I found in Munster unfettered of any, Kings and queens and poets a many-- Poets were skilled in music and measure, Prosperous doings, mirth and pleasure. I found in Connaught the just, redundance Of riches, milk in lavish abundance, Hospitality, vigour, fame, In Cruachan's land of heroic name. I found in the county of Connall the glorious Bravest heroes, ever victorious; Fair-complexioned men and warlike, Ireland's lights, the high, the starlike. I found in Ulster, from hill to glen, Hardy warriors, resolute men; Beauty that bloomed when youth was gone, And strength transmitted from sire to son. I found in the noble district of Boyle (_MS. here illegible._) Brehons, erenachs, weapons bright, And horsemen bold and sudden in fight. I found in Leinster the smooth and sleek, From Dublin to Slewmargy's peak; Flourishing pastures, valour, health, Long-living worthies, commerce, wealth. I found, besides, from Ara to Glea, In the broad rich country of Ossorie, Sweet fruits, good laws for all and each, Great chess players, men of truthful speech. I found in Meath's fair principality, Virtue, vigour, and hospitality; Candour, joyfulness, bravery, purity, Ireland's bulwark and security. I found strict morals in age and youth, I found historians recording truth; The things I sing of in verse unsmooth, I found them all--I have written sooth. _James Clarence Mangan_ O'HUSSEY'S ODE TO THE MAGUIRE _From the Irish_ Where is my Chief, my Master, this bleak night, _mavrone_! O, cold, cold, miserably cold is this bleak night for Hugh, Its showery, arrowy, speary sleet pierceth one through and through, Pierceth one to the very bone! Rolls real thunder? Or was that red, livid light Only a meteor? I scarce know; but through the midnight dim The pitiless ice-wind streams. Except the hate that persecutes _him_ Nothing hath crueler venomy might. An awful, a tremendous night is this, meseems! The flood-gates of the river of heaven, I think, have been burst wide-- Down from the overcharged clouds, like unto headlong ocean's tide, Descends grey rain in roaring streams. Though he were even a wolf ranging the round green woods, Though he were even a pleasant salmon in the unchainable sea, Though he were a wild mountain eagle, he could scarce bear, he, This sharp, sore sleet, these howling floods. O mournful is my soul this night for Hugh Maguire! Darkly, as in a dream he strays! Before him and behind Triumphs the tyrannous anger of the wounding wind, The wounding wind, that burns as fire!