Poems of James Clarence Mangan (Many hitherto uncollected): Centenary edition: Edited, with preface and notes by D. J. O'Donoghue: Introduction by John Mitchel |
 | I. |
| II. |
 | III. |
LINES ON THE DEATH OF A BELOVED FRIEND. |
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| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
 | Poems of James Clarence Mangan |  |
LINES ON THE DEATH OF A BELOVED FRIEND.
I stood aloof: I dared not to behold
Thy relics covered over with the mould;
I shed no tear—I uttered not a groan,
But oh! I felt heart-broken and alone!
Thy relics covered over with the mould;
I shed no tear—I uttered not a groan,
But oh! I felt heart-broken and alone!
How feel I now? The bitterness of grief
Has passed, for all that is intense is brief—
A softer sadness overshades my mind,
But there thine image ever lies enshrined.
Has passed, for all that is intense is brief—
A softer sadness overshades my mind,
But there thine image ever lies enshrined.
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And if I mourn—for this is human, too—
I mourn no longer that thy days were few,
Nor that thou hast escaped the tears and woe,
And deaths on deaths the Living undergo.
I mourn no longer that thy days were few,
Nor that thou hast escaped the tears and woe,
And deaths on deaths the Living undergo.
Thou fadedst in the Spring-time of thine years—
Life's juggling joys and spirit-wasting fears
Thou knewest but in romance—and to thine eyes
Man shone a god—the earth a Paradise!
Life's juggling joys and spirit-wasting fears
Thou knewest but in romance—and to thine eyes
Man shone a god—the earth a Paradise!
Thou diedst ere the icy breath of Scorn
Froze the warm feelings of thy girlhood's morn—
Ere thou couldst learn that Man is but a slave,
And this blank world a prison and a grave.
Froze the warm feelings of thy girlhood's morn—
Ere thou couldst learn that Man is but a slave,
And this blank world a prison and a grave.
Thy spirit is at peace—Peace! blessèd word!
Forgotten by the million—or unheard;
But mine still struggles down this Vale of Death,
And courts the favour of a little breath!
Forgotten by the million—or unheard;
But mine still struggles down this Vale of Death,
And courts the favour of a little breath!
Through every stage of Life's consuming fever
The soul too often is her own deceiver,
And revels—even in a world like this—
In golden visions of unbounded bliss.
The soul too often is her own deceiver,
And revels—even in a world like this—
In golden visions of unbounded bliss.
But he who, looking on the naked chart
Of Life, feels nature sinking at his heart,
He who is drugged with sorrows, he for whom
Affliction carves a pathway to the tomb,
Of Life, feels nature sinking at his heart,
He who is drugged with sorrows, he for whom
Affliction carves a pathway to the tomb,
He will unite with me to bless that Power
Who gathers and transplants the fragile flower
Ere yet the spirit of the whirlwind storm
Comes forth in wrath to prostrate and deform.
Who gathers and transplants the fragile flower
Ere yet the spirit of the whirlwind storm
Comes forth in wrath to prostrate and deform.
And if it be that God Himself removes
From peril and contagion those He loves,
Weep such no more—but strew with freshest roses
The hallowed mound where Innocence reposes.
From peril and contagion those He loves,
Weep such no more—but strew with freshest roses
The hallowed mound where Innocence reposes.
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So may bright lilies and each odorous flower
Grow o'er thy grave and form a beauteous bower,
Exhaust their sweetness on the gales around,
And drop, for grief, their honey on the ground!
Grow o'er thy grave and form a beauteous bower,
Exhaust their sweetness on the gales around,
And drop, for grief, their honey on the ground!
The world is round me now, but sad and single
I stand amid the throng with whom I mingle;
Not one of all of whom can be to me
The bosom treasure I have lost in thee.
I stand amid the throng with whom I mingle;
Not one of all of whom can be to me
The bosom treasure I have lost in thee.
| Poems of James Clarence Mangan | |