With the Wild Geese By Emily Lawless: With An Introduction by Stopford A. Brooke |
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LOOKING EASTWARD |
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 | With the Wild Geese |  |
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LOOKING EASTWARD
Written in 1885
Blurred is the arch of sky, mistily grey in the zenith,
Lost and void in the distance, filled with the haze of September.
Few and low gleam the lights, seen through the doors of the cabins,
Small red eyes of flame, set in brown time-wrinkled faces.
Overhead the clouds dart and scatter like sea-birds;
Underfoot, from its caverns, moans and murmurs Atlantic,
Moans and murmurs now, as it murmured and moaned at the dawning.
Eastward to-night I gaze, to where, like a wave grown hard,
Rises a long green ridge, set in the swell of the sea.
Puzzled, unquiet, despondent; wistfully scanning the shadows,
Muffled and lost in their gloom, as my eyes by these veiling vapours.
What are thy destinies, say? what are thy hopes, oh island?
What do the coming years, fraught with unguessable things,
Hold in their swelling bales, Starveling of Fortune, for thee?
Does that implacable star, coldly malignant, remorseless,
Still with its sinister ray beckon thee on to disaster?
Breaking the hearts of thy sons, breaking the hearts of thy lovers?
Lost and void in the distance, filled with the haze of September.
Few and low gleam the lights, seen through the doors of the cabins,
Small red eyes of flame, set in brown time-wrinkled faces.
Overhead the clouds dart and scatter like sea-birds;
Underfoot, from its caverns, moans and murmurs Atlantic,
49
Eastward to-night I gaze, to where, like a wave grown hard,
Rises a long green ridge, set in the swell of the sea.
Puzzled, unquiet, despondent; wistfully scanning the shadows,
Muffled and lost in their gloom, as my eyes by these veiling vapours.
What are thy destinies, say? what are thy hopes, oh island?
What do the coming years, fraught with unguessable things,
Hold in their swelling bales, Starveling of Fortune, for thee?
Does that implacable star, coldly malignant, remorseless,
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Breaking the hearts of thy sons, breaking the hearts of thy lovers?
Never another land but has gathered some bountiful harvests.
Never another race but can boast of its moments of triumph.
Never another shore but some good bark has attained it,
Laden with spices and ore, laden with silks and with jewels,
Argosies rich and rare, argosies worth the unfolding.
Only thou, only thou, hast reaped no fortunate harvests;
Only thou, only thou, hast stood from the dawn to the gloaming
Holding out empty hands, pleading in vain to thy God;
Pleading with pitiful eyes, and a face grown grey with entreaty,
Pressing discomfited lips to the bountiful fountains of mercy,
Brimming, o'erbrimming, for others, parched and delusive for thee.
Century following century, still at the heels of the nations;
Poor, divided, derided; a wit-mark, and sport to the dull.
What, say what hast thou done, land not wanting in beauty?
What, say what hast thou done, race not wanting in spirit?
What antenatal guilt, hid in the womb of creation,
Robbed thee of honour and pelf, robbed thee of peace and of plenty?
Set thee in turbulent seas, hostile to commerce and fortune;
Girded thee in by a race, fortunate truly, and honest,
Noble, and gallant, and free, but narrow and niggard in judgment;
Reared thee a race of thine own, varied in aims as in blood,
Fitted to thrive and combine, forced by implacable fate
Further and further apart, as the years and the decades unroll;
Leaping to greet at a distance; set in the death-grips at home?
Never another race but can boast of its moments of triumph.
Never another shore but some good bark has attained it,
Laden with spices and ore, laden with silks and with jewels,
Argosies rich and rare, argosies worth the unfolding.
Only thou, only thou, hast reaped no fortunate harvests;
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Holding out empty hands, pleading in vain to thy God;
Pleading with pitiful eyes, and a face grown grey with entreaty,
Pressing discomfited lips to the bountiful fountains of mercy,
Brimming, o'erbrimming, for others, parched and delusive for thee.
Century following century, still at the heels of the nations;
Poor, divided, derided; a wit-mark, and sport to the dull.
What, say what hast thou done, land not wanting in beauty?
What, say what hast thou done, race not wanting in spirit?
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Robbed thee of honour and pelf, robbed thee of peace and of plenty?
Set thee in turbulent seas, hostile to commerce and fortune;
Girded thee in by a race, fortunate truly, and honest,
Noble, and gallant, and free, but narrow and niggard in judgment;
Reared thee a race of thine own, varied in aims as in blood,
Fitted to thrive and combine, forced by implacable fate
Further and further apart, as the years and the decades unroll;
Leaping to greet at a distance; set in the death-grips at home?
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Hark, where the angelus sounds from yon little vapour-veiled chapel,
Sounding the note of peace, sounding the call to prayer,
Mark how it sweeps and floats, further and further east,
Carried along and aloft, as if guided and led through the mists,
Guided by grey-winged seraphs, speeded by all the saints.
Hast never a saint of thine own, land not wanting in sanctity,
Never a saint who can plead in yon cloud-hid sessions on high—
Standing erect, not crouching; a suitor not to be daunted,
Urging a manifest plea; claiming a right to be heard?
Then when the claim is made, then when the plea is heard,
Sudden, as when some frost breaks, and the world is glad,
Melting the obdurate ice, hard with the frost of the centuries,
Joy the magician appears; streams awaken and sing.
Wakens that land from its sleep, waken its sons from their stupor,
Rubbing astonished eyes, rid of the nightmare of ages.
Brother no longer 'gainst brother, hurting the heart of their mother;
Neighbour no longer 'gainst neighbour, rousing the scorn of the stranger;
Snatching precarious food from mouths already too empty;
Driving precarious gains from shores already too vacant.
Ah, but what of those sessions? Ah, but what of that suitor?
Was there ever so stalwart a saint, ever so dauntless a pleader;
Strong, persistent, resolved, vowed in the end to prevail?
Nay, I know not, I see not; nought see I but the vapours
Rolling eternally in; heavy, tenacious, unkind;
Thicker and thicker still, hiding the land in their clutches,
Wrapping it carefully round, as a corpse is wrapped in its cere-cloth;
Leaving me, feebly lamenting, here in the mist and the darkness,
Staring with purblind eyes; puzzled, unquiet, despondent.
Sounding the note of peace, sounding the call to prayer,
Mark how it sweeps and floats, further and further east,
Carried along and aloft, as if guided and led through the mists,
Guided by grey-winged seraphs, speeded by all the saints.
Hast never a saint of thine own, land not wanting in sanctity,
Never a saint who can plead in yon cloud-hid sessions on high—
Standing erect, not crouching; a suitor not to be daunted,
Urging a manifest plea; claiming a right to be heard?
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Sudden, as when some frost breaks, and the world is glad,
Melting the obdurate ice, hard with the frost of the centuries,
Joy the magician appears; streams awaken and sing.
Wakens that land from its sleep, waken its sons from their stupor,
Rubbing astonished eyes, rid of the nightmare of ages.
Brother no longer 'gainst brother, hurting the heart of their mother;
Neighbour no longer 'gainst neighbour, rousing the scorn of the stranger;
Snatching precarious food from mouths already too empty;
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Ah, but what of those sessions? Ah, but what of that suitor?
Was there ever so stalwart a saint, ever so dauntless a pleader;
Strong, persistent, resolved, vowed in the end to prevail?
Nay, I know not, I see not; nought see I but the vapours
Rolling eternally in; heavy, tenacious, unkind;
Thicker and thicker still, hiding the land in their clutches,
Wrapping it carefully round, as a corpse is wrapped in its cere-cloth;
Leaving me, feebly lamenting, here in the mist and the darkness,
Staring with purblind eyes; puzzled, unquiet, despondent.
| With the Wild Geese | |