Irish Songs and Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Irish Songs and Poems

By William Allingham: Second Edition: With Nine Airs for Voice and Pianoforte, and a Permanent Photograph of the Waterfall of Asaroe

Allingham, William (1824-1889)

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[The Western Wind blows free and far]

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THE LADY OF THE SEA.

II.

III.

THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE:

ON A FORENOON OF SPRING.

THE PILOT'S DAUGHTER.

KATE O' BEL-A-SHANNY.

INVITATION TO A PAINTER,

WINNY.

THE MUSIC-MASTER

Part I.

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AN IRISHMAN TO THE NIGHTINGALES.

KITTY O'HEA.

THE ABBOT OF INISFĀLEN.

THE MILKMAID

A DREAM.

THE GIRL'S LAMENTATION.

THE RUINED CHAPEL.

FAIRY HILL,

II.

III.

IV.

UNDER THE GRASS.

THE GOBLIN CHILD OF BELASHANNY.

THE FAIRIES.

THE FAIRY KING.

THE NOBLEMAN'S WEDDING.

LOVELY MARY DONNELLY.

FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO A LITTLE BOY.

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THE MUSIC-MASTER

A LOVE STORY.

TO LEIGH HUNT, WITH AFFECTIONATE REMEMBRANCE.

This was, at least in point of time, the humble precursor of many notable modern poems with music for the warp, as it were, of their interest.

I. Part I.

I

Music and Love!—If lovers hear me sing,
I will for them essay the simple tale,
To hold some fair young listeners in a ring
With echoes gathered from an Irish vale,
Where still, methinks, abide my golden years,
Though I not with them,—far discern'd through tears

II

When evening fell upon the village-street
And brother fields, reposing hand in hand,
Unlike where flaring cities scorn to meet
The kiss of dusk that quiets all the land,
'Twas pleasant laziness to loiter by
Houses and cottages, a friendly spy,

III

And hear the frequent fiddle that would glide
Through jovial mazes of a jig or reel,
Or sink from sob to sob with plaintive slide,
Or mount the steps of swift exulting zeal;
For our old village was with music fill'd
Like any grove where thrushes wont to build.

IV

Mixt with the roar of bellows and of flame,
Perhaps the reed-voice of a clarionet
From forge's open ruddy shutter came;
Or round some hearth were silent people set,
Where the low flute, with plantive quivering, ran
Through tender ‘Colleen Dhas’ or ‘Feilecan.’

V

Or pictured on those bygone, shadowy nights
I see a group of girls at needlework,
Placed round a candle throwing soft half-lights
On the contrasted faces, and the dark
And fair-hair'd heads, a bunch of human flow'rs,
While many a ditty cheers th' industrious hours.

VI

Pianoforte's sound from curtain'd pane
Would join the lofty to the lowly roof
In the sweet links of one harmonious chain;
And often down the street some Glee's old woof,
‘Hope of my heart’—‘Ye Shepherds’—‘Lightly tread,’
Enmesh'd my steps or wrapt me round in bed.

VII

The most delicious chance, if we should hear,
Pour'd from our climbing glen's enfoliaged rocks,
At dusk some solitary bugle, clear,
Remote, and melancholy; echo mocks
The strain delighted, wafting it afar
Up to the threshold of the evening star.

VIII

And Gerald was our music-master's name;
Young Gerald White; whose mother, not long wed,
Only to make him ours by birthright came.
Her Requiescat I have often redd,
Where thickest ivy hangs its ancient pall
Over the dumb and desolate abbey wall.

IX

The father found a music-pupil rare,
More ready still to learn than he to teach
His art no longer was his only care,
But now young Gerald with it, each for each
And with a secret and assiduous joy
The grave musician taught his happy boy.

X

The boy's whole thought to Music lean'd and sway'd;
He heard a minor in the wind at night,
And many a tune the village noises play'd;
The thunder roar'd like bands before the might
Of marching armies; in deep summer calm
The falling brooklet would intone a psalm.

XI

The Chapel organ-loft, his father's seat,
Was to the child his earthly paradise;
And that celestial one that used to greet
His infant dreams, could take no other guise
Than visions of green curtains and gold pipes,
And angels of whom quire girls were the types.

XII

Their fresh young voices from the congregation,
Train'd and combined by simple rules of chant,
And lifted on the harmonious modulation
Roll'd from the lofty organ, ministrant
To sacred triumph, well might bring a thought
Of angels there,—perhaps themselves it brought.

XIII

Poor girls the most were: this one had her nest,
A mountain mavis, in the craggy furze;
Another in close lane must toil and rest,
And never cage-bird's song more fine than hers,
Humming at work all through the busy week,
Set free in Sunday chorus, proud and meek.

XIV

And when young Gerald might adventure forth
Through Music-land,—where hope and memory kiss,
And singing fly beyond the bourne of earth,
And the whole spirit full of aching bliss
Would follow as the parting shrouds reveal
Glimpses ineffable, but soon conceal—

XV

While all the hills, mayhap, and distant plain,
Village and brook were shaded, fold on fold,
With the slow dusk, and on the purpling pane
Soft twilight barr'd with crimson and with gold
Lent to that simple little house of prayer
A richly solemn, a cathedral air;

XVI

His symphonies to suit the dying close
Suffused it with a voice that could not ask
In vain for tears; not ask in vain from those
Who in the dew fulfill'd their pious task,
Kneeling with rosaries beside a grave;
To whom a heavenly comforting it gave.

XVII

Thus village years went by. Day after day
Flow'd, as a stream unvext with storms or floods
Flows by some islet with a hawthorn gray;
Where circling seasons bring a share of buds,
Nests, blossoms, ruddy fruit; and, in their turn,
Of withering leaves and frosty twigs forlorn.

XVIII

So went the years, that never may abide;
Boyhood to manhood, manly prime to age,
Ceaselessly gliding on, as still they glide;
Until the father yields for heritage
(Joyful, yet with a sigh) the master's place
To Gerald—who could higher fortune grace.

XIX

But the shy youth has yet his hours of leisure:
And now, the Spring upon the emerald hills
Dancing with flying clouds, how keen his pleasure,
Plunged in deep glens or tracking upland rills,
Till lessening light recal him from his roaming
To breathe his gather'd secrets to the gloaming.

XX

Spring was around him, and within him too.
Delightful season!—life without a spur
Bounds gaily forward, and the heart is new
As the green wand fresh budded on a fir;
And Nature, into jocund chorus waking,
Bids every young voice to her merry-making.

XXI

Gerald, high echoing this delightful Spring,
Pour'd from his finger-tips electric power
In audible creations swift of wing,
Till sunshine glimpsing through an April shower,
And clouds, and delicate glories, and the bound
Of lucid sky came melting into sound.

XXII

Our ear receives in common with our eye
One Beauty, flowing through a different gate,
With melody its form, and harmony
Its hue; one mystic Beauty is the mate
Of Spirit indivisible, one love
Her look, her voice, her memory do move.

XXIII

Yet sometimes in his playing came a tone
Not learn'd of sun or shadow, wind or brook,
But thoughts so much his own he dared not own,
Nor, prizing much, appraise them; dared not look
In fear to lose an image undefined
That brighten'd every vista of his mind.

XXIV

Two pupils dwelt upon the river-side,
At Cloonamore, a cottage near the rush
Of narrow'd waters breaking from a wide
And pond-like smoothness, brimming green and flush
On dark groves; here for Gerald, truth to say,
His weekly task was more than holiday.

XXV

A quiet home it was; compact and neat
As a wren's nest. A gentle woman's choice
Had built and beautified the green retreat;
But in her labours might she not rejoice,
Being call'd away to other place of rest;
And spent her last breath in a dear behest.

XXVI

That was for her two daughters: she had wed
A plain, rough husband, though a kind and true;
And ‘Dearest Patrick,’ from her dying bed
She whisper'd, ‘Promise me you'll try to do
For Ann and Milly what was at my heart,
If God had spared me to perform my part.’

XXVII

As well as no abundant purse allow'd,
Or as the neighbouring village could supply,
The father kept his promise, and was proud
To see the girls grow up beneath his eye
Two ladies in their culture and their mien;
Though not the less there lay a gulf between.

XXVIII

A spirit unrefined the elder had,
An envious eye, a tongue of petty scorn.
That women these may own—how true! how sad!
And these, though Ann had been a countess born,
Had mark'd her meaner to the dullest sight
Than stands a yellow lily with a white.

XXIX

White lily,—Milly,—darling little girl!
I think I see as once I saw her stand;
The soft hair waving in a single curl
Behind her ear; a kid licking her hand;
Her fair young face with health and racing warm,
And loose frock blown about her slender form.

XXX

The dizzy lark, a dot on the white cloud,
That sprinkles music to the vernal breeze,
Was not more gay than Milly's joyous mood;
The silent lark that starry twilight sees
Cradled among the braird in closest bower,
Not more quiescent than her tranquil hour.

XXXI

Her mind was open, as a flowery cup
That gathers richness from the sun and dew,
To knowledge, and as easily drew up
The wholesome sap of life; unwatch'd it grew,
A lovely blossom in a shady place;
And like her mind, so was her innocent face.

XXXII

At all times fair, it never look'd so fair
As when the holy glow of harmonies
Lighted it through; her spirit as it were
An azure heav'n outshining at her eyes;
With Gerald's tenor, while the fountain sprung
Of her contralto, fresh and pure and young.

XXXIII

In years a child when lessons thus began,
Child is she still, yet nearly woman grown;
For childhood stays with woman more than man,
In voice and cheek and mouth, nor these alone;
And up the sky with no intense revealing
May the great dawn of womanhood come stealing.

XXXIV

Now must the moon of childhood, trembling white,
Faint in the promise of the flushing heaven;
Looks are turn'd eastward, where new orient light
Suffuses all the air with subtle leaven;
And shadowy mountain-paths begin to show
Their unsuspected windings 'mid the glow.

XXXV

Her silky locks have ripen'd into brown,
Her soft blue eyes grown deeper and more shy,
And lightly on her lifted head the crown
Of queenly maidenhood sits meek and high;
Her frank soul lives in her ingenuous voice,
Most purely tuned to sorrow or rejoice.

XXXVI

Within the chapel on a Sunday morn
She bows her mild head near the altar-rail,
And raises up that mild full voice unworn
Into the singing;—should a Sunday fail,
There's one would often mark her empty seat,
There's one would find the anthem incomplete.

XXXVII

Few her companions are, and few her books;
And in a ruin'd convent's circling shade,
The loveliest of tranquil river-nooks,
Where trailing birch, fit bow'r for gentle maid,
And feather'd fir-tree half shut out the stream,
She often sits alone to read or dream.

XXXVIII

Sometimes through leafy lattice she espies
A flitting figure on the other shore;
But ever past th' enchanted precinct hies
That wanderer, and where the rapids roar
Through verdured crags, shelters his beating heart,
Foolishly bent to seek, yet stay apart.

XXXIX

Then Milly can resume her reverie,
About a friend, a friend that she could love;
But finds her broken thought is apt to flee
To what seem other musings; slowly move
The days, and counted days move ever slowest:
Milly! how long ere thy own heart thou knowest?

XL

Sooner than Gerald his. His path-side birds
Are scarcely more unconscious or more shrinking.
Yet would he tell his love in simple words
Did love stand clearly in his simple thinking.
High the discovery, and too high for one
Who counts his life as though not yet begun.

XLI

For all the rest seem sage and busy men;
And he alone despised, and justly too,
Or borne with merely;—could he venture then
To deem this rich inheritance his due?
Slowly the fine and tender soul discerns
Its rareness, and its lofty station learns.

XLII

And now, 'tis on a royal eventide
When the ripe month sets glowing earth and air,
And summer by a stream or thicket side
Twists amber honeysuckles in her hair,—
Gerald and Milly meet by trembling chance,
And step for step are moving, in a trance,

XLIII

Their pathway foliage-curtain'd and moss-grown;
Behind the trees the white flood flashing swift,
Through many moist and ferny rocks flung down,
Roars steadily, where sunlights play and shift.
How oft they stop, how long, they nothing know,
Nor how the pulses of the evening go.

XLIV

Their talk?—the dappled hyacinthine glade
Lit up in points of blue,—the curious treble
That sometimes by the kine's deep throat is made,—
The quail's ‘twit-wit-wit,’ like a hopping pebble
Thrown along ice,—the dragonflies, the birds,
The rustling twig,—all noticed in few words.

XLV

A level pond, inlaid with lucid shadows
Of groves and crannied cliffs and evening sky,
And rural domes of hay, where the green meadows
Slope to embrace its margin peacefully,
The slumb'ring river to the rapid draws;
And here, upon a grassy jut, they pause.

XLVI

How shy a strength is Love's, that so much fears
Its darling secret to itself to own!
Their rapt, illimitable mood appears
A beauteous miracle for each alone;
Exalted high above all range of hope
By the pure soul's eternity of scope.

XLVII

Yet in both hearts a prophecy is breathed
Of how this evening's phantom may arise,
In richer hues than ever sunlight wreathed
On hill or wood or wave: in brimming eyes
The glowing landscape melts away from each;
And full their bosoms swell, too full for speech.

XLVIII

Is it a dream? The countless happy stars
Stand silently into the deepening blue;
In slow procession all the molten bars
Of cloud move down; the air is dim with dew;
Eve scatters roses on the shroud of day;
The common world sinks far and far away.

XLIX

With goodnight kiss the zephyr, half asleep,
Sinks to its cradle in the dusk of trees,
Where river-chimings tolling sweet and deep
Make lullaby, and all field-scents that please
The summer's children float into the gloom
Dream-interwoven in a viewless loom.

L

Clothed with an earnest paleness, not a blush,
And with th' angelic gravity of love,
Each lover's face amid the twilight hush
Is like a saint's whose thoughts are all above
In perfect gratitude for heavenly boon;
And o'er them for a halo comes the moon.

LI

Thus through the leaves and the dim dewy croft
They linger homeward. Flowers around their feet
Bless them, and in the firmament aloft
Night's silent ardours. And an hour too fleet,
Tho' stretching years from all the life before,
Conducts their footsteps to her cottage door.

LII

Thenceforth they meet more timidly?—in truth,
Some lovers might, but all are not the same;
In the clear ether of their simple youth
Steady and white ascends the sacred flame.
They do not shrink hereafter; rather seek
More converse, but with graver voices speak.

LIII

One theme at last preferred to every other,
Joying to talk of that mysterious land
Where each enshrines the image of a mother,
Best of all watchers in the guardian band;
To highest, tenderest thought is freedom given
Amid this unembarrass'd air of Heaven.

LIV

For when a hymn has wing'd itself away
On Palestrina's full-resounding chords,
And at the trellis'd window loiter they,
Deferring their good-night with happy words,
Almost they know, without a throb of fear,
Of spirits in the twilight standing near.

LV

And day by day and week by week pass by,
And Love still poised upon a trembling plume
Floats on the very verge of sovereignty,
Where ev'n a look may call him to assume
The rich apparel and the shining throne,
And claim two loyal subjects for his own.

LVI

Wondrous, that first, full, mutual look of love
Coming ere either looker is aware;
Unbounded trust, a tenderness above
All tenderness; mute music, speechless pray'r;
Life's mystery, reality, and might,
Soft-swimming in a single ray of light!

LVII

When shall it fly, this talismanic gleam,
Which melts like lightning every prison-bar,
Which penetrates the mist with keener beam
Than flows from sun or moon or any star?
Love waits; like vulgar pebble of the ground
Th' imperial gem lies willing to be found.

LVIII

One evening, Gerald came before his hour,
Distrustful of the oft-consulted clock;
And waits, with no companion, till his flow'r—
Keeping the time as one of Flora's flock,
Whose shepherdess, the Sunset Star, doth fold
Each in its leaves—he may again behold,

LIX

Nor thinks it long. Familiar all, and dear,
A sanctity pervades the silent room.
Autumnal is the season of the year;
A mystic softness and love-weighty gloom
Gather with twilight. In a dream he lays
His hand on the piano, dreaming plays.

LX

Most faint and broken sounds at first are stealing
Into the shadowy stillness; wild and slow
Imperfect cadences of captive feeling,
Gathering its strength, and yet afraid to know
Its chance of freedom,—till on murmuring chords
Th' unguarded thought strays forth in passionate words.

LXI

Angel of Music! when our finest speech
Is all too coarse to give the heart relief,
The inmost fountains lie within thy reach,
Soother of every joy and every grief;
And to the stumbling words thou lendest wings
On which aloft th' enfranchised spirit springs.

LXII

Much love may in not many words be told;
And on the sudden love can speak the best.
These mystical melodious buds unfold,
On every petal showing clear imprest
The name of Love. So Gerald sung and play'd
Unconscious of himself, in twilight shade.

LXIII

He has not overheard (O might it be!)
This stifled sobbing at the open door,
Where Milly stands arrested tremblingly
By that which in an instant tells her more
Than all the dumb months mused of; tells it plain
To joy that cannot comprehend its gain.

LXIV

One moment, and they shall be face to face,
Free in the gift of this great confidence,
Wrapt in the throbbing calm of its embrace,
No more to disunite their spirits thence.
The myrtle crown stoops close to either brow,—
But ah! what alien voice distracts them now?

LXV

Her sister comes. And Milly turns away;
Hurriedly bearing to some quiet spot
Her tears and her full heart, longing to lay
On a dim pillow cheeks so moist and hot.
When midnight stars between her curtains gleam
Fair Milly sleeps, and dreams a happy dream.

LXVI

Dream on, poor child! beneath the midnight stars;
O slumber through the kindling of the dawn;
The shadow's on its way; the storm that mars
The lily even now is hurrying on.
All has been long fulfill'd; yet I could weep
At thought of thee so quietly asleep.

LXVII

But Gerald, through the night serenely spread,
Walks quickly home, intoxicate with bliss
Not named and not examined; overhead
The clustering lights of worlds are full of this
New element; the soft wind's dusky wings
Grow warmer on his cheeks, with whisperings.

LXVIII

And yet to-night he has not seen his Love.
His Love—in that one word all comfort dwells;
Reaching from earth to those clear flames above,
And making common food of miracles.
Kind pulsing Nature, touch of Deity,
Sure thou art full of love, which lovers see!

LXIX

Most cruel Nature, so unmoved, so hard,
The while thy children shake with joy or pain!
Thou wilt not forward Love, nor Death retard
One finger-push, for mortal's dearest gain.
Our Gerald, through the night serenely spread,
Walks quickly home, and finds his father dead.

LXX

Great awe must be when the last blow comes down,
Tho' but the ending of a weary strife,
Tho' years on years weigh low the hoary crown
Or sickness tenant all the house of life;
Stupendous ever is the great event,
The frozen form most strangely different!

LXXI

To Gerald follow'd many doleful days,
Like wet clouds moving through a sullen sky.
A vast unlook'd-for change the mind dismays,
And smites its world with instability;
Rocks appear quaking, towers and treasures vain,
Peace foolish, Joy disgusting, Hope insane.

LXXII

For even Cloonamore, that image dear,
Returns to Gerald's mind like its own ghost,
In melancholy garments, drench'd and sere,
Its joy, its colour, and its welcome lost.
Wanting one token sure to lean upon,
(How almost gained!) his happy dream is gone.

LXXIII

Distracted purposes, a homeless band,
Throng in his meditation; now he flies
To rest his soul on Milly's cheek and hand,—
Now he makes outcry on his fantasies
For busy cheats: the lesson not yet learn'd
How Life's true coast from vapour is discern'd.

LXXIV

Ah me! 'tis like the tolling of a bell
To hear it—“Past is past, and gone is gone;”
With looking back afar to see how well
We could have 'scaped our losses, and have won
High fortune. Ever greatest turns on least,
Like Earth's own whirl to atom poles decreased.

LXXV

For in the gloomiest hour a letter came,
Shot arrow-like across the Western sea,
Praising the West; its message was the same
As many a time ere now had languidly
Dropp'd at his feet, but this the rude gale bore
To heart,—Gerald will quit our Irish shore.

LXXVI

And quit his Love whom he completely loves;
Who loves him just as much? Nay, downcast youth!
Nay, dear mild maiden!—Surely it behoves
That somewhere in the day there should be ruth
For innocent blindness?—lead, oh, lead them now
One step, but one!—Their fates do not allow.

LXXVII

The parting scene is brief and frosty dumb.
The unlike sisters stand alike unmoved;
For Milly's soul is wilder'd, weak, and numb,
That reft away which seem'd so dearly proved.
While thought and speech she struggles to recover
Her hand is prest—and he is gone for ever.

LXXVIII

Time speeds: on an October afternoon
Across the well-known view he looks his last;
The valley clothed with peace and fruitful boon,
The chapel where such happy hours were pass'd,
With rainbow-colour'd foliage round its eaves,
And windows all a-glitter through the leaves.

LXXIX

The cottage-smokes, the river;—gaze no more,
Sad heart! although thou canst not, wouldst not shun
The vision future years will oft restore,
Whereon the light of many a summer sun,
The stars of many a winter night shall be
Mingled in one strange sighing memory.

END OF PART I.

Part II.

I

The shadow Death o'er Time's broad dial creeps
With never-halting pace from mark to mark,
Blotting the sunshine; as it coldly sweeps,
Each living symbol melts into the dark,
And changes to the name of what it was;—
Shade-measured light, progression proved by loss.

II

Blithe Spring expanding into Summer's cheer,
Great Summer ripening into Autumn's glow,
The yellow Autumn and the wasted year,
And hoary-headed Winter stooping slow
Under the dark arch up again tò Spring,
Have five times compass'd their appointed ring.

III

See once again our village, with its street
Dozing in dusty sunshine. All around
Is silence; save, for slumber not unmeet,
Some spinning-wheel's continuous whirring sound
From cottage door, where, stretch'd upon his side,
The moveless dog is basking, drowsy-eyed.

IV

The hollyhocks that rise above a wall
Sleep in the richness of their crusted blooms;
Up the hot glass the sluggish blue flies crawl;
The heavy bee is humming into rooms
Through open window, like a sturdy rover,
Bringing with him warm scents of thyme and clover.

V

With herb and flow'r you smell the ripening fruit
In cottage gardens, on the sultry air;
But every bird has vanish'd, hiding mute
In eave and hedgerow; save that here and there
With twitter swift, the sole unrestful thing,
Shoots the dark lightning of a swallow's wing.

VI

Yet in this hour of sunny peacefulness
There's one whom all its influence little calms,
One who now leans in agony to press
His throbbing forehead with his throbbing palms,
Now paces quickly up and down within
The narrow parlour of the village inn.

VII

He thought he could have tranquilly beheld
The scene again. He thought his faithful grief,
Spread level in the soul, could not have swell'd
To find once more a passionate relief.
Three years, they now seem hours, have sigh'd their breath
Since when he heard the tidings of her death.

VIII

Last evening in the latest dusk he came,
A holy pilgrim from a distant land;
And objects of familiar face and name,
As at the wave of a miraculous wand,
Rose round his steps; his bedroom window show'd
His small white birthplace just across the road.

IX

Yet in that room he could not win repose;
The image of the past perplex'd his mind;
Often he sigh'd and turn'd and sometimes rose
To bathe his forehead in the cool night-wind,
And vaguely watch the curtain broad and gray
Lifting anew from the bright scene of day.

X

When creeping sultry hours from noontide go,
He rounds the hawthorn hedge's well-known turn,
Melting in Midsummer its bloomy snow,
And through the chapel gate. His heart forlorn
Draws strength and comfort from the pitying shrine
Whereat he bows with reverential sign.

XI

Behind the chapel, down a sloping hill,
Circling the ancient abbey's ivied walls
The graveyard sleeps. A little gurgling rill
Pour'd through a corner of the ruin, falls
Into a dusky-water'd pond, and lags
With lazy eddies 'mid its yellow flags.

XII

Across this pool, the hollow banks enfold
An orchard, overrun with rankest grass,
Of gnarl'd and mossy apple-trees as old
As th' oldest graves almost; and thither pass
The smooth-worn stepping-stones that give their aid
To many a labourer and milking-maid,

XIII

And not unfrequently to rustic bound
On a more solemn errand. When we see
A suppliant in such universal ground,
Let all be reverence and sympathy;
Assured the life in every real pray'r
Is that which makes our life of life to share.

XIV

But resting in the sunshine very lone
Is each green hummock now, each wooden cross;
And save the rillet in its cup of stone
That poppling falls, and whispers through the moss
Down to the quiet pool, no sound is near
To break the stilliness to Gerald's ear.

XV

The writhen elder spreads its creamy bloom;
The thicket-tangling, tenderest briar-rose
Kisses to air its exquisite perfume
In shy luxuriance; spiry foxglove glows
With elvish crimson;—nor all vainly greet
The eye which unobserved they seem to meet.

XVI

Under the abbey wall he wends his way,
Admitted through a portal arching deep,
To where no roof excludes the common day;
Though some few tombstones in the shadows sleep
Of hoary fibres and a throng of leaves,
Which venerable ivy slowly weaves.

XVII

First hither comes, in piety of heart,
Over his mother's, father's grave to bend,
The faithful exile. Let us stand apart,
While his sincere and humble pray'rs ascend,
As such devout aspirings do, we trust,
To Him who sow'd them in our breathing dust.

XVIII

And veil our very thoughts lest they intrude
(Oh, silent death; oh, living pain full sore!)
Where lies enwrapt in grassy solitude
That gentle matron's grave, of Cloonamore;
And on the stone these added words are seen—
‘Also, her daughter Milly, aged eighteen.’

XIX

Profound the voiceless aching of the breast,
When weary life is like a gray dull eve
Emptied of colour, withering and waste
Around the prostrate soul, too weak to grieve—
Stretch'd far below the tumult and strong cry
Of passion—its lamenting but a sigh.

XX

Grief's mystery desire not to disperse,
Nor wish the secret of the world outspoken;
'Tis not a toy, this vital Universe,
That thus its inner caskets may be broken.
Sorrow and pain, as well as hope and love,
Stretch out of view into the heavens above.

XXI

Yet, oh! the cruel coldness of the grave,
The keen remembrance of the happy past,
The thoughts which are at once tyrant and slave,
The sudden sense that drives the soul aghast,
The drowning horror, and the speechless strife,
That fain would sink to death or rise to life!

XXII

As Gerald lifted up his pallid face,
He grew aware that he was not alone.
Amid the silence of the sacred place
Another form was stooping o'er the stone;
A grayhair'd woman's. When she met his eyes
She shriek'd aloud in her extreme surprise.

XXIII

‘The Holy Mother keep us day and night!
And who is this?—Oh, Master Gerald, dear,
I little thought to ever see this sight!
Warm to the King above I offer here
My praises for the answer He has sent
To all my pray'rs; for now I'll die content!’

XXIV

Then, as if talking to herself, she said,
‘I nursed her when she was a little child.
I smooth'd the pillow of her dying bed.
And just the way that she had often smiled
When sleeping in her cradle—that same look
Was on her face with the last kiss I took.’

XXV

‘'Twas in the days of March,’ she said again.
‘And so it is the sweetest blossom dies,
The wrinkled leaf hangs on, though falling fain.
I thought your hand would close my poor old eyes,
And not that I'd be sitting in the sun
Beside your grave,—the Lord's good will be done!’

XXVI

Thus incoherently the woman spoke,
With many interjections full of woe;
And wrapping herself up within her cloak
Began to rock her body to and fro;
And moaning softly, seem'd to lose all sense
Of outward life in memories so intense.

XXVII

Till Gerald burst his silence and exclaim'd,
With the most poignant earnestness of tone,
‘O nurse, I loved her!—though I never named
The name of love to her, or any one.
'Tis to her grave here—’ He could say no more,
But these few words a load of meaning bore.

XXVIII

Beside the tombstone mute they both remain'd.
At last the woman rose, and coming near,
Said with a tender voice that had regain'd
A tremulous calm, ‘Then you must surely hear
The whole from first to last, cushla-ma-chree;
For God has brought together you and me.’

XXIX

And there she told him all the moving tale,
Broken with many tears and sobs and sighs;
How gentle Milly's health began to fail;
How a sad sweetness grew within her eyes,
And trembled on her mouth, so kind and meek,
And flush'd across her pale and patient cheek.

XXX

And how about this time her sister Ann
‘Entered Religion,’ and her father's thought
Refused in Milly's face or voice to scan,
Or once so lively step, the change that wrought;
Until a sad conviction flew at last,
And with a barb into his bosom pass'd.

XXXI

Then, with most anxious haste, her dear old nurse
Was sent for to become her nurse again;
But still the pretty one grew worse and worse.
For with a gradual lapsing, free of pain,
And slow removes, that fond eyes would not see,
Crept on the hopeful, hopeless malady.

XXXII

Spring came, and brought no gift of life to her,
Of all it lavish'd in the fields and woods.
Yet she was cheer'd when birds began to stir
About the shrubbery, and the pale gold buds
Burst on the willows, and with hearty toil
The ploughing teams upturn'd the sluggish soil.

XXXIII

‘'Twas on a cold March evening, well I mind,’
The nurse went on, ‘we sat and watch'd together
The long gray sky; and then the sun behind
The clouds shone down, though not like summer weather,
On the hills far away. I can't tell why,
But of a sudden I began to cry.

XXXIV

‘I dried my tears before I turn'd to her,
But then I saw that her eyes too were wet,
And pale her face, and calm without a stir;
Whilst on the lighted hills her look was set.
Where strange beyond the cold dark fields they lay,
As if her thoughts, too, journey'd far away.

XXXV

‘After a while she ask'd me to unlock
A drawer, and bring a little parcel out.
I knew it was of it she wish'd to talk,
But long she held it in her hand in doubt;
And whilst she strove, there came a blush and spread
Her face and neck with a too passing red.

XXXVI

‘At length she put her other hand in mine;
“Dear nurse,” she said, “I'm sure I need not ask
Your promise to fulfil what I design
To make my last request, and your last task.
You knew young Master Gerald” (here her speech
Grew plain) “that used to come here once to teach?”

XXXVII

‘I said I knew you well; and she went on,—
“Then listen: if you ever see him more,
And he should speak of days long past and gone,
And of his scholars and his friends before—
Should ask you questions—knowing what you've been
To me,—Oh! could I tell you what I mean!”

XXXVIII

‘But, sir, I understood her meaning well;
Not from her words so much as from her eyes.
I saw it all; my heart began to swell,
I took her in my arms with many sighs
And murmurs, and she lean'd upon my neck
Till we both cried our fill without a check.

XXXIX

‘She saw I knew her mind, and bade me give
Into your hand, if things should so befall,
The parcel:—else, as long as I should live,
It was to be a secret kept from all,
And say you never wrote, never return'd,
When my last hour drew near, was to be burn'd.

XL

‘I promised to observe her wishes duly;
But said I hoped in God that she would still
Live many years beyond myself. And truly
While she was speaking, like a miracle
Her countenance lost every sickly trace.
Ah, dear! 'twas setting light was in her face.

XLI

‘She told me she was tired, and went to bed,
And I sat watching by her until dark,
And then I lit her lamp, and round her head
Let down the curtains. 'Twas my glad remark
How softly she was breathing, and my mind
Was full of hope and comfort,—but we're blind!

XLII

‘The night wore on, and I had fall'n asleep,
When about three o'clock I heard a noise
And sprang up quickly. In the silence deep
Was some one praying with a calm weak voice;
Her own voice, though not sounding just the same;
And in the pray'r I surely heard your name.

XLIII

‘Sweet Heaven! we scarce had time to fetch the priest.
How sadly through the shutters of that room
Crept in the blessed daylight from the east
To us that sat there weeping in the gloom;
And touch'd the close-shut eyes and peaceful brow,
But brought no fear of her being restless now.

XLIV

‘The wake was quiet. Noiseless went the hours
Where she was lying stretch'd so still and white;
And near the bed, a glass with some Spring flowers
From her own little garden. Day and night
I watch'd, until they took my lamb away,
The child here by the mother's side to lay.

XLV

‘The holy angels make your bed, my dear!
But little call have we to pray for you:
Pray you for him that's left behind you here,
To have his heart consoled with heavenly dew!
And pray too for your poor old nurse, asthore;
Your own true mother scarce could love you more!’

XLVI

Slow were their feet amongst the many graves,
Over the stile and up the chapel-walk,
Where stood the poplars with their timid leaves
Hung motionless on every slender stalk.
The air in one hot calm appear'd to lie,
And thunder mutter'd in the heavy sky.

XLVII

Along the street was heard the laughing sound
Of boys at play, who knew no thought of death;
Deliberate-stepping cows, to milking bound,
Lifted their heads and low'd with fragrant breath;
The women knitting at their thresholds cast
A look upon our stranger as he pass'd.

XLVIII

Scarce had the mourners time a roof to gain,
When, with electric glare and thunder-crash,
Heavy and straight and fierce came down the rain,
Soaking the white road with its sudden plash,
Driving all folk within-doors at a race,
And making every kennel gush apace.

XLIX

The storm withdrew as quickly as it came,
And through the broken clouds a brilliant ray
Glow'd o'er the dripping earth in yellow flame,
And flush'd the village panes with parting day.
Sudden and full that swimming lustre shone
Into the room where Gerald sat alone.

L

The door is lock'd, and on the table lies
The open parcel. Long he wanted strength
To trust its secrets to his feverish eyes;
But now the message is convey'd at length;—
A note; a case; and folded with them there
One finest ringlet of brown-auburn hair.

LI

The case holds Milly's portrait—her reflection:
Lips lightly parted, as about to speak;
The frank broad brow, young eyes of grave affection,
Even the tender shadow on the cheek:
Swift image of a moment snatch'd from Time,
Fix'd by a sunbeam in eternal prime.

LII

The note ran thus, ‘Dear Gerald, near my death,
I feel that like a Spirit's words are these,
In which I say, that I have perfect faith
In your true love for me,—as God, who sees
The secrets of all hearts, can see in mine
That fondest truth which sends this feeble sign.

LIII

‘I do not think that He will take away,
Even in Heaven, this precious earthly love;
Surely He sends its pure and blissful ray
Down as a message from the world above.
Perhaps it is the full light drawing near
Which makes the doubting Past at length grow clear.

LIV

‘We might have been so happy!—But His will
Said no, who orders all things for the best.
O may His power into your soul instil
A peace like this of which I am possess'd!
And may He bless you, love, for evermore,
And guide you safely to His heavenly shore!’

LV

Hard sits the downy pillow to a head
Aching with memories. And Gerald sought
The mournful paths where happy hours had fled,—
Pacing through silent labyrinths of thought.
Yet sometimes, in his loneliness of grief,
The richness of the loss came like relief.

LVI

Minutely he recall'd, with tender pride,
How one day—which is gone for evermore—
Among his bunch of wild flowers left aside,
He found a dark carnation, seen before
In Milly's girdle,—but alas, too dull
To read its crimson cypher in the full!

LVII

She smiled, the centre of a summer's eve:
She sung, with all her countenance a-glow,
In her own room, and he could half believe
The voice did far-off in the darkness flow:
He saw her stretch'd in a most silent place,
With the calm light of prayer upon her face.

LVIII

All this night long the water-drops he heard
Vary their talk of chiming syllables.
Dripping into the butt; and in the yard
The ducks gabbling at daylight; till the spells
Of misty sense recall'd a childish illness
When the same noises broke the watching stillness.

LIX

Wellnigh he hoped that he had sadly dream'd,
And all the interval was but a shade.
But now the slow dawn through his window gleam'd,
And whilst in dear oblivion he was laid,
And Morning rose, parting the vapours dim,
A happy heavenly vision came to him.

LX

Kind boons of comfort may in dream descend,
Nor wholly vanish in the broad daylight.
—When this our little story hath an end,
That flickers like a dream in woof of night,
Its slender memory may perchance be wrought
Among the tougher threads of waking thought?

LXI

Thus Gerald came and went. Till far away,
His coming and his errand were not told.
And years had left behind that sunny day,
Ere some one from the New World to the Old
Brought news of him, in a great Southern town,
Assiduous there, but seeking no renown.

LXII

After another silent interval,
The little daily lottery of the post
Gave me a prize; from one who at the call
Of ‘Westward ho!’ had left our fair green coast,
With comrades eager as himself to press
Into the rough unharrow'd wilderness.

LXIII

‘Through these old forests’ (thus he wrote) ‘we came
One sundown to a clearing. Western light
Burn'd in the pine-tops with a fading flame
Over untrodden regions, and dusk night
Out of the solemn woods appear'd to rise
To some strange music, full of quivering sighs.

LXIV

‘Such must have been the atmosphere, we thought,
The visionary light of ancient years,
When Red Man east or west encounter'd nought
Save bear and squirrel, with their wild compeers.
But other life was now; and soon we found
The little citadel of this new ground.

LXV

‘The neat log-cabin from its wall of pines
Look'd out upon a space of corn and grass
Yet thick with stumps; 'twas eaved with running vines,
As though among the vanquish'd woods to pass
For something native. Drawing to its door,
We question'd of the mystic sounds no more.

LXVI

‘They blended with the twilight and the trees,
At hand, around, above, and far away,
So that at first we thought it was the breeze
Hymning its vespers in the forest gray;
But now we heard not airy strains alone,
But human feeling throb in every tone.

LXVII

‘A swelling agony of tearful strife
Being wearied out and hush'd—from the profound
Arose a music deep as love or life,
That spread into a placid lake of sound,
And took the infinite into its breast,
With Earth and Heaven in one embrace at rest;

LXVIII

‘And then the flute-notes fail'd. Approaching slow,
Whom found we seated in the threshold shade?
Gerald,—our Music-Master long ago
In poor old Ireland; much inquiry made
Along our track for him had proved in vain;
And here at once we grasp'd his hand again!

LXIX

‘And he received us with the warmth of heart
Our brothers lose not under any sky.
But what was strange, he did not stare or start
As if astonish'd, when, so suddenly,
Long-miss'd familiar faces from the wood
Emerged like ghosts, and at his elbow stood.

LXX

‘'Twas like a man who joyfully was greeting
(So thought I) some not unexpected friends.
And yet he had not known our chance of meeting
More than had we: but soon he made amends
For lack of wonder, by the dextrous zeal
That put before us no unwelcome meal.

LXXI

‘We gave him all our news, and in return
He told us how he lived,—a lonely life!
Miles from a neighbour, sow'd and reap'd his corn,
And hardy grew. One spoke about a wife
To cheer him in that solitary wild,
But Gerald only shook his head and smiled.

LXXII

‘Next dawn, when each one of our little band
Had on a mighty Walnut carved his name,—
Henceforth a sacred tree, he said, to stand
'Mid his enlarging bounds,—the moment came
For farewell words. But long, behind our backs,
We heard the echoes of his swinging axe.’

Took conventual vows.