At the holy well | ||
AT THE HOLY WELL.
LADY'S DAY, 1885.
Weird with its immemorial vine, on high
The Round Tower lifts its walls of dateless day—
A solitary finger in the sky.
With grave-mounds on the slope about them—look!
Patrick was preaching when they laid the stone,
Gray priests who late their Druid rites forsook.
Our Lady's Well pours forth its waters pure
While groups of pious pilgrims kneel around,
With ills of flesh or spirit, who seek their cure.
With flood perennial and crystal-clear:
The Virgin close beside, in sculpture gray;
The Man of Sorrows, on His Cross, is here.
Mute witnesses of many an August sun—
The abandoned staff, the votive garment show
Their grateful signs of blessing sought and won.
The rich, the poor, the sick, the blind, the dumb—
Ragged or bare, in silks or frieze (as they
For fifteen hundred years have come)—they come.
Singly, in household groups—where'er they dwell—
To bathe in, drink its healing lymph, and pray,
These Irish pilgrims seek the Holy Well.
The bedridden walks? The pang of sense finds rest?
To the wan cheek climbs back the unblighted rose?
The new heart throbs and warms the hollow breast?
Her earth-lore vain for Truth Ineffable:
For your belief such wonder-works are wrought,
And common day grows quick with miracle!
THE LOST HUNTING GROUND.
In Illinois.
(An earlier emigrant was he)
Came in far years, and found
(O careless gardens! fenceless soil!
Unscarred by plough, untouched by toil!)
The red man's Hunting Ground.
From hives o'erfull with restless life,
The glowing flight began,
And, journeying with the journeying sun,
He came, his busy empire won,
Before the white-faced man.
The Indian watched the moving bee
Steer his long Westward way;
Or, deep in fragrant-wooded dells,
Building ambrosial waxen cells,
Toil through the sultry day.
O'er tribal mounds, o'er haunted streams,
O'er fields a boundless flower!)
His Hunting Ground—it is the Past!—
Roofed with far-murmuring cities vast,
Splendent with spire and tower!
Those other swarms (by partial law
Denied their right of birth),
Who claim, where they new States may build,
Division of his lands untilled—
Earth's children's share of earth!
O phantom chaser of the deer,
Thy cry, a ghost of sound—
When noisy hives of men are still,
And the night-mist hides vale and hill—
In thy lost Hunting Ground!
AT THE GRAVES OF TWO BROTHERS.
DECORATION DAY, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, 1886.
What mother having sons twin-born, both dear,Equally dear, both strong and masterful,
Both having tender nurture at her breast,
Who, after childhood, diverse-minded, then
By some hot feud are swayed and fall apart:
One leal to that strong bond of Home and Hearth,
One stung by some wild fire to strike at her
And wound her bosom; till lo, their strife grown fierce,
Both fall and both are slain by mutual blows:—
What mother, like to this one, shall not take
Remembering only that they were her sons,
Both being dead, and both were good and brave,
And grieve for both and praise them in her grief?
O thou, our Mother, is not this one Thou?
Were not such twin-born these thy sons, thine own?
And over their two graves dost Thou not stand,
This fair last May morn, with memorial flowers
Full-handed, faithful to thy mother love,
Remembering only that they were thy sons,
Both being dead, and both were good and brave,
Grieving for both and praising in thy grief!
PACIFIC PIONEERS.
Emanuel Leutze's Mural Painting of “Westward Ho,” in the Capitol at Washington.
Their fallen camp-fires scar the Eastward plain.
Ah, perils, longings!—but they turned not back.
They climb the last fierce path, the fierce heights gain.
They struggle, one by one,—then dazzled stand.
Below, before them, eager looking down,
They see the horizon of the Western Land.
Far-glimmering streams and dusky vales unfold.
Lithe men, babe-suckling women, onward go,—
Yonder it shines, your promised Land of Gold!
IN ST. MARY'S CHURCH AT YOUGHAL.
Not that my Lord and Lady Desmond here,Frail sculptured bodies! crumble year by year;
Not that, in gaudy braveries of the tomb,
The Great Earl Cork and his large family bloom,
While they, three hundred years in painted stone,
Poor dust! their dead-live vanity have shown;
Not for Sir Edward Villiers —he whose name
Munster might bless, remembering when he came,
(So reads the broken slab above his grave ...
See overhead his faded banneret wave!)
Not for the heraldic toys of piteous pride,
Bull-heads and couchant lions close-allied;
(Ah me! “arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones!”)
Not for the old bishop's throne with mitre crowned,
And the soft sainted light that sleeps around,
From your high window shed:—no, not for those,
Grey church, I am loath to leave your sacred close.
—But, look! through yonder door, what living pair,
With ruff and sworded thigh, have entered there?
Ah, Spenser, Raleigh! side by side are they,
And from your Past they shall not pass away!
LETTER FROM AN OHIO VALLEY VETERAN.
ADDRESSED TO THE EDITOR OF THE “SCIOTO GAZETTE.”
Maria ('twill be our seventh boy)—yes, I must stay at home.
Though little I can say, I guess, that you'll think strange or new.
Since first, a raw apprentice here, I took my stand and case.
And got my father's leave, so loth, to learn great Ben's employ.
But, Lord! what light has shone abroad since then through printer's ink!
'Twould take a week to-day on it to print this week's Gazette.
Yet in my hand I sometimes feel the lever-spring thump again;
Behind it, with the inky task so long ago I had.
Click, click! there is another sound—that Hebrew of the wire!
The news from Washington grew old;—well, now 'twere no great loss!
Now, Lord! to get out West, it's queer, you run into the dawn!
And Cincinnati—Deacon Smith and Halstead weren't born!
Paper was hauled a hundred miles before it got to press.
And such a plant as honesty 'twas not so hard to raise.
In courts opinions weren't bought; the Lobby didn't vote.
(We want some money, that's a fact, and something must be done!)
For corporations not tongue-tied—those bodies that have none.
On any shaky railroad line—well, they go “a—long—ways.”
Had I to Chillicothe come, by George! I'd paid my fare.
Yet, hang it, if I think next year I'll ask another one!)
The form is waiting in its bed. Respects to Put. Good-night.
Why papers through the county mail should travel postage-free?
Read by appointment, at the Annual Convention of the Ohio Valley Editorial Association, at Chillicothe, Ohio, June 12th, 1874.
A BOY ON GAMBIER HILL.
THE RHYME OF AN OLD FRESHMAN: ADDRESSED TO A MIDDLE-AGED ALUMNUS.
'Tis June; the season's come again
(Ah, homesick Memory's idle grief!)
When first I took the flying train,
Fledged from the fond home nest. Renewed
Mix my dull pang, my eager thrill.
'Twas morn; when evening fell I stood
A boy on Gambier Hill.
Stirred my light blood with wings of pride!
Webster yet spake. Clay was not cold,
And—there were orators untried!
Old Kenyon's Genius pointed, far,
Her sons elect to cross and crown:—
“This wears the soldier's shoulder-star,
And this the Judge's gown.”
(His case, I think, was somewhat hard),
Remained an Under-Graduate; you
Passed an alumnus, happier-starred.
Ah, half a life-time lies between
(The rocket sparkled: here's the stick);
I know, yes, yes, what might have been—
A thought that cuts the quick!
“Small Latin”—mine's not far to seek;
Menin aeïdé, Théa, (so
Homer begins—and ends?)—“less Greek!”
Well, let me rest content: if you
Sucked her full milk, impute no crime;
She was my Alma Mater too—
Mine, weaned before my time!
Let's call some names. Ah me, grave men,
No doubt, shall answer. “Old boys?” True.
(Some showed, d'you mind, “the Old Boy” then!)
Where'er ye wander, wide apart
On life's rough road, or flowery track,
O fresh of face, O blithe of heart,
Come back, come back, come back!
Draw vital air, with flower and fruit,
As when we fought on Gambier Hill
The war of Troy, and Ilium suit.
Ho, Holland! (English church-doors, “Here!”
Echo—warm friend, and Irish bard!)
Ho, Chapman, Homans, Sterling! (clear
Each answers)—ho, Tunnárd!
(Speak for yourself, John!) Nonsense!—well,
We are not growing younger. Nay,
Fear not the wholesome truth to tell.
In fresher hearts our pulses beat,
Our spent dreams grow and quicken still—
Ay, boys of ours may each repeat
The old boy on Gambier Hill.
Our boyish griefs have ebb and flood;
They, too, shall take the flying train
With quick wings fluttering in their blood;
Old Kenyon's Genius point them, far,
Her sons elect to cross and crown:—
“This wore the soldier's shoulder-star,
And this the Judge's gown.”
Read in response to a toast at a banquet given to Hon. Stanley Matthews, Associate Justice of the United States Supreme Court, by his brother alumni of Kenyon College, at Cincinnati, June 21, 1881.
Rev. Richard George Holland, a native of Cork, having graduated from Kenyon College, in 1856, studied for the English Church at St. Adian's, Liverpool, was a curate at Faversham, in London, at Canterbury, &c., and, unknown to me, died, ten years before the date of these verses, at Limerick. He was an eloquent preacher and a good writer in both prose and verse.
CONFIDENCES.
IN A BOOK OF LIKES AND DISLIKES.
Written after the following printed indications: 1. Write your favourite virtue. 2. Favourite character in history. 3. The character in history you despise most. 4. Favourite prose author. 5. Favourite poet. 6. Favourite occupation. 7. Favourite colour. 8. Favourite flower. 9. Favourite food. 10. Favourite name. 11. Favourite motto. 12. What you dislike most. 13. What you consider the greatest happiness on earth. 14. Your pet name. 15. Full signature.
1.
My favourite virtue, what is that? Ah me!—I'll “make a virtue of Necessity.”
2.
That ancient apple-eater I like, madam—The frontispiece of all history—the Old Adam.
3.
Tyrants and traitors—bloody-handed men—I think of these with hesitating pen,
(But Nero's once had flowers) their ghosts and cries!—
They claim appeal, with pale imploring look:
“The Supreme Court—the true Historian's Book!”
4.
My favourite author, must I name—in prose?I'm sure I know not. The dear Lord only knows!
—He'll write the last new novel, I suppose.
5.
The Children of the Muse, nor great nor small.I can but see the Mother's face in all
Reflected. Some have names, as—thus and thus.
Before and after walks Anonymous.
6.
With “good intentions” wavering to and fro(Stone-breaking might be worthier work, you know),
To pave those burning sidewalks Down Below!
7.
The ebon Black that makes the star more bright,Or White, wherein all colours end in light.
8.
Rose, Lily, or Violet—the lovely ThreeThat represent their race in poetry.
9.
“Sour Grapes.”10.
I think that name, of all the host,I like the best is—hers I love the most!
11.
Sic transit gloria Mundi.” (Let it pass!)12.
To see my death's-head's vanity in a glass.13.
The earliest Dream of Happiness, at mostTo dream—nor wake to see its latest ghost.
14.
'Tis closed on Memory's lips, how dear!15.
—Now, thatI've answered, I remain,
A RHYME OF THE WEATHER.
—Milton.
That theme of all tempers, that theme of all times!
'Tis our first thought awaking, our last snug abed
(With a twinge in one's toe, or a cold in one's head);
'Tis the speech of the dumb, and the windy scape-grace
All the winds of all weathers he'll blow in your face;
'Tis the grasp of the right hand, whenever we greet:—
“December!” “Tis June!” “How sultry!” “A breeze!”
“How wet!” or “How dry!” “We shall melt!” “We shall freeze!”
The excuse of the young, the retreat of the old—
For the Weather's so hot, or the Weather's so cold!
Believe me—no doubt—they were born of the Weather.
What wars, wasteful, woeful, earth-burdening things,
Have been freaks of the Weather on peoples and kings.
And Helen herself proved a frail mist of dawn! )
Mere wars of the Weather, the Weather deciding;
And their history's record the Weather's still guiding:—
Though the blood of the truth, and the diamond we think,
'Tis the Weather's the pen, and the Weather's the ink!
Whatever shall open a door for the sun:
The deeds of the heroes whose heraldry lies
In the hearts whose warm prayers write them—up in the skies.
When the blue, through the mist, of Fair Weather gives token!
... Lo, a black host arises, a gloom closes round,
Like the Pit's darkness visible breathed above ground;—
Fierce homicides, wehr-wolves, babe-smotherers, (hark,
What sighs, shrieks, and groans eddy by in the dark!)
With all doers of deeds without name, all together,
Pell-mell, worthy hell, troop the fiends of Foul Weather!
Of three thousand years (yes, if nothing beside!)—
But soared on the sunbeam that conquered the cloud?
If the feet seem a dancer's in flowers and in dew,
All the earth laughed with May-day, whose heavens were blue;
If the verses drip honey and murmur of ease,
In the sunshine the poet went home with the bees;
If the song's a funereal procession of woe,
It came from his heart when the weather was—Oh!
The gods can't control him—he's sure, soon or late:
With your blood down at zero, snow up to your knee!
And “Old Probs,” his mild shadow, you'd flout with disdain,
Dry-parched—just beyond his areas of rain!
(Like a fly safe in amber I fix him this place in—
For Fair or Foul Weather he's left us a Hazein! )
Hold!—
“How hot?” or “How cold?” “It will freeze us?” “'Twill bake us?”
Still the Weather's, for ever, whatever we make us;—
In his bosom, wherever he wakes or he sleeps:
Rain, hail, sleet, or snow, whatever is blown,
The weather-guides differ—true Prophet's our own!
To the cheerful, whose heart goes aloft like a feather,
He could rainbow the Deluge with Beautiful Weather;
(He can butt at the wind with his hat as he goes,
And follow it, flying, wherever it blows!)
To the doleful forever Bad Weather is won,
Though he stand till he die in the gates of the sun:—
Wherever he turns, and whatever the place,
Throws Providence snow-balls or dust in his face:
If he shiver, the Weather's at zero the while;
If he sweat, how the mercury boils—in his bile!
Fresh theme of all tempers, fresh theme of all times!
'Tis the atmosphere clasping our living, our moving,
Our dreaming, our doing, our loathing, our loving;
To bed with us going—awaking, arisen,
The Weather is with us, our open air-prison:
We cannot escape it. (I question if whether
When out of the world we'll be out of the weather.)
—But, look up! o'er the tempest the heavens are blue;
Through the cloud round your head let the sunlight stream through,
And if, grumbler, an east-wind your spleen has impaled,
Beware—lest your weathercock's rusty or nailed!
Mr. Vennor, the late Canadian Weather-prophet, was often popularly held responsible for the bad weather he predicted, and identified with it.
The late General Myers, for a long time Chief Officer of the Signal Service of the United States, was known familiarly as “Old Probs” (Probabilities—from one feature of his weather bulletins). His successor is General Hazen.
Dr. Parr, who had a mental abhorrency of an east wind, is said, (see Samuel Rogers' “Table Talk”) to have been imprisoned at home for several days because of a neighbouring weathercock, on whose indications he relied. Some of his pupils, who were troubled by his company on their rambles, held the doctor in-doors and the weathercock out-of-doors by a judicious nail.
ARMY OF THE POTOMAC.
[PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE, MAY, 1865.]
I call another year, another May:
Then from your homes at first ye marched away.
Shall never be forgot by human fame:
The North was red with one electric flame!
(So may the land be never sown again!)
Ye were the crop that sprang in armour then.
With stern advancing dust against the sun!—
A line of bayonets thrust to Washington!
Took echoes that shall never pass away,
Visions that shall be visible for aye!
Your flags are glittering, in the windy light,
With names that make their tremulous stars more bright!
Pathetic with the storms they fluttered through,
Ye bear in pride and tenderness with you!
Another myriad, great as yours, to-day
Keep their encampment with the flowers of May.
With your last footsteps on the quiet sill:
Go back, go back, the empty air to fill!
Where the old harvests called for willing hands:
Go back to join the gentle reaper bands!
Go back, go back, O servants tried and true—
Go back to find your Land created new!
SONGS, SONNETS, EPIGRAMS, ETC.
QUICK AND DEAD.
Lifted me; the songs I heard,
In my breast, full-hearted then,
Wakened answering songs again.
Mock my want; their songs, below,
In my empty bosom, make
Only the dumb silence ache!
FLOWERS IN A BOOK.
Here, in my poet's book, I seeThe flowers your sweet hand plucked for me.
I turn the leaves: each page is fraught
With gentle flowers of fragrant thought;
That haunt the poet's waking dream.
I turn the leaves: your flowers' dear faces
Gleam, book-marks of the sweetest places
(Yet ne'er a sweeter thought I read
Than those the mute flowers know, indeed);
And evermore they seem to look,
Whene'er I ope their prisoning book,
And, cheated, take—a moment's space—
Their jailer's for their angel's face;
Then, sere and withering, only miss
That resurrection of your kiss!
DOUBLE WINGS.
Aspiration and Power.
I am an Eagle—on the ground!
With these frail wings to earth I am bound,
With these strong wings in heaven I fly.
In my quick soul, these golden wings,
Woe's me! these flapping, useless things
The Eagle from the sun delay!
SLEEP AND LIFE.
For Sculpture.
Lo, Sleep bends over the weary Angel, Life,Whose globe, his care, turns idly from his hand,
With all its continents of toil and strife,
With all its tossing seas and shifting sand.
IN OCTOBER.
Glitters on glowing shock and sheaf,
On apple crisp with mellow gold,
On wonder-painted leaf!
Like one in faëry lands benighted!
Frost out-of-doors bites sharp; within,
Good, our first fire is lighted!
GLOW-WORM AND STAR.
A golden twinkle in the wayside grass,See the lone glow-worm, buried deep in dew,
Brightening and lightening the low darkness through,
Close to my feet that by its covert pass;
And, in the little pool of recent rain,
O'erhung with tremulous grasses, look how bright,
Filling the drops along each blade with light,
Yon great white star, some system's quickening brain,
Makes its small mirror by this gleam of earth!
O soul, with wonders where thy steps have trod,
Which is most wondrous, worm or mirrored sun?
... The Mighty One shows in everything one birth:
The worm's a star as high from thee in God.
GRACE OVER A GLASS OF CIDER.
Associated with a Barrel, his Gift, in my cellar.
To General A. S. Piatt.
Not only unto you, whose press and vatProduced your gift directly, friend Piatt,
Are due the thanks which, warm-at-heart, are mine;—
The great Fruit-Giver owns your thanks and mine:
Thanks for the sunshine which those blossoms nursed
And turned the lances of the lingering frost;
Thanks for the rain, so priceless without cost—
The holy water, from Heaven's blessing hands,
Without which all our fields were desert lands;
Thanks for the Summer's long increase of heat,
Bringing the apples, mellow, juiced, and sweet,
In a long shower of gold at Autumn's feet!
After these thanks are given, (put yours with mine,)
I thank you much and drink your apple wine.
VALENTINE.
To her whose heart has made her lovely faceA heaven for its sweet roses: her whose grace
The light of some sweet angel in her soul,
Stealing from Heaven in still, half-conscious dreams:
Go, little doves, and bear this gentle scroll
(Bearing my heart) to her—ah, if she smiles,
You need not tell: I'd know it a thousand miles!
Go, little doves, to her for whom I pine,
And softly whisper: “Here's your Valentine.”
SUCCESS.
The noblest goal is never reached, becauseEver withdrawn by the high god who draws,
And he who says, content, “Success is mine,”
Gaining the world has lost the soul divine.
THE CHRYSALIS.
Look! a chrysalis dry and old,Coffin of a worm, I hold:
'Tis no lovely thing you see—
All of beauty yet must be;
You must wait awhile, till Spring,
For the blossom, for the wing.
Call it by whatever name,
Coffin, cradle—'tis the same.
Deeper down than Science sees
In old wells of mysteries
(With her mirrored face below,
Like a wondering child's aglow),
Farther far than sagest seeks—
Far as stars that shine in creeks—
Lo, in this unlovely shell
Maskéd Miracle doth dwell,
God breathes and all death is birth;
At his breath and touch, in Spring,
Flutter, flower! blossom, wing!
THE ANGEL OF MEMORY.
When first from that Love-tended Garden driven(Grateful, though sad, for their sweet bond unriven)
Came Eve and Adam, and, to homesick eyes
Turned backward, shone the walls of Paradise:
When their first sighs went fluttering to the Past,
And their first tears in the alien earth were cast:
The gates stood open—a wing'd angel, lo!
Flew thence to them, and, smiling, charmed their woe;—
The gates of Paradise unclose to tears;
From those high doors, in our lost morning shown,
An angel comes and walks with us alone:—
Blest Memory! with thy smile from day to day,
The Eden blossoms all our desert way!
BIRTHDAY WISHES.
To H. C. G. Completing Her Eighty-Fourth Year.
Take this poor song for one I fain would bringTo grace your birthday, worthier offering.
What shall I wish? New years like those you see,
Whose sunken suns shine soft, in memory?
Yes, these, if Heaven vouchsafe. But with them may
New flowers rise, sweetening, as of old, their way,
Whose breath is life's best perfume, fortune, wealth;
Hope, too, who brightens all dark paths before—
An angel looking through an open door
Of cloud; and Faith, who in your gentle hand
Puts the sure key-flower of the Lovelier Land.
THE STAGE-CROSSING.
Of the old toll-gate next the mill)—
The meeting and the parting place
Dear, dear to home-sick Memory still!
Tears when, the wheels revolving fast,
One flying window was the frame
Of faces fond that looked their last!
THE FLOWER UNDER FOOT.
Among the tangled meadow grasses;
It cannot hide its fragrance there
From any heart that passes.
Alight in darkened doors, unbidden—
Your lovely flower is known in Heaven,
That low on Earth is hidden.
THE BUBBLE BLOWERS.
Happy laughter, tossing hair!
See the children blowing bubbles—
Worlds in bright enchanted air!
Fairy globes for lifted eyes!
In the sunshine rise the bubbles,
From their hearts the fairies rise.
THROUGH A WINDOW PANE.
[A Winter Memory.]
Playfully, by the pane,
She lingered;—for ever blossom,
Sweet morning, in heart and brain!
Her face through the frost-bloom bright,
Smiling;—like frost-bloom vanished
That vision into the light.
To me it comes again:
Within my soul the picture
Looks through my heart—the pane!
AT MORNING.
Clings to the earth. This tender flower
Clings to my window, drowned in dew;—
Last night I parted, Dear, from you!
Time's wings are slow; the cruel train
Has wings too fleet—ah, if it knew,
Last night I parted, Dear, from you!
Familiar faces passing greet;—
The moonlight's shadow-blossoms knew,
Last night, I parted, Dear, from you.
USE AND BEAUTY.
Who would have a treadmill measure every golden-sanded hour?Who would find a purpose busy deep in every fragrant flower?
Yet we sometimes (ay, and often) gladly find the two agree;
Clasped together, Use and Beauty—in the rose the honey bee.
Factory-bells in yonder city, wind-blown music, far away
Waken soft enchanted sleepers in the charméd breast to-day;
See the river's quiet water, lovely mirror, slowly steal,
Dance with sunshine to its task-work;—Beauty overflows the wheel!
THE OUTLOOK.
An engraving, frontispiece in a volume of Western Biographies.
From his wild covert (in the visioned Past?)The jealous Red-man sees
The settler's cabin, near; on yonder stream,
The boat fire-driven; far-off, over these,
The spire-lit city:—if to him they seem
Shadows of pitiless Doom that travels fast,
They realise our fathers' eager dream!
THE GUERDON.
To the quick brow Fame grudges her best wreathWhile the quick heart to enjoy it throbs beneath.
On the dead forehead's sculptured marble shown
Lo, her choice crown—its flowers are also stone.
TO PEARL,
The Daughter of a Ship-master, Born at Sea.
By dangerous adventure braving death,The precious drops are sought within the sea.
Who would not dare, with his extremest breath,
All perilous deeps to find a Pearl like thee?
Would he, however great the sacrifice,
Not be rewarded with the Pearl of price
BELL-TONES.
The chimes that fall from merriest wedding-bellsToll oftentimes the saddest funeral knells.
TO A LADY.
On her Art of Growing Old Gracefully.
You ask a verse, to sing (ah, laughing face!)Your happy art of growing old with grace?
O Muse, begin, and let the truth—but hold!
First let me see that you are growing old.
LOVE LETTERS.
NIGHT THOUGHTS.
They come, in long procession rise beforeMy wakeful sight, sweet thoughts, Beloved, of thee
And of thy love, the dearest dream to me
That ever grew dear truth for evermore;
For, as to a child, in his hushed bed—the door
Half open where his mother's light may be
A comfort to his lonely sense when he,
Though waking, feels warm slumber reach the core
Of his fresh spirit—who drops his lids at last,
Visiting Fairyland, while numberless
Lithe shadows pass and shapes created fast,
Charming him till he sleeps and are his dream,
So, while I breathe in tender wakefulness,
Sleep-bordering thoughts with blissful visions teem.
WITH SEA-SHELLS AND POEMS.
And press them closely to your ear:
Their vague and desolate monotone
Saddens you with its ceaseless moan.
As if the moon-swayed ocean there
Moved with a vast but dumb despair.
Some boundless spirit seems prison-bound,
Murmuring of shores where wrecks are strown
And ghosts of tempests walk alone;
Yet, over all—from all apart—
You hear the beatings of your heart.
Found with the sea-shells long ago:
Within you hear the sounds that swell
From restless seas and haunt the shell;—
But listen, and your heart shall let
New music silence old regret.
IRELAND
A SEASIDE PORTRAIT.
A great, still Shape, alone,She sits (her harp has fallen) on the sand,
And sees her children, one by one, depart:—
Her cloak (that hides what sins beside her own!)
Wrapped fold on fold about her. Lo,
She comforts her fierce heart,
As wailing some, and some gay-singing go,
With the far vision of that Greater Land
Deep in the Atlantic skies,
St. Brandan's Paradise!
Another Woman there,
Mighty and wondrous fair,
Stands on her shore-rock:—one uplifted hand
That keeps long sea-ways bright;
She beckons with the other, saying “Come,
O landless, shelterless,
Sharp-faced with hunger, worn with long distress:—
Come hither, finding home!
Lo, my new fields of harvest, open, free,
By winds of blessing blown,
Whose golden corn-blades shake from sea to sea—
Fields without walls that all the people own!”
At the holy well | ||