The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith ... Revised by the Author: Coll. ed. |
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 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
IONA
Lone green Isle of the West,
Where the monks, their coracle steering,
Could see no more, o'er the wave's white crest,
Their own loved home in Erin;
Shrouded often in mist,
And buried in cloud and rain;
Yet once by the light of a glory kissed,
Which nothing can dim again!
Where the monks, their coracle steering,
Could see no more, o'er the wave's white crest,
Their own loved home in Erin;
Shrouded often in mist,
And buried in cloud and rain;
Yet once by the light of a glory kissed,
Which nothing can dim again!
O'er tangled and shell-paved rocks
The white sea-gulls are flying;
And in the sunny coves brown flocks
Of wistful seals are lying;
The waves are breaking low,
Hardly their foam you trace;
All hushed and still, as if they know
This is a sacred place.
The white sea-gulls are flying;
And in the sunny coves brown flocks
Of wistful seals are lying;
The waves are breaking low,
Hardly their foam you trace;
All hushed and still, as if they know
This is a sacred place.
The diving guillemot
Is preening his dappled feather;
The great merganser shows his throat,
Red in this summer weather;
And bathed in a tremulous light
Are minster, cross, and grave,
That call up the past with a spell of might,
To tell of the meek and brave.
Is preening his dappled feather;
The great merganser shows his throat,
Red in this summer weather;
And bathed in a tremulous light
Are minster, cross, and grave,
That call up the past with a spell of might,
To tell of the meek and brave.
No fitter day than this
To look on thy mystic beauty,
And brood on memories of the bliss
Of faith and love and duty,
Of the hours of quiet prayer,
Of the days of patient toil,
Of the love that always and everywhere,
Burned like a holy oil.
To look on thy mystic beauty,
And brood on memories of the bliss
Of faith and love and duty,
Of the hours of quiet prayer,
Of the days of patient toil,
Of the love that always and everywhere,
Burned like a holy oil.
O lone green Isle of the West,
So oft by the mist enshrouded,
I have seen thee to-day in thy quiet best,
Not noisily mobbed, and crowded;
Seen thee in flooding light,
Seen thee in perfect calm;
Yet am I sad as at the sight
Of mummy that men embalm.
So oft by the mist enshrouded,
I have seen thee to-day in thy quiet best,
Not noisily mobbed, and crowded;
Seen thee in flooding light,
Seen thee in perfect calm;
Yet am I sad as at the sight
Of mummy that men embalm.
Isle of the past and gone,
The life from thee has departed;
Thy best is now but a carven stone,—
And a memory lonely-hearted!
Yet thou wert a power erewhile,
O'er the great world's mind and heart;
But where now the priests of the Holy Isle
And the skill of its graceful Art?
The life from thee has departed;
Thy best is now but a carven stone,—
And a memory lonely-hearted!
Yet thou wert a power erewhile,
O'er the great world's mind and heart;
But where now the priests of the Holy Isle
And the skill of its graceful Art?
367
Cunning the hand that wrought
Your traceried tombs and crosses,
And silvern brooches, that yet are brought
From depths of the black peat mosses;
And theirs was a holy work
Who carried the gospel pure
And letters and work and the homely kirk,
Our heathen ills to cure.
Your traceried tombs and crosses,
And silvern brooches, that yet are brought
From depths of the black peat mosses;
And theirs was a holy work
Who carried the gospel pure
And letters and work and the homely kirk,
Our heathen ills to cure.
Was it the Norseman's sword,
And the ships of Thor and Odin
That drove the saints, with the sacred Word,
From the peaceful ways they trod in?
Was it the Saxon's sway,
Brutal and selfish and strong,
That swept the beautiful Art away,
And stifled the Celtic song?
And the ships of Thor and Odin
That drove the saints, with the sacred Word,
From the peaceful ways they trod in?
Was it the Saxon's sway,
Brutal and selfish and strong,
That swept the beautiful Art away,
And stifled the Celtic song?
Only this do we know,
The Celt brought light to the Teuton,
And ever the knowledge of God did grow
In the land he set his foot on;
But as they throve he pined,
But as they smiled he sighed,
But as they grew he surely dwined,
And in their life he died.
The Celt brought light to the Teuton,
And ever the knowledge of God did grow
In the land he set his foot on;
But as they throve he pined,
But as they smiled he sighed,
But as they grew he surely dwined,
And in their life he died.
O passion of holy love!
O sacrificial people,
Dying to lift men's thoughts above
By altar and cross and steeple!
Through stormy seas ye passed,
And moor and marsh and fen,
To be left behind in the march at last
As weak exhausted men!
O sacrificial people,
Dying to lift men's thoughts above
By altar and cross and steeple!
Through stormy seas ye passed,
And moor and marsh and fen,
To be left behind in the march at last
As weak exhausted men!
They say ye shall rise again
On the level Western prairie,
With a larger life and a keener brain,
Like eagle out of his eyrie;
But not the mind and the heart
That grew by the Lochs and Bens,
Nor the plaintive song, and the mystic Art
Nursed in the rushy glens.
On the level Western prairie,
With a larger life and a keener brain,
Like eagle out of his eyrie;
But not the mind and the heart
That grew by the Lochs and Bens,
Nor the plaintive song, and the mystic Art
Nursed in the rushy glens.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |