Poems By Edward Quillinan. With a Memoir by William Johnston |
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I.
[Madness, if thou wilt let me dwell]
Madness, if thou wilt let me dwell
With Thee in some fantastic hell,
Some chaos of the mind,
For Thee I'll quit the friends of years,
The loves of youth, the hopes and fears
About the heart-strings twined.
With Thee in some fantastic hell,
Some chaos of the mind,
For Thee I'll quit the friends of years,
The loves of youth, the hopes and fears
About the heart-strings twined.
For joy has dried, for me, her springs,
And Death has shadow'd with his wings
An Eden to a waste,
And I am left in lone distress,
Mark'd with a curse of hopelessness
Too deep to be erased.
And Death has shadow'd with his wings
An Eden to a waste,
And I am left in lone distress,
Mark'd with a curse of hopelessness
Too deep to be erased.
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I had a friend—Where is she now?
I mock thee with my placid brow,
I mock thee with my smile:
But search, wild Power, my heart's despair;
Her epitaph is written there,
There woe is without guile.
I mock thee with my placid brow,
I mock thee with my smile:
But search, wild Power, my heart's despair;
Her epitaph is written there,
There woe is without guile.
Griefs have o'erwhelm'd me oft before,
But then my buoyant spirit bore
Against their stormy tide:
I listen'd to the voice of men;
Some cheer'd me from the shore, and then
I struggled through with pride.
But then my buoyant spirit bore
Against their stormy tide:
I listen'd to the voice of men;
Some cheer'd me from the shore, and then
I struggled through with pride.
Oft have I been perplex'd with woes,
But then there was a dear repose
From trouble and from pain:
I look'd in Beauty's tender eyes,
And there encounter'd sympathies
That soothed the aching brain.
But then there was a dear repose
From trouble and from pain:
I look'd in Beauty's tender eyes,
And there encounter'd sympathies
That soothed the aching brain.
I went abroad among the hills;
I traced the streams and humming rills
That through the woodlands stole;
I walk'd with Nature, and communed
With all her birds, and they attuned
The jarrings in my soul.
I traced the streams and humming rills
That through the woodlands stole;
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With all her birds, and they attuned
The jarrings in my soul.
I cannot pray—I still have pray'd,
In weal or woe, for mercy's aid
To guide me on my way;
But this too heavily hath prest;
And there is hardness in my breast,
And now I cannot pray.
In weal or woe, for mercy's aid
To guide me on my way;
But this too heavily hath prest;
And there is hardness in my breast,
And now I cannot pray.
Then make me thine! I fear thee not.
Better the shrieking maniac's lot
Than this wild sense of gloom;
These thick still thoughts of full distress,
Brooding o'er blighted happiness
Like yew-trees o'er a tomb.
Better the shrieking maniac's lot
Than this wild sense of gloom;
These thick still thoughts of full distress,
Brooding o'er blighted happiness
Like yew-trees o'er a tomb.
Then make me thine! I love the tune
Of the starved dog that bays the moon,
While angry echo jars:
Make me thy priest, and let me chaunt,
From some rent fane that spectres haunt,
Strange anthems to the stars.
Of the starved dog that bays the moon,
While angry echo jars:
Make me thy priest, and let me chaunt,
From some rent fane that spectres haunt,
Strange anthems to the stars.
| Poems | |