear;
Well may we judge by those portents we witness in the sky —
All Ireland has sad cause to raise the loud death-wailing cry.
Oh! 'tis a death far worse to us than if a thousand died —
Our loving, gentle Father's death, our Ireland's love and pride;
The glory of our country's priests — the Father of them all,
Well may the Nation weep above the coffin's gloomy pall!
The faithful Irish priesthood's love, wert thou. Archbishop dear! —
THE PEOPLE's LOVE — the heart and life of patriots sincere;
All Connaught's pride — all ERINN'S pride, the hope of Innisfail-
My thousand griefs, that thou art gone, our peerless JOHN MACHALE!
This woeful news I cannot stand, and keep my eye-lids dry.
No news more doleful to my heart I've heard grief's herald cry;
It left poor Erinn sorrow-crushed — her people sad and lone,
It left poor Connaught steeped in woe — her heart's-light now is gone.
'Tis you that had the kindly heart — the wise and ruling head,
The people on the straight, right road, for evermore, you led.
You, like the prophet-seers of old- wrote with inspired pen,
The gifted thoughts derived from God, to guide your fellow-men.
