The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves :: :: University of Virginia Library

Rash Son, return! Yon shores that dazzle
With glowing pleasaunce, glittering plain,
And crystal keep is not Hy-Brazil,
But some false phantom of the main.
And yon bright band thy vision meeting,
Their warbled welcome hither fleeting—
Oh, trust not to their siren greeting,
Oh, wave not, wave not back again!
But veil thine eyes from their entreating,
And list not their enchanting strain!

My Sovran Sire, no cruel vision
Compels my curragh o'er the deep!
Yea, have we seen the land Elysian,
Hy-Brazil, out of Ocean leap.
None ever knew it smiling nearer,
Or hearkened yet, a blessed hearer,
Its Virgin Chorus chanting clearer
O'er lulled Atlantic's cradled sleep.
That strain again! What psalm sincerer
From Angel harps to Earth could sweep.

With hand to brow the Monarch hoary
Stood rapt upon the Western ray,
Till in a gulf of golden glory
The bright bark melted o'er the bay.
Then cracked the glass of calm asunder!
Then roared the cave the sea cliff under!
Then sprang to shore, with hoofs of thunder,
Mannanan's steeds of ghostly grey.
Yet ere the shock, a cry of wonder,
“Hy-Brazil here!” rose far away.

MORE OF CLOYNE

Little sister, whom the Fay
Hides away within his doon,
Deep below yon tufted fern,
Oh, list and learn my magic tune.

Long ago, when snared like thee
By the Shee, my harp and I
O'er them wove the slumber spell,
Warbling well its lullaby.

Till with dreamy smiles they sank,
Rank on rank, before the strain;
Then I rose from out the rath
And found my path to earth again.

Little sister, to my woe
Hid below among the Shee,
List and learn my magic tune,
That it full soon may succour thee.

THE SONG OF THE FAIRY KING

Bright Queen of Women, oh, come away!
Oh, come to my kingdom strange to see:
Where tresses flow with a golden glow,
And white as snow is the fair body.
Beneath the silky curtains of arching ebon brows,
Soft eyes of sunny azure the heart enthral,
A speech of magic songs to each rosy mouth belongs,
And sorrowful sighing can ne'er befall.

Oh, bright are the blooms of thine own Innisfail,
And green is her garland around the West;
But brighter flowers and greener bowers
Shall all be ours in that country blest.
Or can her streams compare to the runnels rich and rare
Of slow yellow honey and swift red wine,
That softly slip to the longing lip
With magic flow through that land of mine?

We roam the earth in its grief and mirth,
But move unseen of all therein;
For before their gaze there hangs the haze,
The heavy haze of their mortal sin.

But, oh! our age it wastes not; since our beauty tastes not
Of Evil's tempting apple and droops and dies.
Cold death shall slay us never but for ever and for ever
Love's stainless ardours shall illume our eyes.

Then, Queen of Women, oh, come away!
Far, far away to my fairy throne,
To my realm of rest in the magic West,
Where sin and sorrow are all unknown.

THE SONG OF NIAMH OF THE GOLDEN TRESSES

Down in the shades of Lene dark bowering
Hunting red deer through the glades gold flowering;
Oh, Finn! oh, Oscur, our glee!
When on a palfrey milk-white, a whiter one,
Shapely and slight, ah, no shapelier, slighter one,
Waved her sceptre star bright, the far brighter one—
Waved, waved in suppliant plea.

“Niamh am I of the locks gold glittering”—
O, at her cry the birds ceased twittering—
“Sole Child of The King of Youth.
Oiseen's dark eyes in dreams have haunted me,
Oiseen's song streams all day have daunted me!
I, who scatheless of Love long have vaunted me,
Ah! now know his searching truth.”

“Oscur and Finn, this long farewell from me!
Nought now can win this strong, sweet spell from me!
Ochone, ochone, ollalu!”
Panting with love to make my dear bride of her,
Murmuring dove, I leaped to the side of her!
Forth, forth our white palfrey flew.

On through the tangled and tost cloud armament
Into star-spangled deeps of the firmament;
While sweet rang Niamh's lay,
“Come, O Oiseen, where sorrow shadeth not,
Scorn is unseen, and anger upbraideth not;
Come with thy Queen where beauty fadeth not,
Where Youth and Love are for aye!”

THE MAGIC MIST

Dread Bard out of Desmond deep-valleyed,
Whence comest thou chanting to-night,
From thy brow to thy bosom death pallid,
Thine eyes like a seer's star-bright?
And whence, o'er thy guest seat allotted,
These strange, sudden eddies of air,
And why is the quickan flower clotted
Like foam in the flow of thy hair?

“To and fro in high thought on the mountains
I strode in my singing-robe green,
Where Mangerton, father of fountains,
Starts sternly from lovely Loch Lene;

When around me and under and o'er me
Rang melody none may resist;
For rapture I swooned, while before me
Earth faded in magical mist.

“And there my dull body sank sleeping
'Neath quickans of quivering sway,
My soul in her song robe went sweeping
Where Cleena holds court o'er the fay—
The land where all tears are with smiling,
The land where all smiles are with tears,
Where years shrink to days of beguiling,
Days yearn into long, blessed years.”

“Arch minstrel of Desmond, we dread thee,
Lest, lifted to-night in our hall,
The spell of lone music that led thee
To Faery, have fettered us all.”
“Nay, fear not! though Cleena be calling,
I only her clairseach obey.
To earth the earth body is falling,
The soul soars exultant away.”