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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| II. |
| III. |
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 | VII. |
THE WAYFARING TREE. |
 | Poems of James Clarence Mangan |  |
308
THE WAYFARING TREE.
We
Old bachelor bards, having none to mind us,
Are seized at seasons with such a heart-aching
That, leaving home and its wants behind us,
We hie elsewhither, the spirit's car taking
Us east and west, and aloft and nether,
And thus I, also, both night and day faring
From Hartz to Hellas, pass weeks together
(In vision) under mine old Wayfaring
Tree,
My childhood's dearly belovèd Wayfaring
Tree!
Old bachelor bards, having none to mind us,
Are seized at seasons with such a heart-aching
That, leaving home and its wants behind us,
We hie elsewhither, the spirit's car taking
Us east and west, and aloft and nether,
And thus I, also, both night and day faring
From Hartz to Hellas, pass weeks together
(In vision) under mine old Wayfaring
Tree,
My childhood's dearly belovèd Wayfaring
Tree!
Free
Of pinion then, like the lonely pewit,
I watch through Autumn its golden leaves dropping,
And list the sighs of the winds that woo it—
A somewhat silly but sinless eavesdropping!—
And sadly ponder those rosy dream-hours
When Boyhood's fancies went first a-May-Fairing.
Ah! we may smile, but the joys that seem ours
Soon leave us mourners beneath our Wayfaring
Tree,
Insolvent mourners beneath our Wayfaring
Tree!
Of pinion then, like the lonely pewit,
I watch through Autumn its golden leaves dropping,
And list the sighs of the winds that woo it—
A somewhat silly but sinless eavesdropping!—
And sadly ponder those rosy dream-hours
When Boyhood's fancies went first a-May-Fairing.
Ah! we may smile, but the joys that seem ours
Soon leave us mourners beneath our Wayfaring
Tree,
Insolvent mourners beneath our Wayfaring
Tree!
Me
No Muse amuses or flatters longer,
No couplet cozens, no trashy trope bubbles,
Yet, though my judgment grows daily stronger,
I love this blowing of psychic soap-bubbles.
The soul tends always in one direction,
Its course is homeward: and, like a fay faring
Through airy space, even each deflection
But brings it nearer its destined Wayfaring
Tree.
Its way is short to its final Wayfaring
Tree.
No Muse amuses or flatters longer,
No couplet cozens, no trashy trope bubbles,
Yet, though my judgment grows daily stronger,
I love this blowing of psychic soap-bubbles.
309
Its course is homeward: and, like a fay faring
Through airy space, even each deflection
But brings it nearer its destined Wayfaring
Tree.
Its way is short to its final Wayfaring
Tree.
See,
Oh, see to your ways then, my mad young masters,
Blind pleasure-chasers and headstrong high-fliers,
Nor tempt your fate for those dark disasters
Which make, alas! the best hopes of Life liars.
And you, ye grubbers of dirt and dollars,
Whose dungeoned hearts fear a fresh and safe airing,
Think how Experience plants all her scholars
Alone at last under Age's Wayfaring
Tree!
Alone at Night under Age's Wayfaring
Tree!
Oh, see to your ways then, my mad young masters,
Blind pleasure-chasers and headstrong high-fliers,
Nor tempt your fate for those dark disasters
Which make, alas! the best hopes of Life liars.
And you, ye grubbers of dirt and dollars,
Whose dungeoned hearts fear a fresh and safe airing,
Think how Experience plants all her scholars
Alone at last under Age's Wayfaring
Tree!
Alone at Night under Age's Wayfaring
Tree!
| Poems of James Clarence Mangan | |