 | Fifty Modern Poems |  |
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VIII. ABBEY ASAROE.
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Grey, grey is Abbey Asaroe, by Ballyshannon town,It has neither door nor window, the walls are broken down;
The carven stones lie scatter'd in briar and nettle-bed;
The only feet are those that come at burial of the dead.
A little rocky rivulet runs murmuring to the tide,
Singing a song of ancient days, in sorrow, not in pride;
The bore-tree and the lightsome ash across the portal grow,
And heaven itself is now the roof of Abbey Asaroe.
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It looks beyond the harbour-stream to Bulban mountain blue;It hears the voice of Erna's fall,—Atlantic breakers too;
High ships go sailing past it; the sturdy clank of oars
Brings in the salmon-boat to haul a net upon the shores;
And this way to his home-creek, when the summer day is done,
The weary fisher sculls his punt across the setting sun;
While green with corn is Sheegus Hill, his cottage white below;
But grey at every season is Abbey Asaroe.
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There stood one day a poor old man above its broken bridge;He heard no running rivulet, he saw no mountain-ridge;
He turn'd his back on Sheegus Hill, and view'd with misty sight
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Under a weary weight of years he bow'd upon his staff,
Perusing in the present time the former's epitaph;
For, grey and wasted like the walls, a figure full of woe,
This man was of the blood of them who founded Asaroe.
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From Derry Gates to Drowas Tower, Tirconnell broad was theirs;Spearmen and plunder, bards and wine, and holy abbot's prayers;
With chanting always in the house which they had builded high
To God and to Saint Bernard,—whereto they came to die.
At worst, no workhouse grave for him! the ruins of his race
Shall rest among the ruin'd stones of this their saintly place.
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Along the rough and crooked lane he crept from Asaroe.
[Asaroe, Eas Aedha-Ruaidh, Cataract of Red Hugh, a famous waterfall on the river Erne, where King Hugh is said to have been drowned about 2300 years ago, gave name to the neighbouring Abbey, founded in the twelfth century.]
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XXIII. HIS TOWN.
A far-off Town my memory haunts,
Shut in by fields of corn and flax,
Like housings gay on elephants
Heaved on the huge hill-backs.
Shut in by fields of corn and flax,
Like housings gay on elephants
Heaved on the huge hill-backs.
How pleasantly that image came!
As down the zigzag road I press'd,
Blithe, but unable yet to claim
His roof from all the rest.
As down the zigzag road I press'd,
Blithe, but unable yet to claim
His roof from all the rest.
And I should see my Friend at home,
Be in the little town at last
Those welcome letters dated from,
Gladdening the two years past.
Be in the little town at last
Those welcome letters dated from,
Gladdening the two years past.
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I recollect the summer-light,
The bridge with poplars at its end,
The slow brook turning left and right,
The greeting of my friend.
The bridge with poplars at its end,
The slow brook turning left and right,
The greeting of my friend.
I found him; he was mine,—his books,
His home, his day, his favourite walk,
The joy of swift-conceiving looks,
The wealth of living talk.
His home, his day, his favourite walk,
The joy of swift-conceiving looks,
The wealth of living talk.
July, no doubt, comes brightly still
On blue-eyed flax and yellowing wheat;
But sorrow shadows vale and hill
Since one heart ceased to beat.
On blue-eyed flax and yellowing wheat;
But sorrow shadows vale and hill
Since one heart ceased to beat.
Is not the climate colder there,
Since that Youth died?—it must be so;
A dumb regret is in the air;
The brook repines to flow.
Since that Youth died?—it must be so;
A dumb regret is in the air;
The brook repines to flow.
Wing'd thither, fancy only sees
An old church on its rising ground,
And underneath two sycamore trees
A little grassy mound.
An old church on its rising ground,
And underneath two sycamore trees
A little grassy mound.
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THE END.
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