Poems of James Clarence Mangan (Many hitherto uncollected): Centenary edition: Edited, with preface and notes by D. J. O'Donoghue: Introduction by John Mitchel |
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TWENTY GOLDEN YEARS AGO. |
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 | Poems of James Clarence Mangan |  |
141
TWENTY GOLDEN YEARS AGO.
O, the rain, the weary, dreary rain,
How it plashes on the window-sill!
Night, I guess too, must be on the wane,
Strass and Gass around are grown so still.
Here I sit, with coffee in my cup—
Ah! 'twas rarely I beheld it flow
In the taverns where I loved to sup
Twenty golden years ago!
How it plashes on the window-sill!
Night, I guess too, must be on the wane,
Strass and Gass around are grown so still.
Here I sit, with coffee in my cup—
Ah! 'twas rarely I beheld it flow
In the taverns where I loved to sup
Twenty golden years ago!
Twenty years ago, alas!—but stay,
On my life, 'tis half-past twelve o'clock!
After all, the hours do slip away—
Come, here goes to burn another block!
For the night, or morn, is wet and cold,
And my fire is dwindling rather low:—
I had fire enough, when young and bold,
Twenty golden years ago!
On my life, 'tis half-past twelve o'clock!
After all, the hours do slip away—
Come, here goes to burn another block!
For the night, or morn, is wet and cold,
And my fire is dwindling rather low:—
I had fire enough, when young and bold,
Twenty golden years ago!
Dear! I don't feel well at all, somehow:
Few in Weimar dream how bad I am;
Floods of tears grow common with me now,
High-Dutch floods, that Reason cannot dam.
Doctors think I'll neither live nor thrive
If I mope at home so—I don't know—
Am I living now? I was alive
Twenty golden years ago.
Few in Weimar dream how bad I am;
Floods of tears grow common with me now,
High-Dutch floods, that Reason cannot dam.
Doctors think I'll neither live nor thrive
If I mope at home so—I don't know—
Am I living now? I was alive
Twenty golden years ago.
Wifeless, friendless, flagonless, alone,
Not quite bookless, though, unless I chuse,
Left with nought to do, except to groan,
Not a soul to woo, except the Muse—
O! this, this is hard for me to bear,
Me, who whilome lived so much en haut,
Me, who broke all hearts like chinaware
Twenty golden years ago!
Not quite bookless, though, unless I chuse,
Left with nought to do, except to groan,
Not a soul to woo, except the Muse—
142
Me, who whilome lived so much en haut,
Me, who broke all hearts like chinaware
Twenty golden years ago!
P'rhaps 'tis better:—Time's defacing waves
Long have quenched the radiance of my brow—
They who curse me nightly from their graves
Scarce could love me were they living now;
But my loneliness hath darker ills—
Such dun-duns as Conscience, Thought and Co.,
Awful Gorgons! worse than tailors' bills
Twenty golden years ago!
Long have quenched the radiance of my brow—
They who curse me nightly from their graves
Scarce could love me were they living now;
But my loneliness hath darker ills—
Such dun-duns as Conscience, Thought and Co.,
Awful Gorgons! worse than tailors' bills
Twenty golden years ago!
Did I paint a fifth of what I feel,
O, how plaintive you would ween I was!
But I won't, albeit I have a deal
More to wail about than Kerner has!
Kerner's tears are wept for withered flowers,
Mine for withered hopes; my Scroll of Woe
Dates, alas! from Youth's deserted bowers,
Twenty golden years ago!
O, how plaintive you would ween I was!
But I won't, albeit I have a deal
More to wail about than Kerner has!
Kerner's tears are wept for withered flowers,
Mine for withered hopes; my Scroll of Woe
Dates, alas! from Youth's deserted bowers,
Twenty golden years ago!
Yet may Deutschland's bardlings flourish long!
Me, I tweak no beak among them;—hawks
Must not pounce on hawks; besides, in song
I could once beat all of them by chalks.
Though you find me, as I near my goal,
Sentimentalising like Rousseau,
O! I had a grand Byronian soul
Twenty golden years ago!
Me, I tweak no beak among them;—hawks
Must not pounce on hawks; besides, in song
I could once beat all of them by chalks.
Though you find me, as I near my goal,
Sentimentalising like Rousseau,
O! I had a grand Byronian soul
Twenty golden years ago!
Tick-tick, tick-tick!—Not a sound save Time's,
And the windgust, as it drives the rain—
Tortured torturer of reluctant rhymes,
Go to bed, and rest thine aching brain!
Sleep!—no more the dupe of hopes or schemes;
Soon thou sleepest where the thistles blow—
Curious anticlimax to thy dreams
Twenty golden years ago!
And the windgust, as it drives the rain—
Tortured torturer of reluctant rhymes,
Go to bed, and rest thine aching brain!
143
Soon thou sleepest where the thistles blow—
Curious anticlimax to thy dreams
Twenty golden years ago!
| Poems of James Clarence Mangan | |