Classic Poem

Close by the river Shannon's side,
 The peasant Donnel dwelt;
Few were the flocks and herds he had,
 And few the wants he felt.

Fair Kathleen many years had been
 The partner of his life;
The tenderest, fondest mother she,—
 The kindest, truest wife.

Six smiling rosy infants cheer'd
 The happy parents days;
For them, well pleas'd, the father toil'd,
 'Midst Summer's scorching rays.

For them, regardless of the storm,
 Thro' pouring rain he'd go;
For them he'd brave the piercing blast,
 And wade thro' winter's snow.

Then homeward as he bent his way,
 Would sing a rustic song;
Full well the wife and children know
 To whom the strains belong.

They crowd about the cabin door,
 To gain the first caress,—
While the enraptured father strives
 Each darling child to bless.

Domestic bliss his toil o'erpays,—
 No anxious cares intrude;
Content adorns his straw-roof'd shed,
 And health his playful brood.

Transient, alas! and insecure,
 Is ev'ry earthly joy;
And Heaven can in one fatal hour
 Whole years of bliss destroy!

One night, disturb'd from balmy sleep;—
 Sleep oft unknown to wealth,—
Oft banish'd courts, yet always found
 With innocence and health.

That night, poor Donnel, waking, cry'd,
 “I hear the dismal low
Of herds distress'd! my sheep too bleat!
 Ah! what can ail them now?”

Ere he arose th' impetuous flood
 Thro' ev'ry crevice breaks;
And, loosen'd from the melting ground,
 The clay-built cabin shakes.

Affrighted Kathleen round him clings,—
 “O save my babes!” she cries;
Then, starting from her husband's arms,
 To them she trembling flies.

The flock beds float,—the children scream,—
 The father strives in vain
To dash the foaming torrent back,—
 It soon returns again.

Awhile the lowly mansion swims;
 At length in ruins tost,
Sad Donnel sees, amidst the wreck,
 His ev'ry comfort lost.

“Bear, rapid stream, away,” he said,
 “All, all my hard earn'd store;
Spare but my wife,—my children spare,—
 I ask,—I want no more.”

His wife, an infant at her breast,
 One nervous arm upheld,—
And one, with more than human force,
 The rushing flood repell'd.

His boys, who oft, in sportive mirth,
 On Shannon's bosom play'd,
Exerted now their utmost skill
 To give their sisters aid.

Struggling, they kept above the stream,—
 They reach'd the rising ground,
And in the covert of a barn,
 A welcome shelter found.

With terror Donnel round him gaz'd,—
 Thrice counts his children o'er;
“They live,— all live!” he raptur'd cries,—
 “Kind Heaven, I ask no more!”

Cold, naked, wet, the hapless group,
 O'ercome with labour lay,
When Lord Fitz-Maurice, with his men,
 Came riding down that way:

Sprung from a long illustrious race,
 He owns the neighb'ring lands,
And near the Shannon's pleasant banks
 His ancient castle stands:

Nor titles, nor high birth alone
 Grace his exalted name,—
By heaven-born worth and virtuous deeds
 He gains immortal fame.

He could not on his downy bed
 At ease supinely rest;
Rous'd by humanity, he came
 To succour the distrest.

He sees, wide o'er the ravag'd shore,
 The swelling river roll,—
He sees the rustic fragments float,
 And sorrow fills his soul.

“Ah! when this cot was wreck'd,” he said,
 “No friendly aid was nigh!
I fear beneath the wat'ry waste
 The hapless tenants lie!

What devastation has been made
 In one tremendous night!
The misty vapours seem to hide
 From day the dismal sight.”

Now, pierc'd with cold, the children cry
 He hears the plaintive sound;
And turning to the friendly barn,
 The toil-worn objects found.

Quickly he leap'd from off his steed,
 And kind compassion felt:
For ever at another's woe
 His gentle heart would melt:

But when the gen'rous lord beheld
 His Donnel's well-known face,
And saw poor Kathleen shiv'ring there,
 With all her infant race,—

“Weep not,” he said, “my valued friends;
 Since Heaven's protecting care
Has from the flood preserved your lives,
 Your losses I'll repair.

Chief fav'rite of my peasant train,
 Thy love was true to me;
Nor can my grateful heart forget
 I owe my life to thee.

That day when carelessly I fell
 From Shannon's verdant side,
And, all encumber'd with my clothes,
 My strength its aid denied,

'Twas you plung'd in, with eager haste,
 Your little friend to save;
Who, but for faithful Donnel, then
 Had found a wat'ry grave.

Soon ev'ry blessing shall be thine,
 That rural plenty yields:
A well-built farm, from floods secure,—
 Flocks, herds, and fertile fields,

Till when, good Donnel, you and yours,
 Shall to my castle come,
And find within its peaceful walls,
 A safe and happy home.

No thanks, my friends, for while my hands
 These gifts on you bestow,
My heart will feel the truest bliss
 That can from riches flow.”

“Since thanks,” the grateful Donnel said,
 “My gracious lord offend,
For him our fervent prayers to Heaven
 Shall morn and eve ascend.”