He, dwelling at Marmontier, by the tomb Of his dear father, where the shining Loire Flows down from Tours amidst the purple bloom Of meadow-flowers, some years of patience saw. Those fringèd isles (where poplars tremble still) Swayed like the olives of the Alban hill. The man was old, and reverend in his age; And the "Great Monastery" held him dear. Stalwart and stern, as some old Roman sage Subdued to Christ, he lived from year to year, Till his beard silvered, and the fiery glow Of his dark eye was overhung with snow. And being trusted, as of prudent way, They chose him for a message of import, Which the "Great Monastery" would convey To a good patron in an Irish court; Who, by the Shannon, sought the means to found St. Martin's off-shoot on that distant ground. The old Italian took his staff in hand, And journeyed slowly from the green Touraine Over the heather and salt-shining sand, Until he saw the leaping crested main, Which, dashing round the Cape of Brittany, Sweeps to the confines of the Irish Sea. {197} There he took ship, and thence with laboring sail He crossed the waters, till a faint gray line Rose in the northern sky; so faint, so pale, Only the heart that loves her would divine, In her dim welcome, all that fancy paints Of the green glory of the Isle of Saints. Through the low banks, where Shannon meets the sea, Up the broad waters of the River King (Then populous with a nation), journeyed he, Through that old Ireland which her poets sing; And the white vessel, breasting up the stream, Moved slowly, like a ship within a dream. When Limerick towers uprose before his gaze, A sound of music floated in the air-- Music which held him in a fixed amaze, Whose silver tenderness was alien there; Notes full of murmurs of the southern seas, And dusky olives swaying in the breeze. His chimes! the children of the great bell-tower, Empty and silent now for many a year, He hears them ringing out the vesper hour, Owned in an instant by his loving ear. Kind angels stayed the spoiler's hasty hand, And watched their journeying over sea and land. The white-sailed boat moved slowly up the stream; The old man lay with folded hands at rest; The Shannon glistened in the sunset beam; The bells rang gently o'er its shining breast, Shaking out music from each lilied rim: It was a requiem which they rang for him. For when the boat was moored beside the quay, He lay as children lie when lulled by song; But never more to waken. Tenderly They buried him wild-flowers and grass among, Where on the cross alights the wandering bird, And hour by hour the bells he loved are heard. ------ {198} From London Society. A PERILOUS JOURNEY. A TALE. There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune--