 | Songs of Killarney |  |
145
MOODS AND MELODIES.
147
PARKNASILLA.
TO AN ARTIST.
O who could limn the landscape that we love—The rocky garden's variegated wreath—
The limes that skirt—the oaks and pines beneath—
Ocean before, the summer sky above?
Who could pourtray the mountains' purple smiles—
And all the opal hues of earth and heaven,
Foam-fringing forests—heather-tufted Isles;
The roseate dawn—purpureal pomps of even—
And young Atlantic's petulant shifting wiles?
Who could do aught but mar the true expression
Where all is change? Then why a record shape
Of scenes whose nature glories in succession
From wood to wave—from wave to distant cape—
Like the young poet's dream, fair beyond all possession?
148
SHE LEANT UPON THE RUSTIC BRIDGE.
She leant upon the Rustic Bridge,
With all her spirit in her eyes,
Far off the mountains, ridge on ridge,
Flowed westward through the autumn skies.
With all her spirit in her eyes,
Far off the mountains, ridge on ridge,
Flowed westward through the autumn skies.
The blue sea kissed its golden weeds,—
In wreaths the blue smoke took the air—
Flushed were the forests—green the meads—
She said, “This earth is passing fair.”
In wreaths the blue smoke took the air—
Flushed were the forests—green the meads—
She said, “This earth is passing fair.”
149
THE FIRST ROSE.
A MELODY.
The rose that in the springtide ventures forthTo woo the Zephyr, with her crimson smiles
And odorous wiles,
Too often chances on the cruel North;
For every kiss of his cold lips,
With poisonous blight her beauty nips.
Till one by one with downcast head
She weeps away her petals red,
And with the last, bereft of life and light
Sighs forth her passionate soul on the dark lap of night.
150
THE FADED ROSE.
Throw the window open wider; let the cool air kiss my brows;
See, the stars alone are shining; hark! the rustling of the boughs;
On a night, oh, how how like this, love, we breathed our virgin vows!
See, the stars alone are shining; hark! the rustling of the boughs;
On a night, oh, how how like this, love, we breathed our virgin vows!
And the dear old arbour, shall I never never see it more?
With its pleasant rustic seats, and scaly cones, and pebbled floor,
And the rose that peeped upon us, dearest, through the open door.
With its pleasant rustic seats, and scaly cones, and pebbled floor,
And the rose that peeped upon us, dearest, through the open door.
153
“Yield, outrivalled, yield this forfeit, rash one, to a Rose more fair;”
Light he laughed and turning twined its brightest blossom in my hair.
Love, unclasp this cherished locket; see, the withered flower is there!
Light he laughed and turning twined its brightest blossom in my hair.
Love, unclasp this cherished locket; see, the withered flower is there!
Little, thought I, when I set it fondly in this shrine of gold,
That thy Rose would fade as fast, her cheek as soon turn wan and cold.
Take her in thy precious arms, and let her die within their fold.
That thy Rose would fade as fast, her cheek as soon turn wan and cold.
Take her in thy precious arms, and let her die within their fold.
154
“IRISH EYES.”
Irish Eyes! Irish Eyes,
Eyes that most of all can move me!
Lift one look
From my book,
Through your lashes dark, and prove me
In my worship O how wise!
Eyes that most of all can move me!
Lift one look
From my book,
Through your lashes dark, and prove me
In my worship O how wise!
Other orbs, be content!
In your honor, not dispraisal—
Most I prize,
Irish Eyes
Since were not your ebon, hazel,
Violet—all to light them lent?
In your honor, not dispraisal—
Most I prize,
Irish Eyes
Since were not your ebon, hazel,
Violet—all to light them lent?
155
Then no mischief, Merry Eyes!
Stars of Thought, no jealous fancies!
Can I err
To prefer
This sweet union of your glances,
Sparkling, darkling Irish Eyes?
Stars of Thought, no jealous fancies!
Can I err
To prefer
This sweet union of your glances,
Sparkling, darkling Irish Eyes?
156
SLEEPLESS.
A SONNET.
Pale Queen, that from thy bower Elysian,In slow, sweet state supremely issuing forth,
Of thy dear pity to the day-worn man,
Dispensest dreams through all the darkened earth,
Hast thou no ray of softliest-silvered span,
To tempt coy Slumber hither? O, if thou hast,
By all the love of thy Endymion,
Spare it, that I, even I, may rest at last.
Yea! that for me, sad Present, cruel Past,
Dark Future blend in blest oblivion,
Speed Slumber, Slumber to these aching eyes,
That he with wings of balmiest breath may fan
My cares to rest, confuse each haunting plan,
And steal my spirit with a sweet surprise.
157
AN IRISH GRACE.
For beauty's blaze
Let Pagans praise
The features of Aglaia,
Admire agape
The maiden shape
Consummate in Thalia,
Last hail in thee,
Euphrosyne,
Allied the sovran powers
Of form and face—
No heathen Grace
Can match this Grace of ours.
Let Pagans praise
The features of Aglaia,
Admire agape
The maiden shape
Consummate in Thalia,
Last hail in thee,
Euphrosyne,
Allied the sovran powers
Of form and face—
No heathen Grace
Can match this Grace of ours.
158
Blue are her eyes, as though the skies
Were ever blue above them,
And dark their full-fringed canopies,
As if the night fays wove them.
Were ever blue above them,
And dark their full-fringed canopies,
As if the night fays wove them.
Two roses kiss to mould her mouth,
Her ear's a lily blossom,
Her blush a sunset in the south,
And drifted snow her bosom.
Her ear's a lily blossom,
Her blush a sunset in the south,
And drifted snow her bosom.
Her voice is gay, but soft and low,
The sweetest of all trebles,
A silver brook that, in its flow,
Chimes over pearly pebbles.
The sweetest of all trebles,
A silver brook that, in its flow,
Chimes over pearly pebbles.
A happy heart, a temper bright,
Her radiant smile expresses;
And, like a wealth of golden light,
Rain down her sunny tresses.
Her radiant smile expresses;
And, like a wealth of golden light,
Rain down her sunny tresses.
159
Earth's desert clime,
Whose sands are Time,
Will prove a glad oasis,
If 'tis my fate,
My friends, to mate
With such a girl as Grace is.
Whose sands are Time,
Will prove a glad oasis,
If 'tis my fate,
My friends, to mate
With such a girl as Grace is.
160
SAD THRUSH.
O thrush, that pourest far and near,
From some dark bower thy passionate song,
Thou speakest sadder to my ear
To-day than all the feathered throng.
From some dark bower thy passionate song,
Thou speakest sadder to my ear
To-day than all the feathered throng.
For when, alas! in search of food
The mother bird had left her young,
With axe in hand, a woodsman rude,
I roved my leafy shades among;
The mother bird had left her young,
With axe in hand, a woodsman rude,
I roved my leafy shades among;
161
Till, cruel chance! my critic eye
Discerned a wildering beechen bough;
I heaved the sturdy steel on high,
And with three strokes I struck it through.
Discerned a wildering beechen bough;
I heaved the sturdy steel on high,
And with three strokes I struck it through.
It trembled, tottered, crashed, and fell,
And turning, tossed upon the air
Four throstles, scarce escaped the shell,
With downy breasts and pinions bare;
And turning, tossed upon the air
Four throstles, scarce escaped the shell,
With downy breasts and pinions bare;
Whilst wildly wheeling o'er their fall,
Returned, alas! one moment late,
The parent thrush, with piteous call,
Bewailed her children's cruel fate.
Returned, alas! one moment late,
The parent thrush, with piteous call,
Bewailed her children's cruel fate.
Each bird, with wafts of warmest breath,
I strove to stir to life again;
But oh! so rude the rock beneath—
All, all the little ones were slain.
I strove to stir to life again;
But oh! so rude the rock beneath—
All, all the little ones were slain.
162
In their own nest, that scarce was cold,
Their tender corses I inurned;
Then made their grave of garden mould,
And homeward melancholy turned.
Their tender corses I inurned;
Then made their grave of garden mould,
And homeward melancholy turned.
And this is why in cadence clear,
Pouring afar her passionate song,
One thrush speaks sadder to my ear
To-day than all the feathered throng.
Pouring afar her passionate song,
One thrush speaks sadder to my ear
To-day than all the feathered throng.
163
GLAD THRUSH.
Hush! O hush!
For the yellow-throated thrush
Comes winging fleetly—
Whither? Hither,
The yellow-throated, mellow-noted thrush
Comes winging fleetly.
Singing, how sweetly,
“Kwee-kwee kwee-kwee,
Trill-lilla-la.”
For the yellow-throated thrush
Comes winging fleetly—
Whither? Hither,
The yellow-throated, mellow-noted thrush
Comes winging fleetly.
Singing, how sweetly,
“Kwee-kwee kwee-kwee,
Trill-lilla-la.”
Then hush! O hush!
My pipe of holly
Most melancholy;
For our sad song
Would greatly wrong
His carol jolly;
“Kwee-kwee kwee-kwee,
Trill-lilla-la.”
My pipe of holly
164
For our sad song
Would greatly wrong
His carol jolly;
“Kwee-kwee kwee-kwee,
Trill-lilla-la.”
He, perching thus,
Pipes back to us,—
“Light-hearted swain,
Thy jocund flute
To-day is mute.
O why refrain
Its mirthful strain
To pour; when I
From this tree nigh,
Am piping plain,
‘Kwee-kwee kwee-kwee,
Trill-lilla-la?’”
And I reply,
“Sweet bird, because
Grief only was
In my flute's sigh,
Till you came by;
But your kwee-kwee
Of gushing glee,
Bids sorrow fly.
So, overhead,
Sing on kwee-kwee,
Trill-lilla-la,
Till day is dead.”
Pipes back to us,—
“Light-hearted swain,
Thy jocund flute
To-day is mute.
O why refrain
Its mirthful strain
To pour; when I
From this tree nigh,
Am piping plain,
‘Kwee-kwee kwee-kwee,
Trill-lilla-la?’”
165
“Sweet bird, because
Grief only was
In my flute's sigh,
Till you came by;
But your kwee-kwee
Of gushing glee,
Bids sorrow fly.
So, overhead,
Sing on kwee-kwee,
Trill-lilla-la,
Till day is dead.”
166
THE HUNTER BRAVE.
“So kiss farewell,” the hunter cries,
And forth upon his courser flies.
“Farewell!” his wife and children wave
“Farewell! farewell! our hunter brave.”
And forth upon his courser flies.
“Farewell!” his wife and children wave
“Farewell! farewell! our hunter brave.”
Beware the lion's deadly leap—
A flash—a fall—a heaving heap—
And, lo! the monster in his cave
Lies dead before the hunter brave.
A flash—a fall—a heaving heap—
And, lo! the monster in his cave
Lies dead before the hunter brave.
“To horse—to horse!” again he cries,
And homeward, homeward, homeward flies.
Whilst “welcome!” wife and children wave,
“Welcome, once more, our hunter brave!”
And homeward, homeward, homeward flies.
Whilst “welcome!” wife and children wave,
“Welcome, once more, our hunter brave!”
167
IRISH LULLABY.
Id rock my own sweet childie to rest in a cradle of gold on a bough of the willow,
To the shosheen ho; of the wind of the west and the shularoo of the soft sea billow.
Sleep, baby dear,
Sleep without fear,
Mother is here beside your pillow.
To the shosheen ho; of the wind of the west and the shularoo 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 shosheen whisper the white cascades, and a shularoo the green flags shiver.
Sleep, baby dear,
Sleep without fear,
Mother is here with you for ever.
Where a shosheen whisper the white cascades, and a shularoo the green flags shiver.
168
Sleep without fear,
Mother is here with you for ever.
Shularoo! to the rise and fall of mother's bosom 'tis sleep has bound you,
And O, my child, what cozier nest for rosier rest could love have found you?
Sleep, baby dear,
Sleep without fear,
Mother's two arms are clasped around you.
And O, my child, what cozier nest for rosier rest could love have found you?
Sleep, baby dear,
Sleep without fear,
Mother's two arms are clasped around you.
169
MIGHT LOVING MAIDS.
IRISH MELODY.
Might loving maids confess
Their bosoms' dear distress,
To youths as fond-avowed could they but speak,
The words of my adieu
Had not been light and few;
The smile had turned to tears upon my cheek.
Their bosoms' dear distress,
To youths as fond-avowed could they but speak,
The words of my adieu
Had not been light and few;
The smile had turned to tears upon my cheek.
O yes! might maidens tell
With their last wild farewell,
How truest hearts oft ache unclaimed behind,
I who so dearly loved
Had not seemed all unmoved
Toward thee—my own true love confessed were fortune kind.
With their last wild farewell,
How truest hearts oft ache unclaimed behind,
170
Had not seemed all unmoved
Toward thee—my own true love confessed were fortune kind.
Yet though perforce we part,
Ere faithful heart to heart
Could own the tender rapture each inspired,
Absence will but approve
The honour of thy love,
And make my hope the more to be desired.
Ere faithful heart to heart
Could own the tender rapture each inspired,
Absence will but approve
The honour of thy love,
And make my hope the more to be desired.
Yes! though perforce we part,
Ere faithful heart to heart
Could own the tender rapture each inspired,
Absence will but approve
The honour of thy love,
And make my hope in thee the more to be desired.
Ere faithful heart to heart
Could own the tender rapture each inspired,
Absence will but approve
The honour of thy love,
And make my hope in thee the more to be desired.
171
WHEN SHE ANSWERED ME HER VOICE WAS LOW.
IRISH MELODY.
When she answered me her voice was low—but, oh!
Not, Erin, thine own harp's impassioned chord
With prouder bliss e'er bade my bosom glow,
Than she has kindled by that one sweet word.
Not, Erin, thine own harp's impassioned chord
With prouder bliss e'er bade my bosom glow,
Than she has kindled by that one sweet word.
When the colleen's eyes looked back the love in mine,
My Erin, never after darkest night
With bluer welcome o'er the ocean line
Thy shore has started on my patriot sight.
My Erin, never after darkest night
With bluer welcome o'er the ocean line
Thy shore has started on my patriot sight.
172
And, Erin, bid thy son as soon believe
Thy song expired, thy star of promise set,
As dream my darling's eyes could e'er deceive,
Her lips their low sweet answer all forget.
Thy song expired, thy star of promise set,
As dream my darling's eyes could e'er deceive,
Her lips their low sweet answer all forget.
173
AUTUMN DIRGE.
Fallen with the fallen leaf!
All the woods are bowed with grief,
And the sky, without relief,
O'er the earth with tears replieth.
We are also bowed with grief,
And from tears have no relief:
Death is on our aged chief;
Dumb and motionless he lieth.
All the woods are bowed with grief,
And the sky, without relief,
O'er the earth with tears replieth.
We are also bowed with grief,
And from tears have no relief:
Death is on our aged chief;
Dumb and motionless he lieth.
Now the earth all beauty scorning,
With no blooms her breast adorning,
Wrapped in cypress robes is mourning
For the summer's lost delight;
Thus, no coloured garb adorning,
We are clad in darkest mourning;—
Swift of Stroke and Wise of Warning,
Thou hast robbed our limbs of light.
With no blooms her breast adorning,
Wrapped in cypress robes is mourning
For the summer's lost delight;
174
We are clad in darkest mourning;—
Swift of Stroke and Wise of Warning,
Thou hast robbed our limbs of light.
175
SONG.
Life like ours is April weather;
Tears and smiles, smiles and tears,
Sighs and laughter linked together;
Fears and hopes, hopes and fears,
Storm and sunshine, hither, thither,
Shifting through the spheres.
Tears and smiles, smiles and tears,
Sighs and laughter linked together;
Fears and hopes, hopes and fears,
Storm and sunshine, hither, thither,
Shifting through the spheres.
Love alluring, harming, healing;
Bliss his Yes! Woe his No!
Fortune's smile and frown revealing
Foe in friend, friend in foe;
Mirth to-day, to-morrow Sorrow
Guiding as we go.
Bliss his Yes! Woe his No!
Fortune's smile and frown revealing
Foe in friend, friend in foe;
Mirth to-day, to-morrow Sorrow
Guiding as we go.
| Songs of Killarney | |