 | Songs of Killarney |  |
124
THE CLIFFS OF GLENDORE.
“She comes, she comes, the Season's Queen!”
The faithful robins pipe, and preen
Their ruffled plumes, associate lean
The lime and larch,
Lifted in one long, lustrous, green
Triumphal arch.
The faithful robins pipe, and preen
Their ruffled plumes, associate lean
The lime and larch,
Lifted in one long, lustrous, green
Triumphal arch.
“She comes, she comes!” on herald wing,
Before her thrush and blackbird sing;
Then in she sweeps, the sovereign Spring,
While at her side,
Love, with an arrow on his string,
Doth laughing ride.
Before her thrush and blackbird sing;
Then in she sweeps, the sovereign Spring,
While at her side,
Love, with an arrow on his string,
Doth laughing ride.
125
Around them troop a virgin train,
With mystic dance and magic strain,
Loose-linked in one careering chain
Of lovely mirth.
“So Spring,” he sang, “returns to reign
The willing Earth.
With mystic dance and magic strain,
Loose-linked in one careering chain
Of lovely mirth.
“So Spring,” he sang, “returns to reign
The willing Earth.
“So Spring returns, and, with her, Love,
Whom small sweet larks in heaven above,
Coy butterfly, coo-cooing dove,
Fond youth and maid—
Ay, all glad hearts are telling of,
But mine,” he said.
Whom small sweet larks in heaven above,
Coy butterfly, coo-cooing dove,
Fond youth and maid—
Ay, all glad hearts are telling of,
But mine,” he said.
“Yet how divinelier bird and bee,
And wind and wave would sing to me,
How lovelier far by lawn and lea
Thy spring would prove,
Wert thou not still estranged from me,
O longed-for Love!”
And wind and wave would sing to me,
How lovelier far by lawn and lea
Thy spring would prove,
Wert thou not still estranged from me,
O longed-for Love!”
126
So that dear Irish April day,
Above his blue Atlantic bay,
Embowered by arbutus and may,
A poet cried;
When “come!” it sang; and “I obey,
Sweet brook,” he sighed.
Above his blue Atlantic bay,
Embowered by arbutus and may,
A poet cried;
When “come!” it sang; and “I obey,
Sweet brook,” he sighed.
And strange as lips and eyes, that seem
Calling, gazing, through a dream,
With summon's sweet and beckoning beam
That brook ran ever,
Swelling to a stately stream,
A rushing river.
Calling, gazing, through a dream,
With summon's sweet and beckoning beam
That brook ran ever,
Swelling to a stately stream,
A rushing river.
And “come!” it cried again to him,
So clear, that o'er the grassy rim
He gazed into the waters dim;
But nought espied,
Save bull-flags swaying great and grim
Athwart the tide.
So clear, that o'er the grassy rim
He gazed into the waters dim;
But nought espied,
Save bull-flags swaying great and grim
Athwart the tide.
127
And “come!” it called him o'er and o'er,
Love's voice upon the Atlantic shore;
And “come!” it cried to him once more,
Then laughed “Too late,”
As mid the cliffs of wild Glendore,
He found his fate.
Love's voice upon the Atlantic shore;
And “come!” it cried to him once more,
Then laughed “Too late,”
As mid the cliffs of wild Glendore,
He found his fate.
| Songs of Killarney | |