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31

SONGS

MEETING

I

O come to me in the morning, white Swan of the thousand charms,
Or come to me in the passion of day, the rapture of noon,
Or come to me in the twilight hour, sweet Longing of my arms,
In the hush when day kisses night, our two hearts beating one tune!

II

Though Time on his owl-soft wings bring parting of our feet,
Oh! never my heart from yours will wander, come day, come night.
And never my lips forget your kiss that the world made sweet,
Or my heart the song of my love in that hour of its young delight!
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PARTING

I

You come, and the little rhymes come singing in my heart,
And where you are their music wakes trembling in my breast;
When you go from me, O my sorrow! they spread their wings and depart,
Like birds from a lonely nest.

II

They fly to where you make summer, and leave me cold,
Their nest forsaking, they leave me cold and alone,
And my heart is a lonely sorrow, a sorrow not to be told,
Its music a weary moan!

A SONG OF THE RAIN

(A Girl stands at a window)

I

The rain, the rain, the rain upon the pane,
How it spirts and ceases,
As the spite of the gale increases,
Then pauses and dies again!
33

II

The rain-drops fallen out of the skies
Hang upon the pane,
Gather, and fall slowly, like tears from lovers' eyes
When they know their weeping is vain.

III

The rain, the rain, the rain from over the plain
Comes drenching, splashing
The pane, as the lightning flashing
Leaps out, and is gone again.

IV

The rain-drops pine for their home in the skies,
And vanish from the pane;
Yet still my tears are falling slow from these lonely eyes,
Though I know my weeping is vain.

VOICES

I

Oh! the voices of the wind, the soft sweet voices,
The melancholy voices of the wind,
Bear me gently to the peaks of ancient vision,
The lone and silent mountains of the mind;
And the spirit of old Ireland to my spirit
Speaks like solitude, and desolately fills
Their silence with the passion I inherit
From her valleys and her hills.
34

II

Pale Kings, and hoary Druids in procession
Pass me sighing, with old sorrow in their eyes;
While the wind, the passionate wind, with fitful wailing
In his airy tongue of mystery replies.
Grave Kings, and Bards, and Druids without number
Pass by me with the wind whereon they pass,
Sweeping o'er me like a terror felt in slumber,
As a windflaw sweeps the grass.

III

The Danann gods pass by, majestic phantoms,
Like shining clouds, bright children of the morn;
But the gods of gloom have dimmed their ancient splendour,
Where, like wizards, in their tombs they dwell forlorn;
Where their beauty they have hidden from derision,
Whence they wander, veiled in storm or twilight grey;
But their beauty still shines on the peaks of vision,
And shall never pass away.
35

IV

There the Daghda walks the wind, the great Mor Riga
Floats beside him to the hosting of their clan,
Angus Ōg is there, grey Lir, Bōv Derg, and Cleena,
VOICES.

The Danann gods and goddesses were the descendants of the Daghda (Father) and his wife Dana, The Mor Riga (great queen), who was the war goddess.

Angus Og, The Love-god, was the Irish Eros. Lir was a sea-god, like his son Manannan, and Cleena ruled over one of the three magic waves, which roared on the coast of Ireland when danger threatened.

Bov Derg was King of the Dananns.


Queen of the moaning wave, and Manannan;
Their voice is on the winds, their druid power
Enchants with youth and love the Land of Dreams,
Their beauty and their glamour are the dower
Of her mountains, vales and streams.

V

There is music on the winds and o'er the waters,
They are singing still, the wandering Swans of Lir,
Silver-pure the voice of love-inspired Fianola,
Through the long night of enchantment ringing clear;
Like the voice of Ireland's heart she makes the nightwind
Ache with wild hopes that in her breast are sore,
Till the red wind from the East, her spirit's blight wind,
Shall have power to blight to more.
36

VI

There are voices on the peaks of ancient vision,
They call the dreamers in the Land of Dreams;
The young men hear, and wake, and in the morning
Go singing through her vales and by her streams;
Making music that shall win the world hereafter,
Making songs that shall go ringing down the years
Of tears that weep within the house of laughter,
Of joys baptized in tears.

THE LIANAN SHEE

THE LIANAN SHEE. “The Lianan Shee” is an evil demon, half siren and half vampire, and is a type of jealousy in the poem that bears her name. She is said to have been originally a Nature Goddess.

(A Tragedy of Dreams)

I

She waits for me upon Death's gloomy shore,
Pale, in that pale and lonely grove where dwell
Those who have set for portress at Love's door
Jealousy, stern and unappeasable.

II

She sends me bitter and remorseful dreams,
That ice the wholesome rivers of my blood,
Crawling about my brain on their cold streams,
With endless memories in the sluggard flood.
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III

I walk in dreams by a dark raging sea,
And she beside me with implacable face,
Dead, with wide lids where through gaze wistfully
The accusing eyes, and through my heart they gaze.

IV

I lie in dreams as in a living tomb,
And she, death-pale, her cheek with tears long marred,
Comes hovering like a vampire through the gloom,
Craving some comfort, but my heart is hard.

V

She hunts my soul in dreams; the hounds of thought
Chase me through dense thickets of tangling thorn,
The woods of old remorse—till I am caught,
And wake, still shuddering, in the ghastly morn.

THE NAMELESS ONES

I

Through the stately Mansions of Endeavour
Blow the winds, the sleepless winds of wild desire;
38

And the mansions in their fashion change for ever,
Replying to the sighing of the winds of wild desire.

II

All around the Mansions of Endeavour
Flow the waters, deep and strong, of wild desire;
And fair dreams out of their waves are born for ever,
The daughters of the waters, deep and strong, of wild desire.

III

Deep below the Mansions of Endeavour
Glow the flames, the passionate flames of wild desire;
And the building-stones, like opals, change for ever,
Their hues, while slow they fuse within the flames of wild desire.

IV

For the Nameless Ones come building and destroying,
In the winds, and rushing waters, and fierce flames of wild desire;
And their passion moulds that music, ever changing, never cloying,
Which is life in all the worlds, in man's heart a wild desire.
39

THE HOUR OF FATE

I

Things dead and things unborn are flying,
And thinly wail on the wind tonight,
Like hungry changelings I hear them crying
Round the Dark Moon's den in the wan starlight.

II

My Saint and Angel have hid their faces,
My dead sins daunt me with spells tonight,
And sins unborn tempt from unseen places,
Their glamour works in the wan starlight.

III

The past betrays me, the Future thralls me,
Fate's hour of power is my hour of blight;
My frail soul falters—the dread voice calls me,
The deed I hate I shall do tonight.

THE SUMMONS

O hosts without a name! O unappeasable powers!
O wandering forms of Love, and Beauty, and Heart's-ease!
Why is it ye disturb with dreams men's fading hours?
Why is it still the promise, never the gift, of peace?
40

Your music, your wild singing, came to me out of the air,
Alluring, promising, in one mysterious word
Of the great Voice that thrilled old Silence in her lair,
Ere the stars for their first flight their mighty wings had stirred:
One summons from that realm where things unuttered sleep
With the unawakened Beauty hidden from desire,
Challenging, maddening me, mocking all things that weep,
Till my spirit was a wild wind, my heart a wind-blown fire.
My heart was an eddying flame, my spirit a rushing wind,
Fierce joy, fierce pain, seized me in that mysterious word;
My heart consumed my life, my spirit left me lonely,
Following your sweet alluring song—left me behind,
Knowing not where I was, or went; believing only
The vision that I saw, the music that I heard.
41

The sunset's dying glow was paling in the sky,
And twilight, from the visionary land where silence dwells,
Stole o'er the gleaming fields, shedding tranquillity
Like dew, o'er bawn and pasture, o'er woods and ferny dells;
But lingering day's farewell grew sad with all farewells.
Following the sun's footsteps through the heavens, where yet no star
Heralded Night, that now with all her hosts drew nigh,
Only the Planet of Love shone in the delicate sky,
Only the Planet of Love looked sad from heaven on me;
While through the deepening gloam, over the hills afar,
Throbbed a faint orange flame. The ancient mystery
Of day's decline entranced the earth. Light's quivering wand
Drew from the fields of air their tenderest newborn hues,
And made the earth divine.
42

There in the hallowing gleam,
Beside her cottage door I saw my Mother stand,
At peace with age. Numb woe for all things I must lose,
Following the airy music, following the flying dream,
Troubled my heart. The cows trooped to the milking shed,
Lowing; the grave poplars, and the sallies by the stream,
Felt the sad spell of the sky; but I was as one dead,
And all familiar things I loved phantoms did seem.
The old place knew me no more—the solitary ghost
Haunting the fields awhile. A robin from a tree
Warbled his last sweet rapturous litany. The host
Of airy singers calling troubled not him, I knew;
But only me. And there, in the sweet twilight hour,
My Love was waiting me; whom those wild voices drew
Away from home and her! And now their magic power
Made me but as a billow when the moon compels;
43

My heart grew drowsy—closed, when closed each innocent flower,
My chilling heart shut close. They called—called through Love's hour—
They called, and I must follow, lured by their wildering spells;
And the farewell of day shone sad with all fare-wells.

THE QUEST

I

The thin rain is falling,
With a sigh the reeds quiver,
And the cow-herds are calling
Beyond the dark river.

II

There is gloom in the sky,
In my heart desolation,
As the cold mist creeps by
With a dumb lamentation.

III

Like a bird to her nest
I came, weary of roaming,
With a fear unconfest
I sped on through the gloaming.
44

IV

From the ends of the earth
Oh! the longing that drew me
To the place of my birth,
To the fields that once knew me;

V

To my home! the bare walls
Of my dream have bereft me,
The chill spectre appals
The lone days that are left me.

VI

There is gloom in my heart,
In my home desolation,
Like a ghost I depart
With a dumb lamentation.

FAIRY GOLD

(A ballad of Forty-eight)

I

Buttercups and daisies in the meadow,
And the children pick them as they pass,
Weaving in the sunshine and the shadow
Garlands for each little lad and lass;
Weave with dreams their buttercups and daisies
As the children did in days of old;
Will the dreams, like sunlight in their faces,
Wither with their flowers, like Fairy Gold?
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II

Once, when lonely in life's crowded highway,
Came a maiden sweet, and took my hand,
Led me down Love's green delightful byeway,
Led me wondering back to Fairyland.
Ah! Death's envious eyes that light on lovers
Looked upon her, and her breast grew cold;
Now my heart's delight the green sod covers,
Vanished from my arms like Fairy Gold.

III

Then to Ireland, my long-striving nation,
That poor hope life left me still I gave,
With her dreams I dreamed, her desolation
Found me, called me, desolate by that grave.
Once again she raised her head, contending
For her children's birthright, as of old,
Once again the old fight had the old ending,
All her hopes and dreams were Fairy Gold.

IV

Now my work is done, and I am dying,
Lone, an exile on a foreign shore,
But in dreams roam with my Love that's lying,
Lonely in the Old Land I'll see no more.
Buttercups and daisies in her meadows
When I'm gone will bloom; new hopes for old
Comfort her with sunshine after shadows,
Fade no more away like Fairy Gold!
46

A MAY MADRIGAL

I

May comes clad in gleaming gold,
The world grows young that was so old,
All so sweet, all so fair,
Birds are singing everywhere;
Come away!
Come sing and answer them again,
Answer, boys and girls again,
And welcome in the May!

II

Mary guard the woods from teen,
Donning now their virgin green!
All be fair, all be sweet,
Where in the woodlands lovers meet!
All who love true
Come and charm the woods with song,
Glad voices charm the woods with song,
And welcome Love in too!

MAUREEN

I

Oh! you plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes
Girl of my choice, Maureen!
Will you drive me mad for the kisses your shy sweet mouth denies,
Maureen!
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II

Like a walking ghost I am when I come to woo,
White Rose of the West, Maureen;
For it's pale you are, and the fear that's on you is over me too,
Maureen!

III

Sure it's one complaint that's on us asthore, this day,
Bride of my dreams, Maureen!
The smart of the bee that stung us its honey must cure they say,
Maureen!

IV

I'll coax the light to your eyes, and the rose to your face,
Mavourneen, my own Maureen,
When I feel the warmth of your breast, and your nest is my arms' embrace,
Maureen!

V

Oh! who was the King of the World that day only me,
My one true love, Maureen?
And you the Queen with me there, and your throne in my heart, machree,
Maureen!
48

A DAY OF THE DAYS

I

Faint red the rowan-berries in the glen begin to turn,
The wind is whispering to the woods the rune of their decay,
Those woods where once upon my lips I felt your kisses burn,
Where we met, and where we parted—it seems but yesterday.

II

Through all their breathing branches the spirits of the trees
Whispered of love that day; and we, breathing their passionate breath,
Trembled before the flaming veil that hid love's mysteries—
Where now, alone, I bow before the mystery of death.

III

Martyrs of Love and Hope we stood, and in each other's eyes
Read the sweet secret of our love; and that transfiguring day,
Which crowned my spirit with grace to bear the sorrow that makes wise,
From that spirit's Holy-places will never pass away.
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ATHLONE

I

Och wirrasthrue for Ireland, and ten times wirrasthrue
For the gallant deeds, and the black disgrace of the tale I'm tellin' you!
'Twill kindle fire inside your heart, then freeze it to a stone,
To hear the truth of that bad day, and the way we lost Athlone.

II

O where was then bold Colonel Grace, and Sarsfield, where was he,
When Ginkel came from Ballymore with his big artillery?
'Twas fifty battering guns he brought, and mortars half a score,
And our half-dozen six-pounders there to meet him, and no more.

III

They took from us the English town, yet fighting, breast to breast,
We held the drawbridge, one to ten; for we were sorely prest.
But we cheered and charged, and they gave us ground, and when their Colonel fell
A good half furlong from the bridge we drove them back pell-mell.
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IV

We held them till to the Irish town our rearguard could retreat
Across the bridge o'er Shannon's arm, shrunk by the Summer's heat.
The fuse we lit, then back we sprang; behind, the drawbridge rose,
And the two arches of the bridge blew up among our foes.

V

We laughed at Ginkel's shot and shell; for St. Ruth came up next day,
And it raised the cockles of our hearts to see his grand array;
But black the hour when Sarsfield chafed under his high command,
For, in his pride and jealousy, he left him no free hand.

VI

Small help we got from that French Chief, when there he just sat down
To guard the fords, and pitched his camp a mile outside the town.
Our guns dismounted, shot and shell thinned our undaunted ranks
And with our firelocks, four hard days, we kept the Shannon's banks.
51

VII

We made a breastwork on the bridge; but they burnt it on us soon
With their damned grenades. It blazed like thatch in the hot sun of June—
And beams they laid from arch to arch, nailed planks on every beam.
They thought to rush our last defence, and cross the Shannon stream.

VIII

But one we had, thank God!—a bold Dragoon, Custume by name,
Sergeant in Maxwell's troop; and now to that hectorin' Scot he came;
“Give me ten more to go with me, and by my soul,” says he,
“We'll try the job, and, live or die, we'll spoil their carpentry!”

IX

“Hoots!” Maxwell sneers, “wha volunteers?” Out stepped some two score men.
“Fall in then, boys, reserves an' all!” says Custume an' picked his ten.
They gave their souls to God, each man his breastplate buckled on,
In the hope he'd maybe keep his life till a plank or two was gone.
52

X

I'll see till death, as I see him now, Custume, as brave and cool,
He schemed for every man his place; for 'twas he was no French fool.
Then on the bridge before our eyes a glorious deed was wrought,
In vain with our best blood that day Athlone was dearly bought.

XI

Five plankers ripped the planks away, a sawyer at each beam;
We heard the steady teeth at work, saw axe and crowbar gleam;
But from the startled English lines arose a sudden yell,
From flank to flank the muskets flashed, and sent their hail of hell.

XII

We answered with our small-arms; but 'twas little we could do,
Minute by minute on the bridge they dropped by one and two;
But as each man fell a man as good ran out to take his place,
And the work went on—my God! 'twas hard they strove to win that race!
53

XIII

At last the planks were gone, one beam was loosened in its bed;
But man by man fell round it in that murtherin' rain of lead.
Custume came there, blood on his face, a crowbar in his hand—
O blessed Saints, keep the life in him to launch it from our land!

XIV

The heel gives—God be praised, it's down! We saw him stagger then:
“Work hearty, Boys, an' we'll keep Athlone!” he shouted to his men.
But his heart blood gushed with those brave words. The Shannon's waters bright
Were his last bed, and in their arms they took him from our sight.

XV

They worked the lustier for that shout, and the beams fell one by one,
But the place was just one slaughter-yard before the last was gone.
They shot the wounded where they crawled, to leave their comrades room,
Or struggling in the water grasped at the flaggers full in bloom.
54

XVI

Each man was killed twice over, and of two and twenty men
But two poor boys, as pale as ghosts came back to us again.
We scarce could rise a cheer for them; for 'twas like an awful dream;
But the last scantling, with our dead, went down the Shannon stream.

XVII

But what's the use of dauntless men, to make a gallant stand,
When all they've won is thrown away by fools in high command?
My curse be on St. Ruth, cold friend in our last extremity:
“'Tis hanging I'd deserve,” he bragged, “if they took the town on me.”

XVIII

But they crossed the Shannon's dwindled stream, that left us in their power,
And the town we held for ten long days, was lost in one slack half-hour,
St. Ruth died well on Aughrim field; but ten deaths could ne'er atone
For the shame and the blame of that bad day, and the way he lost Athlone.
55

THE FACE OF DREAMS

I

Where may I hide my loneliness and sorrow?
Where sings the bird that sang upon the tree,
When you and I were young, and feared no bleak to-morrow,
And trusted Love to lead us through the years that were to be?

II

The days, the years went by, the days we lived and loved,
When you and I were young, and sat beside the river,
Glad as all happy things that round us lived and moved,
And he heard the blackbird sing, saw the whispering aspens quiver.

III

The days, the years go by, like eddies in a stream,
That seem the same, yet glide from change to change for ever;
I feel them pass and change, and still I dream and dream
Of one sweet face, that save in dreams comes to me never.
56

A MOMENT

I

“Was that the wind?” she said,
And turned her head
To where, on a green bank, the primrose flowers
Seemed with new beauty suddenly endowed,
As though they gazed out of their mortal cloud
On things unseen, communing with strange powers.

II

Then upon that green place
Fell a new grace,
As when a sun-gleam visits drops of dew,
And every drop shines like a mystic gem,
Set in the front of morning's diadem,
With hues more tender than e'er diamond knew.

III

And something seemed to pass—
As through the grass
The presence of the gentlest wind will go—
Delicately through her bosom and her hair,
Till, with delight, she found herself more fair,
And her heart sang, unutterably low.
57

THE CHILDREN'S WARD

'Tis the Good Shepherd's fold, his holy ground:
With genial face, between a smile and tear,
Old Father Christmas, bustling on his round,
With presents for the children has been here.
The Children's Ward: there, in her little cot,
Her wasted face wise with long suffering,
A little patient girl, a hectic spot
Branding each cheek, her soul upon the wing.
Poor tiny child! A grave motherly light
Veils now her glittering eyes. In mother's pride
Clasped to her bosom, lovingly and tight,
With one thin arm, her doll sleeps at her side.
All sickness now, all pain, all weariness
Are lost in love. The dumb thing at her breast
Comforts her hungry heart: in that caress
Her suffering finds relief, her longing, rest.

MEMORIES

I

Whence, at what summons, what faint-whispered sigh
From life's fall'n leaves, what vanished voice's tone,
Come ye, the gentle train of Memory,
58

In that sweet hour when thought dreams on her throne?
Ye twilight elves who people solitude,
And are the undying children of dead hours,
My phanton self dwells with your glimmering host,
Charmed from night's envious brood;
Ye crown my days with amaranthine flowers,
And I live on, in ghostly lands a ghost.

II

I pass into the fairyland of dream,
As one might pass into the world we see
Deep in lone woodland pool or quiet stream,
With tenderer skies and mellower greenery.
I tread the mossy silence of dim ways
Where sunshine, through the leaves of long ago,
Haunts the still glades, and holds in solemn trance
Long aisles where bygone days
Whisper their tales, and memory's afterglow
Clothes my grey past in splendour of romance.

III

Ah! do ye live in me, or I in you,
Memories, that bring me in your phantom hands
A sound, a sense, an odour, or a hue;
59

As though the past, eternal in the sands
Fallen from Time's glass, and even as they fell,
Caught by Death's angel in his hallowing urn,
Were garnered there without decay or stain?
The day wherein we dwell,
Fled with life's pageant, never to return,
Is it a dream that may be dreamed again?

IV

The sweet remembered fragrance of a rose,
Long withered, in a garden ruined long,
Breathes round me—lo! the cloudy gates unclose!
I am there again, and hear the blackbird's song
In life's glad morn: a crushed geranium-leaf
Sheds balm, and through the old house that stands no more
I move, with beating heart, from room to room;
And where the eyes of grief
Looked in Death's eyes, meet those I loved of yore,
Truants from time and change, as from the tomb.

V

The self within us burns, a lonely star,
And knows not its own form, sees not its light,
Save mirrored in the shapes passing afar
From birth to death o'er the abyss of night,
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Finding itself in that reflected beam
Which kindles in the House of Memory
Her pale phosphoric flame. And round that flame,
Moths in her lantern's gleam,
Appear the ghostly train of things that die,
Yet piteously awhile evade Death's claim.

VI

As feathers shaken from the wings of Time
Seem the pale memories whereby we live;
Lingering awhile, then melting like the rime.
The self we know as frail and fugitive.
But in God's House weaves Mother Memory
After Death's feet the web of life anew,
Creation's dream lives in her arras bright;
Where her swift shuttles fly
God shines eternal in each drop of dew,
All moments live immortal in His sight.
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