Shamrocks :: :: University of Virginia Library

Spake of old an Eastern king to his cupbearer
(Saith the chronicle divine):
“Day by day the shadows on thy brow are drearer
As thou pour'st the red, red wine.

“Am I King, and not have power to heal thy sad ness?—
Thy hands tremble as they fill.
Ask what boon thou wilt, to change thy grief to gladness,
And thy will shall be my will.”

179

Who made answer straight: “O bounteous lord and master!
Shall thy servant not be sad?
When his people groan in bondage and disaster,
Shall thy sunshine make him glad?

“Lo! the consecrated city of his fathers
Lieth waste this very hour,
And the grey wolf with the crafty fox foregathers
By the ruined wall and tower.

“And the creeping ivy casts her trails for pity,
And the pallid moonlight falls
O'er the desolated hearthstones of the city
And the temple's crumbling walls.”

As he spake, the queen's hands stirred in trembling fashion—
Her white face was like a star—
And her great eyes gathered stormy pain and passion
For some memory afar.

Gold and samite were the rich robes of her station,
Jewels starred her night-dark hair;
But her nation, banned and stricken, was the nation
Of the sad-eyed cupbearer.

180

Then, oh! kingly spake the high King, fair and stately,
And his smile was grave and fine.
“Go, my cupbearer, from hence with speed, and straightly
Build anew this town of thine.

“Take thee out from bondage all thy groaning people;
Make thine own my treasuries,
And my craftsmen thine, till shining tower and steeple
Shall thy holy place arise.

“Wilt have porphyry, marble, silk, and jewels shining?
Wilt have rich woods of the South?
I had given half my treasures, unrepining,
For a smile of my queen's mouth.

“Yea, the whole of these, I ween, had purchased cheaply
Smiles where now the shadows be!”
Saying turned; the queen was paling, flushing deeply,
And her smiles were fair to see.

As I read the Book, a New Year's sun was falling
Over last year's drifted leaves,
And a distant wind was rising, dying, calling,
And a bird sang in the eaves—

181

Sang out wildly, sang out clearly, in the shadows,
An enraptured roundelay;
Though the Spring's feet had not lit the barren meadows,
He had heard her far away.

And a pallid sunshine wandered at its pleasure
O'er the pages, brown and old;
And without, a dead branch tapped a phantom measure
On the window touched with gold.

And I cried aloud, with sudden pain and longing,
“Oh, my Erin! how is this
That your loyal sons the High King's heaven are thronging,
And forget you in their bliss?

“Your true martyrs crowd the royal presence-chamber,
Clad in white robes, as they stand;
And your poets shine in amethyst and amber,
With their gold lutes in the hand;

“And your warriors wait with Michael the Archangel,
And their clear swords flash with light;

182

And your saintly sages learn a new Evangel—
And have these forgotten quite?

“Oh! surpassing fair the wondrous hills of heaven,
Whereunto their glances go,
In God's sunshine smile, abloom through dawn and even
With a strange perpetual glow:

“And for that those hills are white, and calm, and saintly,
Are they loth to think upon
The blue, blue hills of Erin, flushing faintly
In the rose-light of the dawn—

“The misty hills of Erin, glimmering pearly
In the sun at high noonday—
The purple hills of Erin shadowed rarely
When the gold hath waned to grey?

“Oh! limpid clear the heavenly rivers going
Over jewelled sands beneath,
And the solemn music of their silver flowing
Like a prayer that murmureth:

183

“Are they loth to think on Irish streams thereafter—
The brown salmon streams, in May
Laughing softly with the sunshine in their laughter,
Like the children at their play;

“Laughing clearly when the western wind comes speeding
With the wet rain on its wings?
Is their heaven so fair that still they go unheeding
All the old beloved things?”

Oh! the heavenly vales of amaranth and moly
Steeped in amber lights and rose!
Through the gold sheaves goeth Christ, the fair and holy,
Smiling gravely as He goes—

Smiling tenderly for all His blossoms shining
In the mystic, widespread noon;
In His earth-fields many a pallid flower is pining
He will gather to Him soon.

And, indeed, I think He would not pass unheeding
If your sons should come to Him,

184

Crying out, “Behold, Lord! where our vales are spreading
Far away, and fair, and dim.

“The loved vales wherefrom we came unto your heaven,
They are laughing to the sun;
But the wrong's mailed hand doth smite them like the levin,
As the centuries roll on.

“Oh! the years go by like hours in those lush meadows
Where the silver lilies grow,
But our feet are set in darkness and in shadows
For our mother's pain and woe.

“And the stormy cries, come through the golden weather,
Sear our hearts like iron brands,
And the moaning and the wailing come up hither,
And the wringing of the hands.

185

“And we cannot taste the joy that lies before us—
It is withered at a breath
In the anguish of the motherland that bore us,
Lying sick, and nigh to death.”

And so tender is the Lord's heart, prone to pity,
Now I think that He would say,
Like the Eastern king, “I will rebuild the city;
I have heard your prayers to-day.”

“This hour seals the book of seven centuries, dreary
With the anguish and the wrong,
That shall seem but as an olden tale and weary
To the nation waxen strong—

“Waxen stately, waxen noble, till, in gazing
One day from yon golden stair,
You will hear far off the chanting and the praising
When the nations welcome her.”