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. |
LIFE IS THE DESERT AND THE SOLITUDE. |
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| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
 | Poems of James Clarence Mangan |  |
LIFE IS THE DESERT AND THE SOLITUDE.
It is the joyous time of June,
And fresh from Nature's liberal hand
Is richly lavished every boon
The laughing earth and skies demand;
How shines the variegated land—
How swell the many sparkling streams!
All is as gorgeous and as grand
As the creations wherewith teems
The poet's haunted brain amid his noonday dreams.
And fresh from Nature's liberal hand
Is richly lavished every boon
The laughing earth and skies demand;
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How swell the many sparkling streams!
All is as gorgeous and as grand
As the creations wherewith teems
The poet's haunted brain amid his noonday dreams.
Falls now the golden veil of even;
The vault on high, the intense profound,
Breaks into all the hues of heaven;
I see far off the mountains crowned
With glory—I behold around
Enough of summer's power to mould
The breast not altogether bound
By grief to thoughts whose uncontrolled
Fervour leaves feeling dumb and human utterance cold.
The vault on high, the intense profound,
Breaks into all the hues of heaven;
I see far off the mountains crowned
With glory—I behold around
Enough of summer's power to mould
The breast not altogether bound
By grief to thoughts whose uncontrolled
Fervour leaves feeling dumb and human utterance cold.
Yet I am far—oh! far from feeling
The life, the thrilling glow, the power
Which have their dwelling in the healing
And holy influence of the hour.
Affliction is my doom and dower;
And cares, in many a darkening throng,
Like night-clouds round a ruin, lour
Over a soul which (never strong
To stem the tide of ill) will not resist them long.
The life, the thrilling glow, the power
Which have their dwelling in the healing
And holy influence of the hour.
Affliction is my doom and dower;
And cares, in many a darkening throng,
Like night-clouds round a ruin, lour
Over a soul which (never strong
To stem the tide of ill) will not resist them long.
And all that glances on my vision,
Inanimate or breathing, rife
With voiceless beauty, half Elysian,
Of youthful and exuberant life,
Serves but to nurse the sleepless strife
Within—arousing the keen thought,
Quick-born, which stabbeth like a knife,
And wakes anticipations fraught
With heaviest hues of gloom from memory's pictures wrought.
Inanimate or breathing, rife
With voiceless beauty, half Elysian,
Of youthful and exuberant life,
Serves but to nurse the sleepless strife
Within—arousing the keen thought,
Quick-born, which stabbeth like a knife,
And wakes anticipations fraught
With heaviest hues of gloom from memory's pictures wrought.
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What slakeless strife is still consuming
This martyred heart from day to day?
Lies not the bower where love was blooming
Time-trampled into long decay?
Alas! when hope's illusive ray
Plays round our paths, the bright deceiver
Allures us only to betray,
Leaving us thenceforth wanderers ever,
Forlorn along the shores of life's all-troubled river.
This martyred heart from day to day?
Lies not the bower where love was blooming
Time-trampled into long decay?
Alas! when hope's illusive ray
Plays round our paths, the bright deceiver
Allures us only to betray,
Leaving us thenceforth wanderers ever,
Forlorn along the shores of life's all-troubled river.
Had I but dreamed in younger years
That time should paralyse and bow
Me thus—thus fill mine eyes with tears—
Thus chill my soul and cloud my brow!
No! I had not been breathing now—
This heart had long ago been broken;
I had not lived to witness how
Deeply and bitterly each token
Of bygone joy will yield what misery hath bespoken.
That time should paralyse and bow
Me thus—thus fill mine eyes with tears—
Thus chill my soul and cloud my brow!
No! I had not been breathing now—
This heart had long ago been broken;
I had not lived to witness how
Deeply and bitterly each token
Of bygone joy will yield what misery hath bespoken.
Alas! for those who stand alone—
The shrouded few who feel and know
What none beside have felt and known
To all of such a mould below
Is born an undeparting woe,
Beheld by none and shared with none—
A cankering worm whose work is slow,
But gnaws the heart-strings one by one,
And drains the bosom's blood till the last drop be gone.
The shrouded few who feel and know
What none beside have felt and known
To all of such a mould below
Is born an undeparting woe,
Beheld by none and shared with none—
A cankering worm whose work is slow,
But gnaws the heart-strings one by one,
And drains the bosom's blood till the last drop be gone.
| Poems of James Clarence Mangan | |