THE POETRY AND MUSIC OF IRELAND.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume II, Issue 96, 27 February 1875, Page 12

THE POETRY AND MUSIC OF IRELAND.

FROM "LECTURES AND ESSAYS " BY HENRY GILES.

Ireland is a land of poetry. The power of the Past there, over every imagination, renders it a land of romance. The past is yet an actuality in Ireland ; in all other parts of the British islands it is a song. The tragedy of Flodden Field moves a Scotchman's feelings, but it does not disturb his business ; the battle of Bannockbum calls up his enthusiasm, but, though it keeps him late at the bottle, it never keeps him late from the counting house. The imprisonment of th,e poet-king, Jamie softens his affections, but it leaves his judgment perfectly clear on bills of exchange and the price of stocks. Even, the battle of Culloden is gone long ago to the calm impartiality of things that were. The Welshman takes English, money without remorse, and says not; a word about the assassin, King Edward, and the murder of their bards. Even the English themselves have but faint rememberance of the heptarchy, the revolt of the barons, the wars of the roses, the death of the first Charles, and the abdication of the second James. But events do not pass away so rapidly in Ireland. Ireland is a country of tradition, of meditation, and of great idealism. It has much of the Eastern feeling of passion added to fancy, with continuity of habit, as in the East, connected with both passion and fancy. Monuments of war, princedom, and religion cover the face of the land. The meanest man lingers under the shadow of piles which tell him that his fathers were not slaves. He toils in the field or he walks on the highways with structures before him that have stood the storms of time, through which the wind echoes with the voice of centuries, and that voice is to his heart the voice of soldiers, of scholars, and of saints. We would pen no chilling word respecting the impulse of nationality that now seems astir in Ireland. We honour everywhere the spirit of nationality. We honor the glorious heroism d°<r an idea a conviction > tf Jt cannot do can always dare Much there is in Ireland that we most dearly love. We love its music, sweet and sad, low and lonely j it comes with a pathos, a melancholy, a melody, on the pulses of the heart, that no other music breathes, and while it grieves it smooths. It seems to flow with long complaint over the course of ages, or to gasp with broken sobs through the ruins of historic fragments of historic thought. We are glad with the humor of Ireland, so buoyant and yet so tender j quaint with smiles, quivering with, sentiment, pursing up the lips while it bedews the eyelids. We admire the bravery of Ireland, which might have been broken, but never has been bent which has often been unfortunate, but which never has been craven. We have much affection for the Irish character. We give unfeigned praise to that purity of feeling which surrounds Irish women in the humblest class, and amidst the coarest occupations, with an atmosphere of sanctity. We acknowledge with heartfelt satisfaction that kindred love in the Irish poor, that no distance can weaken, and no time can chill. We feel satisfied with our humanity, when we see the lowly servant-girl calling for her wages, or drawing on the savings' bank for funds, to take tears from the eyes of a widowed mother in Connaught, or fears from the soul of an aged father in Munster. We behold a radiance of grandeur around the head of the Irish laborer, as he bounds, three thousand miles away, at the sound of Repeal, at the name of O'Connell ; and yet more as his hand shakes, as he takes a letter from the post-office, which, rude as it may be in superscription, is a messenger from the cot in which childhood lay— is an angel from the fields, the hills, the streams, the mountains, and the moors wherein his boyhood sported. We remember with many memories of delight, too, the beauties of Ireland's scenery. We recollect the fields that are ever green ; the hills that bloom to the summit ; the streamlets that in sweetness seem to sing her legends ; the valleys where the fairies play ; the voices among her glens, that sound from her winds as with the spirits of her bards ; the shadows of her ruins at moonlight, that in pale and melancholy splendour appear like the ghosts of her ancient heroes.

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