University of Virginia Library

I. LOVE AND SORROW.

DELGANY.

Just ere the feet of her I loved the best
Began to tread the thorny path of pain,
We two, with all our joyous household train,
Found in a Wicklow glen our summer rest.
Sweet was our sojourn in that peaceful nest.
The garden pleas'd us, and the stream that flow'd
Beneath the thatch-roof'd cot, our quaint abode;
Not seldom, too, we hail'd some friendly guest.
She lov'd the place, and often spoke its praise;
And then would I half-playfully repeat
The words of Deirdré, from a like retreat
Forc'd to return to Erin's endless jars—
‘Sun kiss thee, moon caress thee, dewy stars
Refresh thee still, dear scene of quiet days!’

II. THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW.

Why should thy form upon the rack of pain—
Thy delicate form—be stretch'd? who ever true
And tender wert, and pure as morning dew.
On me, whose soul was black with many a stain,
Which, but ill purg'd, would oft appear again,
Till thy sweet influence did my life renew—
On me, if justice some high Power could do,
The doom were laid this bitter cup to drain.
My burden is, that thine I cannot bear.
Nightly I listen with love-quicken'd ears
To the half-utter'd moan which thou would'st fain
Wholly suppress, my tortur'd heart to spare;
Then is my pillow drench'd with silent tears—
Oh could they profit!—but I weep in vain.

III. DANTEAN DREAMS.

I.

Poet supreme! who leavest far behind
In piercing gaze, in lofty flight and long,
All winged Powers that haunt the heaven of song,—
When she who was my pearl of womankind,
Whose fingers from my soul had disentwin'd
The tangling weeds of folly, pined in pain,
Oft thy austere, yet tender-hearted strain
Rais'd up and calm'd my downcast, troubled mind.
When evening fell, th' immortal page I read
That made thee lean, as grief had wasted me:
Then came Dantean dreams about my bed,
The Purgatorial mount I seem'd to see,
Or Madeline my wondering spirit led
Through happy fields, as Beatricè thee.

IV. DANTEAN DREAMS.

II.

Within the place where patient souls abide
In hopeful suffering,—dead among the dead
Methought I stood, and pray'd with bended head,
When sudden shone an angel at my side,
Who to my startled questioning glance replied—
‘Because thou hast lov'd well, the Lord hath said
It is His will that thou be comforted.
Ask what thou wilt; it shall not be denied.’
‘Show me my saint—one moment, only one!’
And lo! an image, on cloud-canvas cast,
Of a great company in robes of white,
And 'mongst them she, with face divinely bright
Upturn'd, adoring. Soon the vision pass'd;
But long I stood and gaz'd, though it was gone.

V. DANTEAN DREAMS.

III.

‘But knew she that I saw her, Power benign?’
Turning, I ask'd; he answer'd—‘When the light,
That clothes a blessed one, glows doubly bright,
Of some new joy is this the outward sign.
The mirror of th' Intelligence Divine
Shows her all good; because she knew the grace
That was vouchsafed thee, was it that her face
Thou saw'st with such transcendent lustre shine.’
‘I thank thee, blessed Spirit!’ I replied;
‘Now all is well; I go with heart content
My purgatorial suffering to abide.
I shall rejoin her, when my term is spent.’
The Angel smiled, then vanish'd from my side,
And I address'd me to the steep ascent.

VI. DANTEAN DREAMS.

IV.

Long, in that realm of pain that is not woe—
The second, better kingdom of the dead
Through which the mighty Florentine was led—
Methought, like him, I travell'd from below,
With patient heart, but feeble steps and slow.
I pass'd the fiery fence, and reach'd the head
Of the steep mount, where, from twin fountains fed,
Lethe and Eunoe, diverse waters, flow.
Then, conscious of a presence at my side,
I turn'd and saw the face whence sweetness beams
And all things pure. ‘Oh, Madeline,’ I cried,
‘How have I sought thee, even in my dreams!’
‘I know thou hast been faithful,’ she replied,
‘Come, let me lead thee to the healing streams.’

VII. DANTEAN DREAMS.

V.

So, hand in hand, together mov'd we o'er
The flowery fields that crown that holy height;
But these I little mark'd, for soul and sight
Hung on the heav'nly face I saw once more.
We came and stood where from a cavern hoar
Those streams that Dante saw, one crystal-bright,
One dusk-hued but transparent, spring to light.
And part, like brethren at their father's door
Who know too well they ne'er again shall meet.
She bade me kneel and drink; I knelt and quaff'd
The flowing darkness of the duller wave:
Then, stooping, from her hollow'd palm she gave
Thrice to my willing lips the sparkling draught,
For the dear cup that held it doubly sweet.

VIII. DANTEAN DREAMS.

VI.

The draught from out the darker of the springs
A gloom Lethean o'er my spirit cast.
I saw the present only—not the past.
Long-cherish'd memories of blessed things,
Of dear love-service and sweet communings—
Had vanish'd quite, nor less each harrowing thought
Of kindness slighted or injustice wrought,
With which Remorse the shrinking bosom stings.
But when the fairer wave refresh'd my lips,
While those ill memories were still effaced,
The good revived, now more than ever bright;
So some skill'd hand in chymic mixture dips
A scroll whereon an unseen text is traced,
And lo! the hidden letters leap to light.

IX. DANTEAN DREAMS.

VII.THE AWAKING.

These were but dreams, of Dante's magic bred.
There is no mount of healing pain, I know,
Save that up which, with struggling effort slow,
In this our world repentant sinners tread.
Bright winged creatures do not come and go,
From orb to orb on mystic errands sped;
Nor need I heav'nly visitants to show
How I should think of thee, my dear one dead!
Had Gabriel pass'd me at thy chamber door
With ‘Ave, gratia plena’ on his tongue,
Or had he o'er thee at thy parting hung,
And traced the sign of blessing on thy brow,
Should I thy memory higher prize than now?
A saint I knew thee—he could know no more.

X. LOVE'S TEACHINGS.

Love, thou has train'd me in a school severe.
‘This man,’ thou said'st, ‘knows somewhat of my lore,
But not enough; lo! I will teach him more.’
So Sorrow came, and sojourn'd with me here,
Wearing the form and face to me most dear.
Then learn'd I laws of thine, but guess'd before,
The hard, hard lesson conning o'er and o'er,
While on the page fell many a bitter tear.
Still Self within me feebly strove; but when
Death came and hid my angel from my sight—
Not from my soul—Self died, and rose again
Newborn, in one joint being blent with her.
And now, O Love, I own thy matchless might,
That even of Death can'st make thy minister.

XI. AN APPEAL.

Ladies, who understand the gentle lore
Of courteous words, kind deeds, and gracious ways,
Bear witness, ye who knew her—do I praise
More than she merits her whom I deplore?
Will ye not say—‘thy dear one to adore,
And of her worth fit monument to raise,
This be the sacred task of all thy days,
Thy solace this, till thy brief term be o'er.
More loving heart ne'er beat in human breast.
Her life was all a willing service, done
With simple dignity and artless grace.
In her sweet converse weary souls found rest,
And from her breath'd such purity that none
Could think of evil, looking on her face.’

XII. VISITATIONS.

Sometimes evoked by stress of prayers and tears,
And sometimes all unbidden, of free grace,
She gives me sight of her beloved face—
Now as the bright young maiden she appears,
Who shook my heart long since with hopes and fears;
Now, as she bloom'd, a flower of womanhood,
Image and source to me of all things good,
In the ripe summer of our wedded years.
But oftenest the dear features wear again
The smile so sad, yet so divinely sweet,
They wore in those last months of patient pain.
Then first her saintly soul I fully knew;
Love turn'd to worship, and my spirit threw
Itself in adoration at her feet.

XIII. PAST AND PRESENT.

Once Joy each morn our window-curtains drew,
And smiling bade us hail—‘Rise, happy pair,
A new day calls you and the world is fair.’
But one dark dawning quench'd my zeal to view
Heav'ns matin pomp—its wealth of varying hue.
Now by my lonely bed—she is not there—
The vestal Duty stands with solemn air,
And says—‘Remember, thou hast much to do.’
I turn and gaze on her, half-blind with tears,
And lo! she is transfigured, and I see
No longer her with looks severe, but thee,
My blessed one, with eyes of love that still
Shed peace and comfort as in vanish'd years—
And prompt I rise, thy counsels to fulfil.

XIV. THE ANGELUS.

Sleepless I often lie at dawn of day—
Then from the convent tower that rises near
The trebly threefold note salutes my ear
That bids the true believer muse and pray.
With answering heart my Angelus I say,
And think of her who was so lately here—
Of her whose love through many a happy year
Brought me all good, and charm'd all ills away.
Again each sacred stage I travel o'er,
From the dusk eve when, hearing first her voice,
(Her face half hid) my heart presaged its choice—
To that last morn when 'midst white flowers she lay,
With brow and cheek, ah! white and cold as they—
No longer mine, yet mine for evermore.

XV.

‘Time the Consoler’—so with specious phrase
Men seek their base ingratitude to screen,
Oblivious of the lost ones who have been
Their joy and glory in the by-gone days.
But ne'er shall cloud that low desire can raise,
Or selfish quest of consolation mean,
Or the world's feverish turmoil, come between
Thee and my longing spirit's wistful gaze.
Who will may woo Lethean apathy;
But if the years with dead'ning fingers slow
Could dull thy image written in my heart—
Then should we seem a second time to part;
Forlorn I were indeed, and Time would be—
Consoler? nay, but deepener of my woe.

XVI.

As rich men, never talking of their store,
Nor thinking of it oft—yet walk elate,
As inly conscious that their wealth is great;
So, in the happy years that are no more
There liv'd within my being's central core
A calm, deep sense of my so favour'd state—
Possessing wealth past human estimate
In her, who brought all blessings to my door.
Now in the eternal world my treasure lies—
From thoughts of her I borrow day by day
Strength to my feet and guidance on my way.
Yet, walking thus by faith, I yearn for sight—
Yearn for her visible presence, and the light
That shone upon me from those loving eyes.

XVII.

Not seldom, when in foreign lands we fare,
We see in rudely-fashion'd wayside shrine
An image of the Mother-maid divine;
And thus we muse—‘not less the pious care
That such memorial shaped and placed it there,
Than moved the artist bent on high design—
Marvel of Roman skill or Florentine—
Destin'd to grace some glorious House of Prayer.’
So, a poor craftsman, to my lady's praise
I dedicate these all unworthy lays,
That tender souls may cherish the dear name.
Would Petrarch's lute were mine, and Petrarch's art!
Tuneless my voice to his; but in his heart
For his lost love glow'd no intenser flame.

XVIII. HALLOWED GROUND.

Beautiful soul, that for too brief a space
Look'd on this world of ours through human eyes—
The thought of thy mute presence sanctifies
For us who lov'd and love thee, every place
Oft brighten'd with the sunshine of thy face:
But chief we dally with that fond surmise
Here, where thou didst all household charities
Daily dispense with meek unconscious grace,
And where thy nobleness shone fully forth—
The crown and consummation of thy worth—
When unembitter'd, unsubdued by pain,
‘Like a bright saint,’ as said my poet-friend,
Thou didst thy heavy burden long sustain,
Serene and uncomplaining to the end.

XIX.

Oft must we feel to what frail tenement
All is entrusted that we fondly prize.
What is most precious to our heart and eyes
Is not our freehold, is not giv'n but lent.
We need not hold that Powers maleficent
With conscious purpose break our dearest ties,
And lives, else rich, thus blight and pauperise—
Enough, that we are thralls of accident.
While all our prospect looks serene and fair,
The heavens grow dark, and in a single day
We lose what cost the toil of years to gain.
Yet droop not therefore; nought can bar the way
That leads our souls o'er rugged tracts or plain
Up to diviner heights and purer air.

XX.

How brief, how troubled is this mortal scene!
The cruel fates our cherish'd hopes deride,
And rudely snatch our dear ones from our side.
Yet, looking back through tears on what hath been,
I own the truth—though sobs that rise between
Impede the utterance—that, by grief untried,
By memories of the dead unsanctified,
Our life were but a shallow thing and mean.
We are not made for self-complacent ease,
Or boastful confidence. But oh! stern Powers,
Whate'er ye be, that rule our destinies,
Pity poor mortals, and forbear to lay
Too heavy burdens on these hearts of ours,
Or we shall faint and perish by the way.

XXI. TREASURED WORDS.