The Poems of J. J. Callanan A New Edition, with Biographical Introduction and Notes |
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Songs, Lyrical Pieces, &c.
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 | The Poems of J. J. Callanan |  |
72
Songs, Lyrical Pieces, &c.
“SI JE DE PERDS, JE SUIS PERDU.”
[_]
These Stanzas were suggested by an impress on a Seal, representing a boat at sea, and a man at the helm looking up at a solitary star, with a motto—“Si je te perds, je suis perdu.”
Shine on thou bright beacon
Unclouded and free,
From thy high place of calmness
O'er life's troubled sea;
It's morning of promise,
It's smooth waves are gone,
And the billows rave wildly,
Then bright one shine on.
Unclouded and free,
From thy high place of calmness
O'er life's troubled sea;
It's morning of promise,
It's smooth waves are gone,
And the billows rave wildly,
Then bright one shine on.
The wings of the tempest
May rush o'er thy ray;
But tranquil thou smilest,
Undimm'd by its sway;
High, high o'er the worlds
Where storms are unknown,
Thou dwellest all beauteous,
All glorious,—alone.
May rush o'er thy ray;
But tranquil thou smilest,
Undimm'd by its sway;
73
Where storms are unknown,
Thou dwellest all beauteous,
All glorious,—alone.
From the deep womb of darkness
The lightning flash leaps,
O'er the bark of my fortunes
Each mad billow sweeps;
From the port of her safety,
By warring winds driven,
And no light o'er her course,
But yon lone one of Heaven.
The lightning flash leaps,
O'er the bark of my fortunes
Each mad billow sweeps;
From the port of her safety,
By warring winds driven,
And no light o'er her course,
But yon lone one of Heaven.
Yet fear not thou frail one,
The hour may be near,
When our own sunny head-land
Far off shall appear;
When the voice of the storm
Shall be silent and past,
In some island of Heaven
We may anchor at last.
The hour may be near,
When our own sunny head-land
Far off shall appear;
When the voice of the storm
Shall be silent and past,
In some island of Heaven
We may anchor at last.
But bark of Eternity,
Where art thou now,
The wild waters shriek
O'er each plunge of thy prow;
On the world's dreary Ocean,
Thus shattered and tost;
Then lone one shine on,
“If I lose thee I'm lost.”
Where art thou now,
The wild waters shriek
O'er each plunge of thy prow;
74
Thus shattered and tost;
Then lone one shine on,
“If I lose thee I'm lost.”
HOW KEEN THE PANG.
How keen the pang when friends must part,
And bid the unwilling last adieu;
When every sigh that rends the heart,
Awakes the bliss that once it knew!
And bid the unwilling last adieu;
When every sigh that rends the heart,
Awakes the bliss that once it knew!
He that has felt alone can tell,
The dreary desert of the mind,
When those whom once we loved so well,
Have left us weeping here behind.
The dreary desert of the mind,
When those whom once we loved so well,
Have left us weeping here behind.
When every look so kindly shed,
And every word so fondly spoken,
And every smile is faded, fled,
And leaves the heart alone and broken.
And every word so fondly spoken,
And every smile is faded, fled,
And leaves the heart alone and broken.
Yes dearest maid! that grief was mine,
When bending o'er thy shrouded bier,
I saw the form that once was thine;
My Mary was no longer there.
When bending o'er thy shrouded bier,
I saw the form that once was thine;
My Mary was no longer there.
75
But on the relics pale and cold
There sat a sweet seraphic smile,
A calm celestial grace that told
Our parting was but for a while.
There sat a sweet seraphic smile,
A calm celestial grace that told
Our parting was but for a while.
WRITTEN TO A YOUNG LADY ON ENTERING A CONVENT.
'Tis the rose of the desert,
So lovely so wild,
In the lap of the desert
It's infancy smiled;
In the languish of beauty
It droops o'er the thorn,
And its leaves are all wet
With the bright tears of morn.
So lovely so wild,
In the lap of the desert
It's infancy smiled;
In the languish of beauty
It droops o'er the thorn,
And its leaves are all wet
With the bright tears of morn.
Yet 'tis better thou fair one,
To dwell all alone,
Than recline on a bosom
Less pure than thine own;
Thy form is too lovely
To be torn from its stem,
And thy breath is too sweet
For the children of men.
To dwell all alone,
Than recline on a bosom
Less pure than thine own;
Thy form is too lovely
To be torn from its stem,
And thy breath is too sweet
For the children of men.
76
Bloom on thus in secret,
Sweet child of the waste,
Where no lips of profaner,
Thy fragrance shall taste;
Bloom on where no footsteps
Unhallowed hath trod,
And give all thy blushes
And sweets to thy God.
Sweet child of the waste,
Where no lips of profaner,
Thy fragrance shall taste;
Bloom on where no footsteps
Unhallowed hath trod,
And give all thy blushes
And sweets to thy God.
LINES ON A DECEASED CLERGYMAN.
Breathe not his honor'd name,
Silently keep it;
Hush'd be the sadd'ning theme,
In secrecy weep it;
Call not a warmer flow
To eyes that are aching;
Wake not a deeper throe
In hearts that are breaking.
Silently keep it;
Hush'd be the sadd'ning theme,
In secrecy weep it;
Call not a warmer flow
To eyes that are aching;
Wake not a deeper throe
In hearts that are breaking.
Oh 'tis a placid rest;
Who should deplore it?
Trance of the pure and blest—
Angels watch o'er it;
Sleep of his mortal night,
Sorrow can't break it?
Heaven's own morning light
Alone shall awake it.
Who should deplore it?
Trance of the pure and blest—
Angels watch o'er it;
77
Sorrow can't break it?
Heaven's own morning light
Alone shall awake it.
Nobly thy course is run;
Splendour is round it;
Bravely thy fight is won;
Freedom hath crown'd it;
In the high warfare
Of heaven, grown hoary,
Thou'rt gone like the summer-sun,
Shrouded in glory.
Splendour is round it;
Bravely thy fight is won;
Freedom hath crown'd it;
In the high warfare
Of heaven, grown hoary,
Thou'rt gone like the summer-sun,
Shrouded in glory.
Twine,—twine the victor wreath,
Spirits that meet him;
Sweet songs of triumph breath,
Seraphs to greet him;
From his high resting place
Who shall him sever,
With his God—face to face,
Leave him for ever.
Spirits that meet him;
Sweet songs of triumph breath,
Seraphs to greet him;
From his high resting place
Who shall him sever,
With his God—face to face,
Leave him for ever.
78
LINES, ON THE DEATH OF AN AMIABLE AND HIGHLY TALENTED YOUNG MAN, WHO FELL A VICTIM TO FEVER IN THE WEST INDIES.
All rack'd on his feverish bed he lay,
And none but the stranger were near him;
No friend to console, in his last sad day,
No look of affection to cheer him.
And none but the stranger were near him;
No friend to console, in his last sad day,
No look of affection to cheer him.
Frequent and deep were the groans he drew,
On that couch of torture turning;
And often his hot, wild hand he threw
O'er his brows, still wilder burning.
On that couch of torture turning;
And often his hot, wild hand he threw
O'er his brows, still wilder burning.
But, Oh! what anguish his bosom tore,
How throbbed each strong pulse of emotion,
When he thought of the friends he should never see more,
In his own green Isle of the Ocean.
How throbbed each strong pulse of emotion,
When he thought of the friends he should never see more,
In his own green Isle of the Ocean.
When he thought of the distant maid of his heart,—
Oh, must they thus darkly sever;—
No last farewell, ere his spirit depart;—
Must he leave her unseen, and for ever!
Oh, must they thus darkly sever;—
No last farewell, ere his spirit depart;—
Must he leave her unseen, and for ever!
79
One sigh for that maid his fond heart heaved,
One pray'r for her weal he breathed;
And his eyes to that land for whose woes he had grieved,
Once looked,—and for ever were sheathed.
One pray'r for her weal he breathed;
And his eyes to that land for whose woes he had grieved,
Once looked,—and for ever were sheathed.
On a cliff that by footstep is seldom prest,
Far sea-ward its dark head rearing,
A rude stone marks the place of his rest;—
‘Here lies a poor exile of Erin.’
Far sea-ward its dark head rearing,
A rude stone marks the place of his rest;—
‘Here lies a poor exile of Erin.’
Yet think not, dear Youth, tho' far, far away
From thy own native Isle thou art sleeping,
That no heart for thy slumber is aching to-day,
That no eye for thy mem'ry is weeping.
From thy own native Isle thou art sleeping,
That no heart for thy slumber is aching to-day,
That no eye for thy mem'ry is weeping.
Oh! yes—when the hearts that have wailed thy young blight,
Some joy from forgetfulness borrow,
The thought of thy doom will come over their light,
And shade them more deeply with sorrow.
Some joy from forgetfulness borrow,
The thought of thy doom will come over their light,
And shade them more deeply with sorrow.
And the maid who so long held her home in thy breast,
As she strains her wet eye o'er the billow,
Will vainly embrace, as it comes from the west,
Every breeze that has swept o'er thy pillow.
As she strains her wet eye o'er the billow,
Will vainly embrace, as it comes from the west,
Every breeze that has swept o'er thy pillow.
80
AND MUST WE PART.
And must we part? then fare thee well;
But he that wails it,—he can tell
How dear thou wert, how dear thou art,
And ever must be to this heart;
But now 'tis vain,—it cannot be;
Farewell! and think no more on me.
But he that wails it,—he can tell
How dear thou wert, how dear thou art,
And ever must be to this heart;
But now 'tis vain,—it cannot be;
Farewell! and think no more on me.
Oh! yes—this heart would sooner break,
Than one unholy thought awake;
I'd sooner slumber into clay,
Than cloud thy spirit's beauteous ray;
Go free as air,—as Angel free,
And lady think no more on me.
Than one unholy thought awake;
I'd sooner slumber into clay,
Than cloud thy spirit's beauteous ray;
Go free as air,—as Angel free,
And lady think no more on me.
O did we meet when brighter star
Sent its fair promise from afar,
I then might hope to call thee mine,
The Minstrel's heart and harp were thine;
But now 'tis past,—it cannot be;
Farewell! and think no more on me.
Sent its fair promise from afar,
I then might hope to call thee mine,
The Minstrel's heart and harp were thine;
But now 'tis past,—it cannot be;
Farewell! and think no more on me.
81
Or do!—but let it be the hour,
When Mercy's all atoning power,
From his high throne of glory hears
Of souls like thine the prayers, the tears,
Then whilst you bend the suppliant knee;
Then, then, O Lady think on me.
When Mercy's all atoning power,
From his high throne of glory hears
Of souls like thine the prayers, the tears,
Then whilst you bend the suppliant knee;
Then, then, O Lady think on me.
PURE IS THE DEWY GEM.
Pure is the dewy gem that sleeps
Within the roses fragrant bed,
And dear the heart-warm drop that steeps
The turf where all we loved is laid;
But far more dear, more pure than they,
The tear that washes guilt away.
Within the roses fragrant bed,
And dear the heart-warm drop that steeps
The turf where all we loved is laid;
But far more dear, more pure than they,
The tear that washes guilt away.
Sweet is the morning's balmy breath,
Along the valley's flowery side,
And lovely on the Moon-lit heath,
The lute's soft tone complaining wide;
But still more lovely, sweeter still,
The sigh that wails a life of ill.
Along the valley's flowery side,
And lovely on the Moon-lit heath,
The lute's soft tone complaining wide;
But still more lovely, sweeter still,
The sigh that wails a life of ill.
82
Bright is the morning's roseate gleam
Upon the Mountains of the East,
And soft the Moonlight silvery beam,
Above the billow's placid rest;
But O!—what ray ere shone from Heaven
Like God's first smile on a soul forgiven.
Upon the Mountains of the East,
And soft the Moonlight silvery beam,
Above the billow's placid rest;
But O!—what ray ere shone from Heaven
Like God's first smile on a soul forgiven.
TO ------
Lady—the lyre thou bid'st me take,
No more can breathe the minstrel strain;
The cold and trembling notes I wake,
Fall on the ear like plashing rain;
For days of suffering and of pain,
And nights that lull'd no care for me,
Have tamed my spirit,—then in vain
Thou bid'st me wake my harp for thee.
No more can breathe the minstrel strain;
The cold and trembling notes I wake,
Fall on the ear like plashing rain;
For days of suffering and of pain,
And nights that lull'd no care for me,
Have tamed my spirit,—then in vain
Thou bid'st me wake my harp for thee.
But could I sweep my ocean lyre,
As once this feeble hand could sweep,
Or catch once more the thought of fire,
That lit the Mizen's stormy steep,
Or bid the fancy cease to sleep,
That once could soar on pinion free,
And dream I was not born to weep;
O then I'd wake my harp for thee.
As once this feeble hand could sweep,
Or catch once more the thought of fire,
That lit the Mizen's stormy steep,
83
That once could soar on pinion free,
And dream I was not born to weep;
O then I'd wake my harp for thee.
And now 'tis only friendship's call,
That bids my slumbering lyre awake,
It long hath slept in sorrow's hall,
Again that slumber it must seek;
Not even the light of beauty's cheek,
Or blue eye beaming kind and free,
Can bid its mournful numbers speak;
Then lady, ask no lay from me.
That bids my slumbering lyre awake,
It long hath slept in sorrow's hall,
Again that slumber it must seek;
Not even the light of beauty's cheek,
Or blue eye beaming kind and free,
Can bid its mournful numbers speak;
Then lady, ask no lay from me.
Yet if on Desmond's mountain wild,
By glens I love, or ocean cave,
Nature once more should own her child,
And give the strength that once she gave;
If he who lights my path should save
And what I was I yet may be;
Then lady, by green Erin's wave,
I'll gladly wake my harp for thee.
By glens I love, or ocean cave,
Nature once more should own her child,
And give the strength that once she gave;
If he who lights my path should save
And what I was I yet may be;
Then lady, by green Erin's wave,
I'll gladly wake my harp for thee.
84
STANZAS.
[Hours like those I spent with you]
Hours like those I spent with you,
So bright, so passing, and so few,
May never bless me more,—farewell!
My heart can feel but dare not tell,
The rapture of those hours of light,
Thus snatched from sorrow's cheerless night.
So bright, so passing, and so few,
May never bless me more,—farewell!
My heart can feel but dare not tell,
The rapture of those hours of light,
Thus snatched from sorrow's cheerless night.
'Tis not thy cheek's soft blended hue;
'Tis not thine eye of heavenly blue;
'Tis not the radiance of thy brow,
That thus would win or charm me now,
It is thy heart's warm light that glows,
Like sun-beams on December snows.
'Tis not thine eye of heavenly blue;
'Tis not the radiance of thy brow,
That thus would win or charm me now,
It is thy heart's warm light that glows,
Like sun-beams on December snows.
It is thy wit that flashes bright,
As lightning on a stormy night,
Illuming even the clouds that roll
Along the darkness of my soul,
And bidding with an Angel's voice,
The heart that knew no joy,—rejoice.
As lightning on a stormy night,
Illuming even the clouds that roll
Along the darkness of my soul,
And bidding with an Angel's voice,
The heart that knew no joy,—rejoice.
Too late we met,—to soon we part,
Yet dearer to my soul thou art,
Than some whose love has grown for years,
Smiled with my smile, and wept my tears.
Farewell! but absent thou shalt seem,
The vision of some heavenly dream,
Too bright on child of earth to dwell;
It must be so,—my friend farewell.
Yet dearer to my soul thou art,
85
Smiled with my smile, and wept my tears.
Farewell! but absent thou shalt seem,
The vision of some heavenly dream,
Too bright on child of earth to dwell;
It must be so,—my friend farewell.
THE NIGHT WAS STILL.
The night was still,—the air was balm,Soft dews around were weeping;
No whisper rose o'er ocean's calm,
Its waves in light were sleeping.
With Mary on the beach I stray'd,
The stars beam'd joy above me—
I prest her hand and said, “sweet maid,
“Oh tell me do you love me?”
With modest air she drooped her head,
Her cheek of beauty veiling:
Her bosom heav'd,—no word she said—
I mark'd her strife of feeling;
“Oh speak my doom, dear maid,” I cried,
“By yon bright Heaven above thee;”
She gently raised her eyes and sighed,
“Too well you know I love thee.”
86
SERENADE.
The blue waves are sleeping;
The breezes are still;
The light dews are weeping
Soft tears on the hill;
The moon in mild beauty,
Looks bright from above;
Then come to the casement,
Oh Mary, my love.
The breezes are still;
The light dews are weeping
Soft tears on the hill;
The moon in mild beauty,
Looks bright from above;
Then come to the casement,
Oh Mary, my love.
Not a sound, or a motion
Is over the lake,
But the whisper of ripples,
As shoreward they break;
My skiff wakes no ruffle
The waters among,
Then listen, dear maid,
To thy true lover's song.
Is over the lake,
But the whisper of ripples,
As shoreward they break;
My skiff wakes no ruffle
The waters among,
Then listen, dear maid,
To thy true lover's song.
No form from the lattice
Did ever recline
Over Italy's waters,
More lovely than thine;
Then come to thy window
And shed from above,
One glance of thy dark eye,
One smile of thy love.
Did ever recline
Over Italy's waters,
More lovely than thine;
87
And shed from above,
One glance of thy dark eye,
One smile of thy love.
Oh! the soul of that eye
When it breaks from its shroud,
Shines beauteously out,
Like the Moon from a cloud;
And thy whisper of love
Breathed thus from afar,
Is sweeter to me
Than the sweetest guitar.
When it breaks from its shroud,
Shines beauteously out,
Like the Moon from a cloud;
And thy whisper of love
Breathed thus from afar,
Is sweeter to me
Than the sweetest guitar.
From the storms of this world
How gladly I'd fly,
To the calm of that breast,
To the heaven of that eye!
How deeply I love thee
'Twere useless to tell;
Farewell, then, my dear one,
My Mary, farewell.
How gladly I'd fly,
To the calm of that breast,
To the heaven of that eye!
How deeply I love thee
'Twere useless to tell;
Farewell, then, my dear one,
My Mary, farewell.
88
ROUSSEAU'S DREAM.
Life for me is dark and dreary;
Every light is quenched and gone;
O'er its waste all lone and weary,
Sorrow's child I journey on.
Thou whose smile alone can cheer me,
Whose bright form still haunts my breast,
From this world in pity bear me,
To thy own high home of rest.
Every light is quenched and gone;
O'er its waste all lone and weary,
Sorrow's child I journey on.
Thou whose smile alone can cheer me,
Whose bright form still haunts my breast,
From this world in pity bear me,
To thy own high home of rest.
Hush!—o'er Leman's sleeping water,
Whispering tones of love I hear;
'Tis some fond unearthly daughter,
Woos me to her own bright sphere.
Immortal beauty! yes, I see thee,
Come, oh! come to this wild breast;
O! I fly—I burn to meet thee,
Take me to thy home of rest.
Whispering tones of love I hear;
'Tis some fond unearthly daughter,
Woos me to her own bright sphere.
Immortal beauty! yes, I see thee,
Come, oh! come to this wild breast;
O! I fly—I burn to meet thee,
Take me to thy home of rest.
------ wild Rousseau,
Th' Apostle of affliction, &c.
His was not the love of mortal dame—
[OMITTED] But of ideal beauty, &c.
Th' Apostle of affliction, &c.
His was not the love of mortal dame—
[OMITTED] But of ideal beauty, &c.
—Childe Harold.
89
WHEN EACH BRIGHT STAR IS CLOUDED.
When each bright star is clouded that illumin'd our way,
And darkly through the bleak night of life we stray,
What joy then is left us, but alone to weep
O'er the cold dreary pillow where loved ones sleep?
And darkly through the bleak night of life we stray,
What joy then is left us, but alone to weep
O'er the cold dreary pillow where loved ones sleep?
This world has no pleasure that is half so dear,
That can soothe the widow'd bosom like memory's tear
'Tis the desert rose drooping in moon's soft dew,
In those pure drops looks saddest, but softest too.
That can soothe the widow'd bosom like memory's tear
'Tis the desert rose drooping in moon's soft dew,
In those pure drops looks saddest, but softest too.
Oh, if ever death should sever fond hearts from me,
And I linger like the last leaf on Autumn's tree,
While pining o'er the dead mates all sear'd below,
How welcome will the last blast be that lays me low.
And I linger like the last leaf on Autumn's tree,
While pining o'er the dead mates all sear'd below,
How welcome will the last blast be that lays me low.
90
HUSSA THA MEASG NA REALTAN MORE.
My love, my still unchanging love,
As fond, as true, as hope above;
Tho' many a year of pain passed by
Since last I heard thy farewell sigh,
This faithful heart doth still adore
Hussa tha measg na realtán more.
As fond, as true, as hope above;
Tho' many a year of pain passed by
Since last I heard thy farewell sigh,
This faithful heart doth still adore
Hussa tha measg na realtán more.
What once we hoped might then have been,
But fortune darkly frowned between:
And tho' far distant is the ray
That lights me on my weary way,
I love, and shall 'till life is o'er,
Hussa tha measg na realtán more.
But fortune darkly frowned between:
And tho' far distant is the ray
That lights me on my weary way,
I love, and shall 'till life is o'er,
Hussa tha measg na realtán more.
Tho' many a light of beauty shone
Along my path, and lured me on,
I better lov'd thy dark bright eye,
Thy witching smile, thy speaking sigh;
Shine on,—this heart shall still adore
Hussa tha measg na realtán more.
Along my path, and lured me on,
I better lov'd thy dark bright eye,
Thy witching smile, thy speaking sigh;
Shine on,—this heart shall still adore
Hussa tha measg na realtán more.
| The Poems of J. J. Callanan | |