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. |
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KHIDDER. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
 | Poems of James Clarence Mangan |  |
KHIDDER.
Thus said or sung
Khidder, the ever-young:—
Journeying, I passed an ancient town—
Of lindens green its battlements bore a crown,
And at its turreted gates, on either hand,
Did fountains stand,
In marble white of rarest chiselling,
The which on high did fling
Water, that then like rain went twinkling down,
With a rainbow glancing in the spray
As it wreathed in the sunny ray.
I marked where, 'neath the frown
Of the dark rampart, smiled a garden fair;
And an old man was there,
That gathered fruit. “Good father,” I began,
“Since when, I pray you, standeth here
This goodly city with its fountains clear?”
To which that agèd man
Made answer—“Ever stood
The city where it stands to-day,
And as it stands so shall it stand for aye,
Come evil days or good.”
Khidder, the ever-young:—
Journeying, I passed an ancient town—
Of lindens green its battlements bore a crown,
And at its turreted gates, on either hand,
Did fountains stand,
In marble white of rarest chiselling,
The which on high did fling
Water, that then like rain went twinkling down,
With a rainbow glancing in the spray
As it wreathed in the sunny ray.
I marked where, 'neath the frown
Of the dark rampart, smiled a garden fair;
And an old man was there,
That gathered fruit. “Good father,” I began,
“Since when, I pray you, standeth here
This goodly city with its fountains clear?”
164
Made answer—“Ever stood
The city where it stands to-day,
And as it stands so shall it stand for aye,
Come evil days or good.”
Him gathering fruit I left, and journeyed on;
But when a thousand years were come and gone,
Again I passed that way, and lo!
There was no city, there were no
Fountains of chiselling rare,
No garden fair,
Only
A lonely
Shepherd was piping there,
Whose little flock seemed less
In that wide pasture of the wilderness.
But when a thousand years were come and gone,
Again I passed that way, and lo!
There was no city, there were no
Fountains of chiselling rare,
No garden fair,
Only
A lonely
Shepherd was piping there,
Whose little flock seemed less
In that wide pasture of the wilderness.
“Good friend,” quoth I,
“How long hath the fair city passed away,
That stood with gates so high,
With fountains bright, and gardens gay,
Where now these sheep do stray?”
And he replied—“What withers makes but room
For what springs up in verdurous bloom—
Sheep have grazed ever here, and here will graze for aye.”
“How long hath the fair city passed away,
That stood with gates so high,
With fountains bright, and gardens gay,
Where now these sheep do stray?”
And he replied—“What withers makes but room
For what springs up in verdurous bloom—
Sheep have grazed ever here, and here will graze for aye.”
Him piping there I left, and journeyed on;
But when a thousand years were come and gone,
Again I passed
That way, and see! there was a lake
That darkened in the blast,
And waves that brake
With a melancholy roar
Along that lonely shore.
And on a shingly point that ran
Far out into the lake, a fisherman
Was hauling in his net. To him I said:
“Good friend,
I fain would know
Since when it is that here these waters flow?”
Whereat he shook his head,
—And answer made, “Heaven lend
Thee better wit, good brother! Ever here
These waters flowed, and so
Will ever flow:
And aye in this dark rolling wave
Men fished, and still fish,
And ever will fish,
Until fish
No more in waters swim.”
But when a thousand years were come and gone,
Again I passed
That way, and see! there was a lake
That darkened in the blast,
And waves that brake
With a melancholy roar
Along that lonely shore.
165
Far out into the lake, a fisherman
Was hauling in his net. To him I said:
“Good friend,
I fain would know
Since when it is that here these waters flow?”
Whereat he shook his head,
—And answer made, “Heaven lend
Thee better wit, good brother! Ever here
These waters flowed, and so
Will ever flow:
And aye in this dark rolling wave
Men fished, and still fish,
And ever will fish,
Until fish
No more in waters swim.”
Him
Hauling his net I left, and journeyed on;
But when a thousand years were come and gone,
Again I passed that way, and lo! there stood,
Where waves had rolled, a green and flourishing wood—
Flourishing in youth it seemed, and yet was old—
And there it stood where deep blue waves had rolled.
A place of pleasant shade!
A wandering wind among the branches played,
And birds were now where fish had been;
And through the depth of green,
In many a gush the golden sunshine streamed;
And wild flowers gleamed
About the brown and mossy
Roots of the ancient trees,
And the cushioned sward so glossy
That compassed these.
Hauling his net I left, and journeyed on;
But when a thousand years were come and gone,
Again I passed that way, and lo! there stood,
Where waves had rolled, a green and flourishing wood—
Flourishing in youth it seemed, and yet was old—
And there it stood where deep blue waves had rolled.
A place of pleasant shade!
A wandering wind among the branches played,
And birds were now where fish had been;
And through the depth of green,
In many a gush the golden sunshine streamed;
And wild flowers gleamed
About the brown and mossy
Roots of the ancient trees,
And the cushioned sward so glossy
That compassed these.
166
Here, as I passed, there met
Me, on the border of that forest wide,
One with an axe, whom, when I spied,
Quoth I—“Good neighbour, let
Me ask, I pray you, how long hath this wood
Stood,
Spreading its covert, broad and green,
Here, where mine eyes have seen
A royal city stand, whose battlements
Were like the ancient rocks;
And then a place for shepherds' tents,
And pasturage of flocks;
And then,
Roughening beneath the blast,
A vast
Dark mere—a haunt of fishermen?”
Me, on the border of that forest wide,
One with an axe, whom, when I spied,
Quoth I—“Good neighbour, let
Me ask, I pray you, how long hath this wood
Stood,
Spreading its covert, broad and green,
Here, where mine eyes have seen
A royal city stand, whose battlements
Were like the ancient rocks;
And then a place for shepherds' tents,
And pasturage of flocks;
And then,
Roughening beneath the blast,
A vast
Dark mere—a haunt of fishermen?”
There was a cold surprise
In the man's eyes
While thus I spoke, and, as I made an end,
This was his dry
Reply—
“Facetious friend,
This wood
Hath ever stood
Even where it stands to-day;
And as it stands, so shall it stand for aye.
And here men catch no fish—here tend
No sheep—to no town-markets wend;
But aye in these
Green shades men felled, and still fell,
And ever will fell
Trees.”
In the man's eyes
While thus I spoke, and, as I made an end,
This was his dry
Reply—
“Facetious friend,
This wood
Hath ever stood
Even where it stands to-day;
And as it stands, so shall it stand for aye.
And here men catch no fish—here tend
No sheep—to no town-markets wend;
But aye in these
Green shades men felled, and still fell,
And ever will fell
Trees.”
Him with his axe I left, and journeyed on;
But when a thousand years were come and gone,
Again I passed
That way; and lo! a town—
And spires, and domes, and towers looked proudly down
Upon a vast
And sounding tide of life,
That flowed through many a street, and surged
In many a market-place, and urged
Its way in many a wheeling current, hither
And thither.
How rose the strife
Of sounds! the ceaseless beat
Of feet!
The noise of carts, of whips—the roll
Of chariots, coaches, cabs, gigs—(all
Who keep the last-named vehicle we call
Respectable)—horse-tramplings, and the toll
Of bells; the whirl, the clash, the hubbub-mingling
Of voices, deep and shrill; the clattering, jingling,
The indescribable, indefinable roar;
The grating, creaking, booming, clanking, thumping,
And bumping,
And stumping
Of folks with wooden legs; the gabbling,
And babbling,
And many more
Quite nameless helpings
To the general effect; dog-yelpings,
Laughter, and shout, and cry; all sounds of gladness,
Of sadness,
And madness,—
For there were people marrying,
And others carrying
The dead they would have died for to the grave—
(Sadly the church bell tolled
When the young men were burying the old—
More sadly spake that bodeful tongue
When the old were burying the young)—
Thus did the tumult rave
Through that fair city—nor were wanting there
Of dancing dogs or bear,
Or needy knife-
Grinder, or man with dismal wife,
That sang deplorably of “purling groves
And verdant streams, all where young Damon roves
With tender Phillida, the nymph he loves,
And softly breathe
The balmy moonbeam's wreathe,
And amorous turtle-doves”—
Or other doleful men, that blew
The melancholiest tunes—the which they only knew—
On flutes and other instruments of wind;
Or small dark imps, with hurdy-
Gurdy,
And marmoset, that grinned
For nuts, and might have been his brother,
They were so like each other;
Or man
That danced like the god Pan,
Twitching
A spasmy face
From side to side with a grace
Bewitching,
The while he whistled
In sorted pipes, all at his chin that bristled;
Or fiddler, fiddling much
For little profit, and a many such
Street musics most forlorn
In that too pitiless rout quite overborne.
But when a thousand years were come and gone,
167
That way; and lo! a town—
And spires, and domes, and towers looked proudly down
Upon a vast
And sounding tide of life,
That flowed through many a street, and surged
In many a market-place, and urged
Its way in many a wheeling current, hither
And thither.
How rose the strife
Of sounds! the ceaseless beat
Of feet!
The noise of carts, of whips—the roll
Of chariots, coaches, cabs, gigs—(all
Who keep the last-named vehicle we call
Respectable)—horse-tramplings, and the toll
Of bells; the whirl, the clash, the hubbub-mingling
Of voices, deep and shrill; the clattering, jingling,
The indescribable, indefinable roar;
The grating, creaking, booming, clanking, thumping,
And bumping,
And stumping
Of folks with wooden legs; the gabbling,
And babbling,
And many more
Quite nameless helpings
To the general effect; dog-yelpings,
Laughter, and shout, and cry; all sounds of gladness,
Of sadness,
And madness,—
For there were people marrying,
And others carrying
The dead they would have died for to the grave—
(Sadly the church bell tolled
168
More sadly spake that bodeful tongue
When the old were burying the young)—
Thus did the tumult rave
Through that fair city—nor were wanting there
Of dancing dogs or bear,
Or needy knife-
Grinder, or man with dismal wife,
That sang deplorably of “purling groves
And verdant streams, all where young Damon roves
With tender Phillida, the nymph he loves,
And softly breathe
The balmy moonbeam's wreathe,
And amorous turtle-doves”—
Or other doleful men, that blew
The melancholiest tunes—the which they only knew—
On flutes and other instruments of wind;
Or small dark imps, with hurdy-
Gurdy,
And marmoset, that grinned
For nuts, and might have been his brother,
They were so like each other;
Or man
That danced like the god Pan,
Twitching
A spasmy face
From side to side with a grace
Bewitching,
The while he whistled
In sorted pipes, all at his chin that bristled;
Or fiddler, fiddling much
For little profit, and a many such
Street musics most forlorn
In that too pitiless rout quite overborne.
169
Now, when as I beheld
The crowd, and heard the din of life once more
Swell, as it swelled
In that same place four thousand years before,
I asked of them that passed me in the throng
How long
The city thereabouts had stood,
And what was gone with pasture, lake, and wood;
But at such question most men did but stare,
And so pass on; and some did laugh and shake
Their heads, me deeming mad; but none would spare
The time, or take
The pains to answer me, for there
All were in haste—all busy—bent to make
The most of every minute,
And do, an if they might, an hour's work in it.
The crowd, and heard the din of life once more
Swell, as it swelled
In that same place four thousand years before,
I asked of them that passed me in the throng
How long
The city thereabouts had stood,
And what was gone with pasture, lake, and wood;
But at such question most men did but stare,
And so pass on; and some did laugh and shake
Their heads, me deeming mad; but none would spare
The time, or take
The pains to answer me, for there
All were in haste—all busy—bent to make
The most of every minute,
And do, an if they might, an hour's work in it.
Yet as I gave not o'er, but pertinaciously
Plied with my question every passer-by,
A dozen voices did at length reply
Ungraciously—
“What ravest thou
Of pasture, lake, and wood? As it is now
So was it always here, and so will be for aye.”
Them, hurrying there, I left, and journeyed on—
But when a thousand years are come and gone,
Again I'll pass that way.
Plied with my question every passer-by,
A dozen voices did at length reply
Ungraciously—
“What ravest thou
Of pasture, lake, and wood? As it is now
So was it always here, and so will be for aye.”
Them, hurrying there, I left, and journeyed on—
But when a thousand years are come and gone,
Again I'll pass that way.
| Poems of James Clarence Mangan | |