 | The Legend of the Golden Prayers and other poems |  |
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Voices for the Dumb.
PRELUDE.
When her nest is scatter'd, a complaining
On the spray the little mother weaves,
From her heart's wild harp its sorrows raining,
Thick as shadows from the shaken leaves.
On the spray the little mother weaves,
From her heart's wild harp its sorrows raining,
Thick as shadows from the shaken leaves.
There are lands, wherein, when Death's white fingers
Tap at last upon the sick-room pane,
Send the neighbours all their sweetest singers—
Comes the minstrel of the cunning strain.
Tap at last upon the sick-room pane,
Send the neighbours all their sweetest singers—
Comes the minstrel of the cunning strain.
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Sweetly are the singers measure keeping;
Sweetly, sweetly do the minstrels play;
Till the hot heart finds a vent in weeping,
As in rain the sultry summer day.
Sweetly, sweetly do the minstrels play;
Till the hot heart finds a vent in weeping,
As in rain the sultry summer day.
Nest and nestlings Death from us hath taken;
Ruin broods upon our labour now;
Ours is only like the music shaken
By the wild bird from the hawthorn bough.
Ruin broods upon our labour now;
Ours is only like the music shaken
By the wild bird from the hawthorn bough.
Death climb'd up with crown of fire above him—
Not as sometimes to the child he comes,
Gentle, so that we can almost love him,
Knocking at the nurseries of our homes—
Not as sometimes to the child he comes,
Gentle, so that we can almost love him,
Knocking at the nurseries of our homes—
But with red eyes, mad in anger mortal,
And his red hair streaming wildly o'er,
Flashing fiery swords before the portal,
Hissing, like a serpent at the door.
And his red hair streaming wildly o'er,
Flashing fiery swords before the portal,
Hissing, like a serpent at the door.
We are but as poor musicians, ringing
On their harps some natural rise and fall—
We are only like the singers, singing
At the children's lowly funeral!
On their harps some natural rise and fall—
We are only like the singers, singing
At the children's lowly funeral!
These lines refer to a calamitous fire at the Derry and Raphoe Institution for the Deaf and Dumb, in which six of the inmates perished.
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I. THE VOICE OF LAMENTATION.
When the crimson ray
Of parting day
On the fire-tipp'd mountains dies away,
Who would not love
To pass above,
Where the silver clouds like snow-flakes move!
Of parting day
On the fire-tipp'd mountains dies away,
Who would not love
To pass above,
Where the silver clouds like snow-flakes move!
Beyond the bars
Where the first pale stars
Come riding out on their golden cars,
And learn the cause
That moves and draws
All natural things with its wondrous laws!
Where the first pale stars
Come riding out on their golden cars,
And learn the cause
That moves and draws
All natural things with its wondrous laws!
And oftener still
Our wayward will
Would know the reason of good or ill,
And seek to raise
The veil God lays
Over His deep mysterious ways.
Our wayward will
Would know the reason of good or ill,
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The veil God lays
Over His deep mysterious ways.
When some dear scheme
Of our life doth seem
Shiver'd at once like a broken dream,
And our hearts reel
Like ships that feel
A sharp rock grating against their keel.
Of our life doth seem
Shiver'd at once like a broken dream,
And our hearts reel
Like ships that feel
A sharp rock grating against their keel.
For, Oh! the tone
Of the children's moan,
Has haunted our ears since that midnight lone;
And tears have sprung,
And hearts been wrung,
For the musicless lip and the speechless tongue;
Of the children's moan,
Has haunted our ears since that midnight lone;
And tears have sprung,
And hearts been wrung,
For the musicless lip and the speechless tongue;
For the seal'd ear
That could not hear
When the red fire roar'd to the starlight clear,
Like the battle-cry,
When no help is nigh,
Of a terrible, unseen enemy.
That could not hear
When the red fire roar'd to the starlight clear,
Like the battle-cry,
When no help is nigh,
Of a terrible, unseen enemy.
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And far away,
By hill and bay,
Hearts have been mourning them night and day.
Where Foyle runs down
To her famous town,
Telling her banks of their old renown.
By hill and bay,
Hearts have been mourning them night and day.
Where Foyle runs down
To her famous town,
Telling her banks of their old renown.
Where the rays make
A silver wake,
Dancing in light on the shadowy lake,
Whose soft waves pour
For evermore,
With a regular fall on her shingly shore.
A silver wake,
Dancing in light on the shadowy lake,
Whose soft waves pour
For evermore,
With a regular fall on her shingly shore.
In the long reach
Of sandy beach,
Where the wild sea-eagles at Malin screech,
And rock-reefs stand,
Far out from the land,
Like a chieftain charging in front of his band.
Of sandy beach,
Where the wild sea-eagles at Malin screech,
And rock-reefs stand,
Far out from the land,
Like a chieftain charging in front of his band.
In grassy sweeps
Where the lone hut sleeps,
Rock'd by winds from the furzy steeps
Of hills that rest,
With gold on their breast,
Like kings in their regal garments drest.
Where the lone hut sleeps,
Rock'd by winds from the furzy steeps
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With gold on their breast,
Like kings in their regal garments drest.
There mothers weep
In anguish deep,
Starting at night in uneasy sleep,
And wave-wash'd reef,
And winds in the leaf,
Are set by their sorrow to songs of grief.
In anguish deep,
Starting at night in uneasy sleep,
And wave-wash'd reef,
And winds in the leaf,
Are set by their sorrow to songs of grief.
“Oh, for one breath,
In that hot death,
Of the cool wind over the fragrant heath;
Oh, for one wave,”
They cry, “to lave
Those poor, little hearts in their burning grave.”
In that hot death,
Of the cool wind over the fragrant heath;
Oh, for one wave,”
They cry, “to lave
Those poor, little hearts in their burning grave.”
God's Spirit sweet
Quench Thou the heat
Of our passionate hearts that rave and beat;
Quiet their swell,
And gently tell,
That God's right hand doeth all things well.
Quench Thou the heat
Of our passionate hearts that rave and beat;
Quiet their swell,
And gently tell,
That God's right hand doeth all things well.
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Under the shroud
Of His thunder cloud
Lie we still when His voice is loud,
And our hearts shall feel
His love-notes steal,
As a bird sings after the thunder-peal.
Of His thunder cloud
Lie we still when His voice is loud,
And our hearts shall feel
His love-notes steal,
As a bird sings after the thunder-peal.
O Spirit dear,
Bring Him us near,
Who bore our sorrows and felt our fear;
Who tenderly weighs
Each cross that He lays,
And saveth the soul that in mercy He slays.
Bring Him us near,
Who bore our sorrows and felt our fear;
Who tenderly weighs
Each cross that He lays,
And saveth the soul that in mercy He slays.
Tell us they heard
(Whom never a word
Of our articulate language stirr'd)
That sweeter speech
That shall one day reach
All nations and tongues—in the heart of each.
(Whom never a word
Of our articulate language stirr'd)
That sweeter speech
That shall one day reach
All nations and tongues—in the heart of each.
In the dark room,
When the shriek of doom
Echoless knock'd at their heart's dull gloom,
Tell us Christ came,
And call'd by name
Each little lamb from the scorching flame.
When the shriek of doom
Echoless knock'd at their heart's dull gloom,
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And call'd by name
Each little lamb from the scorching flame.
Tell us that He,
As erst with the “three,”
Walk'd with those six in their agony;
Drew them in nigher,
And wafted them higher,
To Heaven, whose chariot and horsemen are fire.
As erst with the “three,”
Walk'd with those six in their agony;
Drew them in nigher,
And wafted them higher,
To Heaven, whose chariot and horsemen are fire.
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II. THE VOICE OF HOPE.
What is the saddest sound that ever gave
Its weight of woe unto the earth or wave?—
A river, ringing out its long, low knell,
As when a poet sings his sorrow well?
A sea that sobs in starlight on the beach,
With some great anguish shaking all his speech?
A wind, that droneth out its midnight mass
For the dead Summer, in a mountain pass?
Its weight of woe unto the earth or wave?—
A river, ringing out its long, low knell,
As when a poet sings his sorrow well?
A sea that sobs in starlight on the beach,
With some great anguish shaking all his speech?
A wind, that droneth out its midnight mass
For the dead Summer, in a mountain pass?
Nay, none of these. Rhyme on, O ancient river!
Break, break, O sea, upon thy beach for ever!
And thou, wild wind, thy requiem intone,
In the dark pine-wood, round the grey cairn stone!
But all that sadness comes from conscious powers,
And all those sobbings are not theirs, but ours;
And they are but as bells that nature times,
While we lend language to her random chimes.
A sad, sweet voice is by the river's brink,
But only sad and sweet for those who think.
The mute old mountain hath no head to ache—
The stern old ocean hath no heart to break.
Break, break, O sea, upon thy beach for ever!
And thou, wild wind, thy requiem intone,
In the dark pine-wood, round the grey cairn stone!
But all that sadness comes from conscious powers,
And all those sobbings are not theirs, but ours;
And they are but as bells that nature times,
While we lend language to her random chimes.
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But only sad and sweet for those who think.
The mute old mountain hath no head to ache—
The stern old ocean hath no heart to break.
Not from the sea, his grand and grief-full tune
Wailing on silver trumps to the white moon.
The saddest sounds are still the sounds that start
From the dark sea men call a human heart!
But saddest of the saddest unto me
Is the poor mutes' unmusical mimicry.
Fair to a mother's eye the tiny flower
That grows so gently in her nursery bower;
Sweet to her ear the scarce-articulate word,
The first faint murmur of her little bird:
But the mute's mother listens—oh, how long!
And her bright bird can sing her no sweet song;
And his voice rings not on with joy elate,
Like flower-bells swinging with their own sweet weight.
Dim rain the sunlights on the blind boys' face,
They make no sunshine in that shady place;
Yet love invisible bids his path rejoice,
Known, like the sky-lark, by its exquisite voice.
To other children knowledge, year by year,
Moveth in music through the open ear;
And God's good spirit comes to all and each,
With his wings spread upon the winds of speech.
And words, those marvellous ships, whose freight is thought,
Touch at the harbour of their hearts unsought.
But he, in sun-lit silence, fares abroad,
And his dark nature never felt for God;
And no brave galley ever o'er the dim
And formless void hath walk'd the waves to him.
Wailing on silver trumps to the white moon.
The saddest sounds are still the sounds that start
From the dark sea men call a human heart!
But saddest of the saddest unto me
Is the poor mutes' unmusical mimicry.
Fair to a mother's eye the tiny flower
That grows so gently in her nursery bower;
Sweet to her ear the scarce-articulate word,
The first faint murmur of her little bird:
But the mute's mother listens—oh, how long!
And her bright bird can sing her no sweet song;
And his voice rings not on with joy elate,
Like flower-bells swinging with their own sweet weight.
Dim rain the sunlights on the blind boys' face,
They make no sunshine in that shady place;
Yet love invisible bids his path rejoice,
Known, like the sky-lark, by its exquisite voice.
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Moveth in music through the open ear;
And God's good spirit comes to all and each,
With his wings spread upon the winds of speech.
And words, those marvellous ships, whose freight is thought,
Touch at the harbour of their hearts unsought.
But he, in sun-lit silence, fares abroad,
And his dark nature never felt for God;
And no brave galley ever o'er the dim
And formless void hath walk'd the waves to him.
'Twas o'er the sealèd ear, the tongue yet tied,
The Man of Sorrows look'd to heaven and sigh'd.
They, too, have sigh'd, who rear'd that lowly dome,
Where the mute child might find his spirit's home.
They, too, have look'd to Heaven: albeit no tongue
For them were loosed, and no deaf man sung,
Yet there, the cunning finger finely twined
The subtle thread that knitteth mind to mind.
There, that strange bridge of signs was built, where roll
The sunless waves that sever soul from soul,
And by the arch, no bigger than a hand,
Truth travell'd over to the silent land.
What though that tribe can have no poet strong
To steep their sorrow in the wine of song;
Though their dull language never bursts and stirs,
As the gorse bursts out with its golden furze,
And thoughts' poor thorn above life's dusty walk
Hangs down no hawthorn-buds of pleasant talk.
Is not our richer language all too weak?
Are not our best thoughts, thoughts we cannot speak?
The grandest lights that ever lit the seas,
The grandest colour of the forest-trees,
Look in lone beauty to the lone, blue sky,
Unseen, unmiss'd by any mortal eye:
So hath the mute high thoughts unseen abroad,
Beautiful only for the eye of God!—
There, over Reason's silent harp of gold
Moved the wise hand, and out the music roll'd;
There hove in sight through conscience' stormy mist,
That new-discover'd isle, the love of Christ.
There, too, they learn'd that life must never be
Like a bird swinging on a wind-rock'd tree,
But a great earnest thing that wrestles sore,
Till the night cometh when the work is o'er.
And did my gentle Saviour weep erewhile?
Methinks I see Him look to Heaven and smile.
The Man of Sorrows look'd to heaven and sigh'd.
They, too, have sigh'd, who rear'd that lowly dome,
Where the mute child might find his spirit's home.
They, too, have look'd to Heaven: albeit no tongue
For them were loosed, and no deaf man sung,
Yet there, the cunning finger finely twined
The subtle thread that knitteth mind to mind.
There, that strange bridge of signs was built, where roll
The sunless waves that sever soul from soul,
And by the arch, no bigger than a hand,
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What though that tribe can have no poet strong
To steep their sorrow in the wine of song;
Though their dull language never bursts and stirs,
As the gorse bursts out with its golden furze,
And thoughts' poor thorn above life's dusty walk
Hangs down no hawthorn-buds of pleasant talk.
Is not our richer language all too weak?
Are not our best thoughts, thoughts we cannot speak?
The grandest lights that ever lit the seas,
The grandest colour of the forest-trees,
Look in lone beauty to the lone, blue sky,
Unseen, unmiss'd by any mortal eye:
So hath the mute high thoughts unseen abroad,
Beautiful only for the eye of God!—
There, over Reason's silent harp of gold
Moved the wise hand, and out the music roll'd;
There hove in sight through conscience' stormy mist,
That new-discover'd isle, the love of Christ.
There, too, they learn'd that life must never be
Like a bird swinging on a wind-rock'd tree,
But a great earnest thing that wrestles sore,
Till the night cometh when the work is o'er.
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Methinks I see Him look to Heaven and smile.
Smiled He that night, who dust for joy returns,
For life the ashes of so many urns?
Smiled He who brought His little children nigher,
Girt with a glory of consuming fire?
Of old with healing things He sweetly came—
Worketh He now His work with drops of flame?
Often, methinks, the frown our blindness mourns,
Is a smile shadow'd by the crown of thorns.
Oft, just as morning comes with amice grey,
Where we have wrestled till the break of day,
The touch that shrinks our sinews where we stand,
Is a love-token of the bleeding hand.
Cry not in spirit o'er the blacken'd wall,
“Ashes for beauty! Home, and hearts, and all,
Labour, the gift of gold, the work of prayer,
Seek them, thou dreamer, in those ashes there!”
Nay, let thy sorrow take a truer strain,
Who work for God have never work'd in vain.
We write “Resurgam” where our hearts entrust
Love to the cold ground, and give dust to dust.
When thy hopes dying hang with Him who died,
Know that Good Friday hath its Easter-tide,
Nor say, “The Spring is maying on the meadows;
The sunlights sail about the lake of shadows;
The furze is burning goldenly all day,
As if a stream of stars had lost its way;
Each heather'd mountain in the silence weaves
Raiment as purple as the passionate eve's.
But mother's lips are ever making moan
By Swilly's shore, by hills of dark Tyrone;
For the small foot no longer prints the strand,
And the bright eye sees not the purple land,
And the swift step no longer bravely stirs
The pale gold primrose, and the deep red furze;
For her mute child is where no shadows float,
No sunshine silvers any pilgrim's boat,
Nor the great laughter of the deep, salt sea,
Bids him behold, who cannot hear its glee.”
Nay, Hope hath other strains than these in store.
I hear her faintly singing o'er and o'er—
“These from the fire, like those from Herod's sword,
Unconscious martyrs, wait on their dear Lord.
Our love is poorer by those perish'd things,
But He is richer by six priests and kings;
And sweeter strains across His temple pass,
For six new harps are on the sea of glass.”
For life the ashes of so many urns?
Smiled He who brought His little children nigher,
Girt with a glory of consuming fire?
Of old with healing things He sweetly came—
Worketh He now His work with drops of flame?
Often, methinks, the frown our blindness mourns,
Is a smile shadow'd by the crown of thorns.
Oft, just as morning comes with amice grey,
Where we have wrestled till the break of day,
The touch that shrinks our sinews where we stand,
Is a love-token of the bleeding hand.
Cry not in spirit o'er the blacken'd wall,
“Ashes for beauty! Home, and hearts, and all,
Labour, the gift of gold, the work of prayer,
Seek them, thou dreamer, in those ashes there!”
Nay, let thy sorrow take a truer strain,
Who work for God have never work'd in vain.
We write “Resurgam” where our hearts entrust
Love to the cold ground, and give dust to dust.
When thy hopes dying hang with Him who died,
Know that Good Friday hath its Easter-tide,
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The sunlights sail about the lake of shadows;
The furze is burning goldenly all day,
As if a stream of stars had lost its way;
Each heather'd mountain in the silence weaves
Raiment as purple as the passionate eve's.
But mother's lips are ever making moan
By Swilly's shore, by hills of dark Tyrone;
For the small foot no longer prints the strand,
And the bright eye sees not the purple land,
And the swift step no longer bravely stirs
The pale gold primrose, and the deep red furze;
For her mute child is where no shadows float,
No sunshine silvers any pilgrim's boat,
Nor the great laughter of the deep, salt sea,
Bids him behold, who cannot hear its glee.”
Nay, Hope hath other strains than these in store.
I hear her faintly singing o'er and o'er—
“These from the fire, like those from Herod's sword,
Unconscious martyrs, wait on their dear Lord.
Our love is poorer by those perish'd things,
But He is richer by six priests and kings;
And sweeter strains across His temple pass,
For six new harps are on the sea of glass.”
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III. THE VOICE OF THE MOTHER.
Lady, lady,” the mother said,
Low kneeling on the sod;
“I came, I look'd upon my dead,
And yet I thank my God.”
Low kneeling on the sod;
“I came, I look'd upon my dead,
And yet I thank my God.”
And still she wept, and still she knelt—
“The Lord God bless,” said she,
“The hands that work'd, the hearts that felt
For my poor child and me.
“The Lord God bless,” said she,
“The hands that work'd, the hearts that felt
For my poor child and me.
“'Tis not to look upon the place
Where our darling lies at rest,
That brings the salt tears to the face,
The sorrow to the breast.
Where our darling lies at rest,
That brings the salt tears to the face,
The sorrow to the breast.
“'Tis not to tell, in anguish sore,
The manner of his going;
For that brief bitterness is o'er,
And time is ever flowing.
The manner of his going;
For that brief bitterness is o'er,
And time is ever flowing.
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“But, oh, the mother's infinite loss,
Who lays her treasure down,
And knows he never knew the cross
That only wins the crown.
Who lays her treasure down,
And knows he never knew the cross
That only wins the crown.
“And oh, the saltness of her tear
On her christen'd heathen's grave,
Who could not tell to his closed ear
Of Him who waits to save.
On her christen'd heathen's grave,
Who could not tell to his closed ear
Of Him who waits to save.
“How many a time I wept and pray'd
That Christ would wet the clay,
And give the speechless creature aid,
That in my bosom lay.
That Christ would wet the clay,
And give the speechless creature aid,
That in my bosom lay.
“That He would touch the poor ears dim,
The lips so rosy fair,
Would touch them to a sense of Him,—
And Jesus heard my prayer.
The lips so rosy fair,
Would touch them to a sense of Him,—
And Jesus heard my prayer.
“I left him dull as ships afar,
That lie becalm'd in port,
And see the waves beyond the bar
Dash to the winds in sport;
That lie becalm'd in port,
And see the waves beyond the bar
Dash to the winds in sport;
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“I came—a new intelligence
Had touch'd his soul's loose sail,
And, tighten'd by that quickening sense,
Each cord strain'd to the gale.
Had touch'd his soul's loose sail,
And, tighten'd by that quickening sense,
Each cord strain'd to the gale.
“O blessed hope! my speechless boy
Lies in his Saviour's breast;
And what were years of this world's joy
To that one thought of rest?
Lies in his Saviour's breast;
And what were years of this world's joy
To that one thought of rest?
“I hear no more the crackling flame,—
He heard it not at all;
I only know that Jesus came,
And he could hear His call.”
He heard it not at all;
I only know that Jesus came,
And he could hear His call.”
FINIS.
| The Legend of the Golden Prayers and other poems | |