 | The Poems of Thomas Davis |  |
MY HOME.
A DREAM.
I have dreamt of a home—a happy home—
The flcklest from it would not care to roam:
'Twas a cottage home on native ground,
Where all things glorious clustered round—
For highland glen and lowland plain
Met within that small demesne.
The flcklest from it would not care to roam:
'Twas a cottage home on native ground,
Where all things glorious clustered round—
For highland glen and lowland plain
Met within that small demesne.
In sight is a tarn, with cliffs of fear,
Where the eagle defies the mountaineer,
And the cataract leaps in mad career,
And through oak and holly roam the deer.
On its brink is a ruined castle, stern,—
The mountains are crowned with rath and carn,
Robed with heather, and bossed with stone,
And belted with a pine wood lone.
Where the eagle defies the mountaineer,
And the cataract leaps in mad career,
And through oak and holly roam the deer.
On its brink is a ruined castle, stern,—
The mountains are crowned with rath and carn,
Robed with heather, and bossed with stone,
And belted with a pine wood lone.
199
Thro' that mighty gap in the mountain chain,
Oft, like rivers after rain,
Poured our clans on the conquered plain.
And there, upon their harassed rear,
Oft pressed the Norman's bloody spear;
Men call it “the pass of the leaping deer.”
Oft, like rivers after rain,
Poured our clans on the conquered plain.
And there, upon their harassed rear,
Oft pressed the Norman's bloody spear;
Men call it “the pass of the leaping deer.”
Wild is the region, yet gentle the spot—
As you look on the roses, the rocks are forgot;
For garden gay, and primrose lawn
Peep through the rocks, as thro' night comes dawn.
As you look on the roses, the rocks are forgot;
For garden gay, and primrose lawn
Peep through the rocks, as thro' night comes dawn.
And see, by that burn the children play;
In that valley the village maidens stray,
Listing the thrush and the robin's lay,
Listing the burn sigh back to the breeze,
And hoping—guess whom? 'mong the thorn trees.
Not yet, dear girls—on the uplands green
Shepherds and flocks may still be seen.
In that valley the village maidens stray,
Listing the thrush and the robin's lay,
Listing the burn sigh back to the breeze,
And hoping—guess whom? 'mong the thorn trees.
Not yet, dear girls—on the uplands green
Shepherds and flocks may still be seen.
Freemen's toils, with fruit and grain,
The valley fill, and clothe the plain.
There's the health which labour yields—
Labour tilling its own fields.
Freed at length from stranger lord—
From his frown, or his reward—
Each the owner of his land,
Plenty springs beneath his hand.
The valley fill, and clothe the plain.
There's the health which labour yields—
Labour tilling its own fields.
Freed at length from stranger lord—
From his frown, or his reward—
Each the owner of his land,
Plenty springs beneath his hand.
200
Meet these men on land or sea—
Meet them in council, war, or glee;
Voice, glance, and mien, bespeak them free.
Welcome greets you at their hearth;
Reverend they to age and worth;
Yet prone to jest and full of mirth.
Fond of song, and dance, and crowd —
Of harp, and pipe, and laughter loud;
Their lay of love is low and bland,
Their wail for death is wild and grand;
Awful and lovely their song of flame,
When they clash the chords in their country's name.
Meet them in council, war, or glee;
Voice, glance, and mien, bespeak them free.
Welcome greets you at their hearth;
Reverend they to age and worth;
Yet prone to jest and full of mirth.
Fond of song, and dance, and crowd —
Of harp, and pipe, and laughter loud;
Their lay of love is low and bland,
Their wail for death is wild and grand;
Awful and lovely their song of flame,
When they clash the chords in their country's name.
They seek no courts, and own no sway,
Save the counsels of their elders grey;
For holy love, and homely faith,
Rule their hearts in life and death.
Yet their rifles would flash, and their sabres smite,
And their pike-staffs redden in the fight,
And young and old be swept away,
Ere the stranger in their land should sway.
Save the counsels of their elders grey;
For holy love, and homely faith,
Rule their hearts in life and death.
Yet their rifles would flash, and their sabres smite,
And their pike-staffs redden in the fight,
And young and old be swept away,
Ere the stranger in their land should sway.
But the setting sun, ere he sink in the sea,
Flushes and flashes o'er crag and tree,
Kisses the clouds with crimson sheen,
And sheets with gold the ocean's green.
Where the stately frigate lies in the bay,
The friendly fleet of the Frenchmen lay.
Yonder creek, and yonder shore
Echoed then the battle's roar;
Flushes and flashes o'er crag and tree,
Kisses the clouds with crimson sheen,
And sheets with gold the ocean's green.
201
The friendly fleet of the Frenchmen lay.
Yonder creek, and yonder shore
Echoed then the battle's roar;
Where, on slope after slope, the west sun shines,
After the fight lay our conquering lines.
The triumph, though great, had cost us dear;
And the wounded and dead were lying near—
When the setting sun on our bivouac proud,
Sudden burst through a riven cloud,
An answering shout broke from our men—
Wounds and toils were forgotten then,
And dying men were heard to pray
The light would last till they passed away—
They wished to die on our triumph day.
We honoured the omen, and thought on times gone,
And from chief to chief the word was passed on,
The “harp on the green” our land-flag should be,
And the sun through clouds bursting, our flag at sea,
The green borne harp o'er yon battery gleams,
From the frigate's topgallant the “sun-burst” streams.
After the fight lay our conquering lines.
The triumph, though great, had cost us dear;
And the wounded and dead were lying near—
When the setting sun on our bivouac proud,
Sudden burst through a riven cloud,
An answering shout broke from our men—
Wounds and toils were forgotten then,
And dying men were heard to pray
The light would last till they passed away—
They wished to die on our triumph day.
We honoured the omen, and thought on times gone,
And from chief to chief the word was passed on,
The “harp on the green” our land-flag should be,
And the sun through clouds bursting, our flag at sea,
The green borne harp o'er yon battery gleams,
From the frigate's topgallant the “sun-burst” streams.
In that far-off isle a sainted sage
Built a lowly hermitage,
Where ages gone made pilgrimage.
Over his grave, with what weird delight,
The grey trees swim in the flooding light;
How a halo clasps their solemn head,
Like heaven's breath on the rising dead.
Built a lowly hermitage,
Where ages gone made pilgrimage.
Over his grave, with what weird delight,
The grey trees swim in the flooding light;
202
Like heaven's breath on the rising dead.
Longing and languid as prisoned bird,
With a powerless dream my heart is stirred.
And I pant to pierce beyond the tomb,
And see the light, or share the gloom.
But vainly for such power we pray.
God wills—enough—let man obey.
With a powerless dream my heart is stirred.
And I pant to pierce beyond the tomb,
And see the light, or share the gloom.
But vainly for such power we pray.
God wills—enough—let man obey.
Two thousand years, 'mid sun and storm,
That tall tower has lifted its mystic form.
The yew-tree shadowing the aisle,
'Twixt airy arch and mouldering pile,
And nigh the hamlet that chapel fair
Shew religion has dwelt, and is dwelling there.
That tall tower has lifted its mystic form.
The yew-tree shadowing the aisle,
'Twixt airy arch and mouldering pile,
And nigh the hamlet that chapel fair
Shew religion has dwelt, and is dwelling there.
While the Druid's crom-leac up the vale
Tells how rites may change, and creeds may fail.
Creeds may perish, and rites may fall,
But that hamlet worships the God of all.
Tells how rites may change, and creeds may fail.
Creeds may perish, and rites may fall,
But that hamlet worships the God of all.
In the land of the pious, free, and brave,
Was the happy home that sweet dream gave.
But the mirth, and beauty, and love that dwell
Within that home—I may not tell.
Was the happy home that sweet dream gave.
But the mirth, and beauty, and love that dwell
Within that home—I may not tell.
| The Poems of Thomas Davis | |