With the Wild Geese By Emily Lawless: With An Introduction by Stopford A. Brooke |
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TO A TUFT OF WHITE BOG-COTTON,
GROWING IN
THE TYROL |
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 | With the Wild Geese |  |
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TO A TUFT OF WHITE BOG-COTTON, GROWING IN THE TYROL
Written in 1886
And is it thou? small playmate of the fens,
Child of damp haunts, and pallid sea-borne fogs,
Light flutterer over dank and oozy glens,
White-tufted, starry friend of Irish bogs!
What dost thou, tossed upon this mountain here,
Flaunting thy white crest in this alien air?
Thy little pennon swelled by this loud breeze
Far out of reach of every low compeer;
Far from thy barren moor lands, waste and bare,
And distant moan of sullen Celtic seas?
Child of damp haunts, and pallid sea-borne fogs,
Light flutterer over dank and oozy glens,
White-tufted, starry friend of Irish bogs!
What dost thou, tossed upon this mountain here,
Flaunting thy white crest in this alien air?
Thy little pennon swelled by this loud breeze
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Far from thy barren moor lands, waste and bare,
And distant moan of sullen Celtic seas?
Shall brawling torrent, lost to every beam,
White with its spoil of glacier and moraine,
Serve thee as well as some slow-moving stream
Brown with its brimming toll of recent rain,
Yet clear as beads that on mid-ocean float,
And sad as airs which flow from Sorrow's pipe,
Sad as when from green hills one plaintive bleat
Wakens the silence with its homeless note,
And listening plovers wheel, and summer snipe
Fret thy cold shallows with their hovering feet.
White with its spoil of glacier and moraine,
Serve thee as well as some slow-moving stream
Brown with its brimming toll of recent rain,
Yet clear as beads that on mid-ocean float,
And sad as airs which flow from Sorrow's pipe,
Sad as when from green hills one plaintive bleat
Wakens the silence with its homeless note,
And listening plovers wheel, and summer snipe
Fret thy cold shallows with their hovering feet.
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Yet ask me not what thy small plumes recall,
Nay, hush! have pity! waken not that moan;
Wake not the dead Past underneath its pall,
Wake not sick Sorrow where she sleeps alone.
For there are fields no sun hath ever blessed,
And there are days whose memory wakes no strain
But the long murmurs of a vanquished host,
For whose return no altar fires are dressed,
And Echo only sends back sobs of pain,
And winds are fraught with sighs of battles lost.
Nay, hush! have pity! waken not that moan;
Wake not the dead Past underneath its pall,
Wake not sick Sorrow where she sleeps alone.
For there are fields no sun hath ever blessed,
And there are days whose memory wakes no strain
But the long murmurs of a vanquished host,
For whose return no altar fires are dressed,
And Echo only sends back sobs of pain,
And winds are fraught with sighs of battles lost.
Lost! lost! for ever lost! How sound they sleep,
How sound, dear God, who fought so well in vain!
Little they heed if we their memory keep,
Little they heed, brave hearts, the loss or gain.
For us, and not for them, that past still frowns;
For us, and not for them, its vapours coil;
To us and not to them the shame appears
That heroes fell, yet won no hero crowns,
That blood flowed but to gorge the thankless soil,
And Sorrow's self half blushed to own her tears.
How sound, dear God, who fought so well in vain!
Little they heed if we their memory keep,
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For us, and not for them, that past still frowns;
For us, and not for them, its vapours coil;
To us and not to them the shame appears
That heroes fell, yet won no hero crowns,
That blood flowed but to gorge the thankless soil,
And Sorrow's self half blushed to own her tears.
Yet Sorrow still is Sorrow. And for this,
For her soft sake who holds us all in thrall,
Whose thin cold cheek e'en kings are bound to kiss,
Who with her quick tear dews the lowliest pall;
For her yon land still keeps its deathless charm,
A hovering charm, faint as lone airs which blow
E'en in the very ear of trancèd death;
So that, however oft we raise that psalm,
Still at the oft-told tale the tear-drops flow,
And listening Pity sighs her tenderest breath.
For her soft sake who holds us all in thrall,
Whose thin cold cheek e'en kings are bound to kiss,
Who with her quick tear dews the lowliest pall;
For her yon land still keeps its deathless charm,
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E'en in the very ear of trancèd death;
So that, however oft we raise that psalm,
Still at the oft-told tale the tear-drops flow,
And listening Pity sighs her tenderest breath.
Then, little plume, uplift thy modest crown,
Nor here alone exalt that snow-white head,
But in yon western land of sad renown,
Whose only wealth is its forgotten dead.
For never Fortune showed one steadfast frown,
Nor ever Loss but hid some secret gain,
Nor Woe but, turning, caught a glad surprise,
Though every tongue conspired to blight renown,
And every memory was fraught with pain,
And every breath defamed those low sweet skies.
Nor here alone exalt that snow-white head,
But in yon western land of sad renown,
Whose only wealth is its forgotten dead.
For never Fortune showed one steadfast frown,
Nor ever Loss but hid some secret gain,
Nor Woe but, turning, caught a glad surprise,
Though every tongue conspired to blight renown,
And every memory was fraught with pain,
And every breath defamed those low sweet skies.
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For Time is with us. Time who gilds the wheat,
And rounds the year, and stays the raving blast;
Time, o'er whose breast the hurrying moments fleet,
Before whose car all trophies fall at last.
So that at last, across that sad green plain,
Charming all hearts with her enchanted eyes,
Charming e'en memory till its throbbings cease,
Bringing all good things with her in her train,
Soothing the stricken, strengthening the wise,
Slowly comes on the winged form of Peace.
And rounds the year, and stays the raving blast;
Time, o'er whose breast the hurrying moments fleet,
Before whose car all trophies fall at last.
So that at last, across that sad green plain,
Charming all hearts with her enchanted eyes,
Charming e'en memory till its throbbings cease,
Bringing all good things with her in her train,
Soothing the stricken, strengthening the wise,
Slowly comes on the winged form of Peace.
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