ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES. 437 ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES. R. GRAVES' song must have been quite nat environment which was not likely to act upon him in this direction. His father is the Archbishop of Limerick. His uncle, Dean Graves, the friend of Wordsworth and Mrs. Hemans, was the biographer of Sir William Rowan Hamilton. This uncle, more than any one else, was the young poet's mentor. How wise a one events have proved, but he was not likely to direct his nephew's mind towards the thought and expression he has formed, the song he might have learned from the Limerick thrushes and blackbirds. The Graves family is a distinguished one, an example of a grouping of qualities of which we know two or three examples in Ireland. His father wrote a good deal of distinguished verse, which, however, never asked for a public hearing. Another uncle was one of the most distinguished archæologists we have had in Ireland. His aunt, Clara Graves, who married the great historian, Von Ranke, was also a writer of charming verses, and in her German life, a social, political and literary leader, with a charm and esprit which made her the very worthy wife of her great husband. Farther back there are other poetical traditions, as, for example, that Richard Graves, who was Shenstone's friend, and a very accomplished writer of verse himself. The pen is effectual in the hands of every member of this family. Charles Graves, Mr. A. P. Graves' elder brother, is a brilliant London journalist, and has published "The Blarney Ballads" and "The Green Above the Red," two sparkling volumes of satiric verse. Mr. Arnold Graves, the remaining brother, and an ardent worker in the cause of technical education in Ireland, contributes verses of a similar kind to the Spectator and other reviews. Mr. Alfred Percival Graves wrote early; his first poem was published when he was but fourteen. In 1872 his first collected volume, “Songs of Killarney," was published. Three or four years later 'came "Irish Songs and Ballads." The names of those quick to recognize this new and delightful singer would be the names of the most eminent poets in our generation. Mr. Graves' audience has been fit indeed-Tennyson and Matthew Arnold were two of them-but it has not been few. His collaboration with Dr. Vilhers Stanford, the brilliant musician, has brought his songs into every part of the English speaking and English singing world. Who has not heard of "Father O'Flynn," and Foh's singing of it? More lately he has collaborated with A. C. Mackenzie, another great mu sician, and Miss Mary Carmichael has set some of his songs to music. Since the eighties came he has published but one volume of poems. He has been a busy worker during his forty-four years of life. After holding various public positions under government, he is now an inspector of schools, living in Somersetshire, England. Though trained in an English school in the Lake country, he is a Dublin University man, and retains a warm love for his Alma Mater. His university course was a brilliant one. He took first-class honors in classics and English literature, and came out first of first-class at the degree examination, besides winning medals and prizes innumerable. He was equally distinguished as an athlete, being an admirable player of cricket and football. Mr. Graves has been largely a contributor to periodical literature: to Frazer's, The Spectator, The Athenæum, Punch, The Gentleman, and a score of other magazines. He was for some time the dramatic critic of the London Examiner. Personally, Mr. Graves is exceedingly interesting. Tall and slight, he is far from looking his forty-four years. The youth which is in his songs overflows from his handsome face. He is the kindest and warmest of friends, the most generous appraiser of the work of others. He is very simple in manner and tastes, very manly and honest. No wonder that one hears nothing spoken of him but affectionK. P. ate praise. FATHER O'FLYNN. OF priests we can offer a charmin' variety, CHORUS. Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn, Don't talk of Provost and Fellows of Trinity, Father O'Flynn 'd make hares of them all! In onto thayology, Chorus Och! Father O'Flynn, you've a wonderful way wid you, All the ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you, All the young childer are wild for to play wid you, You've such a way wid you, Father avick! Still for all you've so gentle a soul, Gad, you've your flock in the grandest control. Checking the crazy ones, Coaxin' onaisy ones, Liftin' the lazy ones on wid the stick. Chorus And though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity, Still at all seasons of innocent jollity, Where was the play-boy could claim an equality Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest, All to the laity? Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too?" Chorus THE REJECTED LOVER. ON Innisfallen's fairy isle, And listened to the thrushes; Her hair was bright as beaten gold, In Innisfallen's fairy grove I hushed my happy wooing; But oh! how short those hours of love, THE WILLOW TREE. Oн take me to your arms, love, for we alas must part; Oh take me to your arms, love, for the pain is at my heart. She hears not, she cares not, but coldly keeps from me, While here I lie, alone to die, beneath the willow tree. My love has blooming beauty, my cheek is deadly wan, My love has countless riches, my gallant fortune's gone. This ribbon fair, that bound her hair, is all that's left to me, While here I lie, alone to die, beneath the willow tree. I once had gold and silver, I thought would never end, I once had gold and silver, and I thought I had a friend. My wealth is sped, my friend has fled, and stolen my love from me, While here I lie, alone to die, beneath the willow tree. IRISH LULLABY. I'D rock my own sweet childie to rest in a cradle of gold on a bough of the willow, To the shoheen ho of the wind of the west and the lulla lo of the soft sea billow. Sleep, baby dear, Sleep without fear, Mother is here beside your pillow. I'd put my own sweet childie to sleep in a silver boat on the beautiful river, Where a shoheen whisper the white cascades, and a lulla lo the green flags shiver. Sleep, baby dear, Sleep without fear, Mother is here with you forever. Lulla lo! to the rise and fall of mother's bosom 'tis sleep has bound you, And O, my child, what cosier nest for rosier rest could love have found you? Sleep, baby dear, Sleep without fear, Mother's two arms are clasped around you. FAN FITZGERL. WIRRA, wirra, ologone! Can't ye leave a lad alone, Till he's proved there's no tradition left of any other girl Not even Trojan Helen, In beauty all excellin', Who's been up to half the divilment of Fan Fitz gerl? WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT NEWSAM. "HE E who writes a true song is the benefactor of those yet unborn," says a famous writer. If this be so, Mr. Newsam can put in a claim to praise, for he has written some true songs. His genius is lyrical; he seizes the aspect of some common experience available to his purpose, some mood, some passing occurrence, and translates it into song. He does not aim too high; he seldom shoots too low; and his verses wed themselves easily to music. It is said that the author of the famous Marseillaise composed both words and music at the same time, as he sat wrapped in the thought of the possibilities of his country. Mr. Newsam weds his words with music, not only with facility, but with grace, and has won wide praise for his companion efforts. He has also written some exquisite lyrics in exotic forms, especially in the rondeau form. Mr. Newsam is come of a poetical race; both his grandfather and his father wrote poetry, and attained to more than local reputation. The former began "The Poets of Yorkshire," and, after his death in 1844, it was taken up and finished in 1845 by John Holland, the Sheffield poet. The Newsam family were long settled near Richmond, in Yorkshire, Eng., where they gained good standing and influence; but though the subject of this notice has been, like his progenitors, much connected with Yorkshire and the north, he was born at Nottingham in 1861. He was educated at the grammar schools of Nottingham and Clitheroe. At an early age he became connected with the press in the north; and after some years, as is the wont with young men of energy and ambition, he migrated southward, and has been for some years resident at Brighton, where, besides working for the press there, he maintains relations with London. He was married in 1882, and has two daughters and one son. He lives a busy and active life, but is far from unsocial or burdened with the shy retiringness sometimes found in association with the literary character-a congenial companion and sterling friend as well as an original writer and versatile poet. Mr. Newsam has written under several disguises, the most familiar being that of "Claude Melville." A. H. I. WHEN NIGHT COMES ON. WHEN night comes on, and from the sky When day's bright orb, in splendor dressed, As in the sylvan shades I lie, Within the ivied turret nigh Is heard the owlet's drowsy cry; WHEN THOU WERT NIGH. THE sun had set; the bells so softly pealing Play with the waving tresses of my hair. The same glad song is sounding in mine ear. I care not, heed not, how the hours are winging, 'Tis all to me to know that thou art near. 'Tis night once more; the summer breeze is sighing, And in the gloaming I am dreaming now; Thy hand again within my own is lying, Thy sweet, soft kisses soothe my fevered brow. Thine eyes still shine in all their pristine splendor, And fire my soul as in the days gone by; Till love comes back, as passionate and tender, As in the blissful hours when thou wert nigh. SEASIDE FANCIES. The rosy sunset's crimson ray And vanish into night; The blackbird's mellow song is sung, And evening shadows fall; The deep-toned vesper bell is rung, Till darkness covers all; Save where the lighthouse, towering high Flings fitful flashes forth that fly |