Poems of James Clarence Mangan (Many hitherto uncollected): Centenary edition: Edited, with preface and notes by D. J. O'Donoghue: Introduction by John Mitchel |
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 | Poems of James Clarence Mangan |  |
262
SONG.
O, strew the way with rosy flowers,
And dupe with smiles thy grief and gloom,
For tarnished wreaths and songless hours
Await thee in the tomb.
Lo! in the brilliant festal hall
How lightly Youth and Beauty tread!
Yet, gaze again—the grass is tall
Above their charnel bed!
And dupe with smiles thy grief and gloom,
For tarnished wreaths and songless hours
Await thee in the tomb.
Lo! in the brilliant festal hall
How lightly Youth and Beauty tread!
Yet, gaze again—the grass is tall
Above their charnel bed!
In blaze of noon the jewelled bride
Before the altar plights her faith:
Ere weep the skies of eventide
Her eyes are dulled in death!
Then sigh no more—if life is brief
So are its woes; and why repine?
Pavilioned by the linden leaf
We'll quaff the chaliced wine.
Before the altar plights her faith:
Ere weep the skies of eventide
Her eyes are dulled in death!
Then sigh no more—if life is brief
So are its woes; and why repine?
Pavilioned by the linden leaf
We'll quaff the chaliced wine.
Wild music from the nightingale
Comes floating on the loaded breeze,
To mingle in the bowery vale
With hum of summer bees:
Then taste the joys that God bestows,
The beaded wine, the faithful kiss,
For while the tide of Pleasure flows,
Death bares his black abyss.
Comes floating on the loaded breeze,
To mingle in the bowery vale
With hum of summer bees:
Then taste the joys that God bestows,
The beaded wine, the faithful kiss,
For while the tide of Pleasure flows,
Death bares his black abyss.
In vain the Zephyr's breath perfumes
The House of Death—in vain its tones
Shall mourn at midnight round the tombs
Where sleep our blackening bones.
The star-bright bowl is broken there,
The witchery of the lute is o'er,
And—wreck of wrecks!—there lie the Fair,
Whose beauty wins no more!
The House of Death—in vain its tones
Shall mourn at midnight round the tombs
Where sleep our blackening bones.
263
The witchery of the lute is o'er,
And—wreck of wrecks!—there lie the Fair,
Whose beauty wins no more!
| Poems of James Clarence Mangan | |