Underglimpses (1857) | ||
ODE.
Swifter far than youth's delight,
Swifter far than happy night,
Art thou come and gone.
Shelley.
PROEM.
Napoli's daughters,
Send the sad requiem
Over the waters;—
Over the waters,
Solemnly, slowly,
Sing the sad requiem,
Mournfully, lowly;—
Sing the sad requiem,
Chant the low ditty,
Maids of the golden-shored
Heaven-cinctured city,
Fair with life's youthfulness,
Heart-warm with nobleness,
Soul-proud with truthfulness,
Stricken down instantly,
Wrapped in death's gloominess—
While 'neath his window rose
Living and luminous
Azure-hued golden waves
Up to the Lord of Life
Singing their pean.
Borrow their musical
Murmur, ye maidens,
Weak words of elegy
Borrow their cadence.
Wail him beside the blue
Lazulite waters,
Maidens of Italy,
Napoli's daughters.
SONG OF ITALIAN MAIDENS.
1
Sisters, kneel beside this bier,Breathe the prayer, and shed the tear—
Young Marcellus sleepeth here.
2
Young Marcellus sleeping lies,With his slumber-sealéd eyes
Waiting God's great sun to rise—
3
Waiting to re-ope once moreOn a sweeter summer shore
By the eternal water's roar.
4
Scatter round about his bedViolets, ere their scent has fled,—
Winter roses white and red.
5
Lay upon his gentle breastAll the flowers that he loved best—
Pansies be the mournfullest.
6
Though this bed has grown a bier,Scatter snowdrops, scatter here
All the promise of the year:—
7
Being born to bloom and dieThey perchance may typify
Him who here doth sleeping lie:
8
Since we love those flowers the bestThat are plucked the earliest—
As it were for God's own breast:
9
Love them better far than thoseThe maturer months disclose—
Flaunting tulip, gaudy rose:
10
Love them for the proof they giveThat the world's great heart doth live,—
They the while so fugitive.
11
Such was he who lieth here,With his leaves all drooping sere
In the spring-time of his year.
12
Here he came a wanderer,From the Northern Isles that are
Watchéd by the western star.
13
Here he came, to feast his eyesOn an earthly heaven, with skies
Borrowed still from Paradise:
14
Came with rapture to beholdPurple isles and seas of gold,
And the dread Volcano old:
15
Came with wonder to surveyAll the magic of the Bay,
And the towns restored to-day—
16
Or to pluck the flowers that bloomBy the Mantuan Poet's tomb
O'er the grotto's arch of gloom;—
17
Or along Sorrento's shore,Tasso's birth-place, to think o'er
All his tears for Leonore;—
18
Or to see the sun declineTo his Ischian bath of wine
'Mid the hush'd sea hyaline;—
19
Or, perchance, still more to hearMusic—to his soul so dear,
Singing in her native sphere:
20
Music that appears to beBut the air of Italy,
Voicéd by her sky and sea.
21
All these projects, howsoe'erHopeful, healthful, wise or fair,
Swallowed in this blank despair.
22
He, the gentle, wise, and good,Manhood's loftiest aims pursued
With a heart of maidenhood.
23
Of a proud ancestral name,Still it was his boast to claim
The sweet bard's reflected fame:
24
The sweet bard, whose magic laysCould upon his shield emblaze
Its most precious heraldries
“If there is one heir-loom I prize more than another,” said Lord Belfast, “it is the dedication of the ‘Irish Melodies’ to an ancestress of mine, and the beautiful letter on music which Moore addressed to the same Lady Donegal.”—Lectures on the Poets and Poetry of the Nineteenth Century. By the Earl of Belfast. London: Longmans. 1852.
25
Showing nobly thus how yetGenius can its diamond set
In the proudest coronet.
26
Oh! his heart was pure as snow,Firm when winter winds might blow,
Melting in affection's glow:
27
Firm and fond with filial loveTo one gentle heart, above
All the world; though manhood strove
28
With its feverish energyTo supplant it, still did he
Love that fair maternity:
29
Love her with the same sweet zestHere, where he lay down to rest
As of old upon her breast:
30
Leaving her in days to comeA sweet memory to illume
Her half-orphan'd twilight gloom.
31
Not in pleasure's fairy bowers,Dallying with the deadly flowers,
Passed with him the flying hours;—
32
No, he raised his voice to callMightiest minds around the wall
Of the workman's wonder-hall;—
33
Raised his voice, and plied his pen,To enlarge the mental ken
Of “his humbler fellow-men” :
34
Or a soothing charm would findIn his generous praise refined
For some shy, secluded mind.
35
His the homage of the heartDearer to a child of art
Far than fame's more prizéd part.
36
But the bright career is o'er,Ah! that heart can beat no more—
Wail him, Erin, on thy shore.
37
Wail him, thou, his native land,On thy lone lamenting strand,
Bow the head, and wring the hand.
38
Wail him, thou, that to thy cost,Many a hopeful son hast lost,
Soonest those who loved thee most.
39
Wail the taste, the toil severe,The rich harvest of each year,—
All extinguished on this bier.
40
Ah! not all,—dear shade forgiveSuch despair! they yet shall live
In the example that they give;—
41
Live amid the glow they wakeIn new hearts, for her dear sake,
Her, whose own sad heart might break,
42
If, like his, some generous soulForced by love beyond control,
Did not with her griefs condole,—
43
Proud to be her child, althoughStill she totters to and fro
'Neath her lightened load of woe—
44
Proud to wear upon his breast,Proud to blazon on his crest
The poor Shamrock of the West.
45
If the night has passed away,As we're told, and rosy day
Paints the East with prophet-ray—
46
Let the beam that puts to flightThe long dark, bring forth to light
Those who watched her through the night:
47
Those whose heart she could engageIn some studious hermitage,
As upon a busier stage.
48
And among the best and lastLet its lingering light be cast
Round thy dearest name—Belfast
The rare virtues and accomplishments of this lamented young nobleman; his active exertions in promoting and encouraging a taste for literature and art, particularly in the town from which he derived his title; and his early death in a foreign land, awakened so many feelings of sorrow and respect for his memory, and of sympathy with those who in a nearer and dearer relation had lost him, that it was found impossible to avoid giving them expression in some conspicuous and lasting form. A public statue was determined on, and the work was intrusted to Mr. Macdowall, than whom, as well from his distinguished position as an artist, as from his connexion with Belfast, no more appropriate selection could have been made. The statue, which fully sustained Mr. Macdowall's high reputation, was publicly inaugurated at Belfast on November 1, 1855, by His Excellency the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, the Earl of Carlisle. Some weeks previous to this ceremony, the Author had the honour of receiving from the Marchioness of Donegal a request that he (as an Irish writer for whose poetical efforts her Ladyship was kind enough to say her dear son had an especial liking) would write some lines appropriate to the
The Sonnets printed at the commencement of the Ode were written subsequent to the public delivery of the Ode itself in Belfast.
A few months before the lamented death of the Earl of Belfast, the author had the gratification of receiving from him the following letter, which is now published for the first time. Whatever difference of opinion there may be as to the literary judgment evinced by his Lordship in this particular instance, there can be none of the generosity and good-heartedness which dictated so kind and encouraging a communication:—
“29, St. James's-street, London, “September 17, 1852.“Sir,—In order to obtain permission to publish some words of yours in connexion with some music which I have adapted to them, I believe it were sufficient to apply to the publisher of your volume of Poems; but I cannot let pass an opportunity so apt of expressing to you the deep sense of admiration with which it has inspired me. It is not only yourself that I would congratulate upon the possession of so truly poetical a genius—it is rather our country that deserves gratulations upon her good fortune, in having given birth to one who seems likely and able to reawaken that strain of poesy (so purely her own) which has slept since the silence of Moore.
“One who can combine, as you have done, the stirring energy which characterizes your Ballads with that sweet plaintiveness that lends such a charm to such poems as ‘Summer Longings,’ ‘A Lament,’ ‘Devotion,’ &c., &c., cannot but play a part, if he will, in his country's destiny.
“The first of these is the one which has inspired me with a few bars of simple music. I am well aware that it possesses ‘a music of its own—a music far beyond all minstrels' playing.’ Yet should I feel gratified at seeing my name coupled, in however humble a capacity, on the title with that of one of my most gifted countrymen.
“I am, Sir, yours “Obediently and admiringly, “Belfast. “D. F. Mac Carthy, Esq.” Underglimpses (1857) | ||