MARY IZOD O'DOHERTY.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XVI, Issue 43, 15 February 1889, Page 11

MARY IZOD O'DOHERTY.

QConclurfulJ Th« cbief characteristic of Eva's poetry is its intense feeling, or, in other words, its transparent sincerity. There is no seeking after effect in her verses. She does not sacrifice the purity of thought or expression to any pretensions to art, and she is, consequently, natural throughout. Her poetical contributions to the litt_ratur6 of the Young Ireland era are marked wth a burning enthusiasm. In singing of the felon's glorious fighi, or chauutin^ the song of the barricades, she is powerful and impassuned, while she is softly and sweetly delicate in her workmanship <-f a love madrigal. There is no striking imagery in her effusions. She does not soar to the heights where Sp Tinea's harp is heard ringing through thi empyrean; her pen doos not give us any Bublime or gorgeous word pictures alter the manner of Mrs. Browning, but she is, nevertheless, singularly true to nature, and can appreciate the beauties if the outer world whenever they present themselves to her gaze. Like Mary, her sis'er Grace, Eva is more at home in the domain of simple affection than in the starry spheres where giant minds usually ievel. An as-iiuous student of Miss Adelaide Proctor and "L. E. L,." Mrs. O'Dohtrty has admirably caught Up the spirit of both writers, without, however, in any way slavishly imitating either. Oue ot tbc lady's best known pieces is devoted to a genuine tribute of praise to gallant Cipperary — a tribute which is eminently worthy of an honoured place in any collection of Irisn Bonga and ballads - — Were you ever in sweet Tipp'rary, where the fieldsjare sunny and green, And the heath-brown Slieve-bloom and the Galteea look down with bo proud a mien / 'Tig there yon would s j emore beauty than is on all Irish ground — God bleBS you, my sweet Tipperarv, for where could your match be found ? They say that your hand is fearful, that darkness is in your eye. But I'll not let them dare to talk a ) black and bitter a he. Oh ! no, macHxhla storm I bright, bright and warm are you, With hearts as bold as the men of old, to yourselves and your country true. And when then is gloom upon you, bid them think who has bi ought it there - Sure a frown or a word of hatred was not made for your tace so fair ; You've a hand foi the grasp of friendship— another to make them quake, And they're welcome to whichsoever it pleases them most to take. Shall our homes like the nuts of Coinaught, be crumbled before our eyes '/ Shall we fly, like a flock oi wild geese from ali that we love and prize ? No I by those who were here bjforcus, no churl oui tyrant shall be : Our land it is theirs by plunder, but, by Bngid, ourselves are free ! No I we do not forget that greatness did once to sweet Eire beloag ! No treason or craven spit it was evei our race amon» ; And no frown or no wow of hatred we give — but to pay them back ; In evil we only follow our enemies' darksome track. Oh I come for a while among us, and give us the friendly hand ; And you'll see that old Tipperary is a loving and gladsome laud ; From Upper to Lower Ormond, bright welcomes and am lea will Bpring — On the plains of Tipperary the stranger is lik-: a kicg. As an instance ot the sweet simplicity and pathos oi her poetry we may be allowed to ieproduce a few veises of hers which were Btrung together under the title of " Shadows " — Where is the blackbiid singing The live long day ] WLeie is the clear htieam iioging This golden May ? Ah ! 1 kuow where the bird is singing, And 1 know wheie the stream is ringing, Fur my he.>rl to ti at spot is clinging, Far, far awaj ' Lightly the s-ilver iu&lies Wave to and fio . Thick arc the hazel bushes Black the slue ; Sweet are the winds that whistle, Green are the boughs that rustle, There where the wild birds nestle, In Glcnnialoc.

Faint are the murmurs humming Through breeze and stream, Dim are the shadows coming — A fairy dream 1 Harp note* are heard to tinkle, Voices of spiriis mingle, Deep in each hollow dingle, Where violets gleam ! Ah 1 but the years are dreary Since long ago — Ah I but this heart is weary, Sweat Glenmaloe 1 Thinking of visions faded, Lightsome and glad that made it — Hopes that for aye are shaded, So well I know I Still is the blackbird singing The live-long day ; Still are the waters ringiDg This golden May — But, ah 1 not for me that singing, Nor the stream with its silver ringing, Tho' my heart to that spot is clinging, Far, far away ! "The People's Chief " is one of these effusions in which Eva displays much force aud vigour. It will be read, we are certain, with the B<*:nc intere t now as that which greyed it when it appeared orig nally in our columns some forty golden yeais ago .—. — The storms of enfranchised passions rise as the voice of the eagle screaming, And we scatter now to the earth's fjur winds the memory of our dreaming ! The clouds bin veil the bgtitmng's bolt — Sibylline murmurs ring In hollow tones from out the depths— the People s^ek their King ! Come forth, come forth, Anointed Oce 1 nor blazon nor honours bearing — No " ancient line " be thy seal or sign, the crown of Humanity wearing — Spring out. as luc.uit fountains spring, exulting from the ground — Arise as Adam rose from God, with strength and knowledge crowned I The leader of the woild"s wide host guiding our aspirations, Wear tbou the seamless giab tf Truth sit 1 ing among the nations ! Thy foot is on the empty forms around in shivers cast — We crush ye with the scorn ot scorn exuvial of the past ! Qme forth, come forth, O Man of men ! to the cry of the gathering nations ; We watch on tow'r, we watch on hill, pouring our invocations — Our souls are sick of sounds and shades, that mock our shame and grief, We hurl the Dtgons from their seats, and call the lawful Chief J Come forth, come torth, 0 Man of men I to the frenzy ot our imploring The winged despair that no man can bear, up to the heavens BoaringCome ' Faith and Hop ■, and Love and Trust, upon their centra rode, The wailing millions bummon thee, amid the earthquake shock I We've kept the weary watch of yrara, with a wild and heart-wrung yearning, But the star ol the Advent we sought in vain, calmly aid purely burning ; False meteors flashed across the sky, and falsely lei us on ; The parting of the s'rife is come — the spell is o'er and gone 1 The future's closed gates are now on their ponderous hinges jarring Aid there comes a souud as of wings and waves each with the other wamng, And forward bends the list ning world, as to their eager ken From out that dark and mystic land appeals the Man ot men I Among Eva's other poetical productions which have been received with much favour by the Irish public we might mention " Silken Thomas," a poem which appeared in the suppressed number of the Nation, in the congenial society ti Speran/.a's '• Jac a Alea Est," " The Felon," and runny a fugitive effusion, which did good work in other days for the national cause.