Poems | ||
Miscellaneous Poems.
THE SPIRIT OF THE SNOW.
Of the cloud is lightning born;
From out the darkest earth the brightest roses grow.
Bright sparks from black flints fly,
And from out a leaden sky
Comes the silvery-footed Spirit of the Snow.
As her pearly parachute
Cometh slowly down from heaven, softly floating to and fro;
And the earth emits no sound,
As lightly on the ground
Leaps the silvery-footed Spirit of the Snow.
The mountain's festal head,
As with chaplets of white roses, seems to glow;
And its furrowed cheek grows white
With a feeling of delight,
At the presence of the Spirit of the Snow.
The longing fields grow pale—
The tiny streams that vein them cease to flow;
And the river stays its tide
With wonder and with pride,
To gaze upon the Spirit of the Snow.
The love of field or stream—
She is frolicsome and lightsome as the roe;
She is here and she is there,
On the earth or in the air,
Ever changing, floats the Spirit of the Snow.
Mounts the tallest forest tree—
Out along the giddy branches doth she go;
And her tassels, silver-white,
Down swinging through the night,
Mark the pillow of the Spirit of the Snow.
When the sailor boy at last
Dreams of home in his hammock down below
There she watches in his stead
Till the morning sun shines red,
Then evanishes the Spirit of the Snow.
The minster's topmost spire
With a glory such as sainted foreheads show;
She teaches fanes are given
Thus to lift the heart to heaven,
There to melt like the Spirit of the Snow.
Now beneath the thundering train,
Doth she hear the sweet bells tinkle and the snorting engine blow;
Now she flutters on the breeze,
Till the branches of the trees
Catch the tossed and tangled tresses of the Spirit of the Snow.
Gives the spirit seeming death,
When adown her pallid features fair Decay's damp dew-drops flow;
Can make an army halt,
And trench itself in terror 'gainst the Spirit of the Snow.
In visiting some bower,
She scarce will hide the holly's red, the blackness of the sloe;
But, ah! her awful might,
When down some Alpine height
The hapless hamlet sinks before the Spirit of the Snow.
The turbid rivers brown,
Down to meet the drifting navies of the winter-freighted floe;
Then swift o'er the azure walls
Of the awful waterfalls,
Where Niagara leaps roaring, glides the Spirit of the Snow.
She makes peace o'er all the world—
Makes bloody battle cease awhile, and war's unpitying woe;
Till, its hollow womb within,
The deep dark-mouthed culverin
Encloses, like a cradled child, the Spirit of the Snow.
The fleetly-flying steed—
Now tries the rapid reindeer's strength, and now the camel slow;
Or, ere defiled by earth,
Unto her place of birth,
Returns upon the eagle's wing the Spirit of the Snow
Like the Banshee in her shroud,
Doth the moon her spectral shadow o'er some silent gravestone throw;
Then moans the fitful wail,
And the wanderer grows pale,
Till at morning fades the phantom of the Spirit of the Snow.
She sitteth at the gate
Of some winter-prisoned princess in her palace by the Po;
Who dares not to come forth
Till back unto the North
Flies the beautiful besieger—the Spirit of the Snow.
Like the other sisterhood,
She braves the open cloister when the psalm sounds sweet and low;
When some sister's bier doth pass
From the minster and the Mass,
Soon to sink into the earth, like the Spirit of the Snow.
She will play with girl and boy,
Fly from out their tingling fingers, like white fireballs on the foe;
She will burst in feathery flakes,
And the ruin that she makes
Will but wake the crackling laughter of the Spirit of the Snow.
She will fondle on her breast
The embryo buds awaiting the near Spring's mysterious throe;
So fondly that the first
Of the blossoms that outburst
Will be called the beauteous daughter of the Spirit of the Snow.
Of hearts so warmly pure,
In all the winter weather that this lesser life must know;
That when shines the Sun of Love
From a warmer realm above,
In its light we may dissolve, like the Spirit of the Snow.
TO THE BAY OF DUBLIN.
I've lov'd thee with a trembling fear,
Lest thou, though dear and very dear,
And beauteous as a vision,
Shouldst have some rival far away,
Some matchless wonder of a bay,
Whose sparkling waters ever play
'Neath azure skies elysian.
The rippling magic round these shores,
For whatsoever Love adores
Becomes what Love desireth:
'Tis ignorance of aught beside
That throws enchantment o'er the tide,
And makes my heart respond with pride
To what mine eye admireth.
Whene'er I paced the sloping moss
Of green Killiney, or across
The intervening waters,
Up Howth's brown sides my feet would wend,
To see thy sinuous bosom bend,
Or view thine outstretch'd arms extend
To clasp thine islet daughters;
Beside me stand—How calm and clear
Slept underneath, the green waves, near
The tide-worn rocks' recesses;
Or when they woke, and leapt from land,
Like startled sea-nymphs, hand-in-hand
Seeking the southern silver strand
With floating emerald tresses:
Even on the hills, when evening kissed
The granite peaks to amethyst,
I felt its fatal shadow:
It darkened o'er the brightest rills,
It lowered upon the sunniest hills,
And hid the wingèd song that fills
The moorland and the meadow.
All even Nature's self can do,
And from Gaeta's arch of blue
Borne many a fond memento;
And from each fair and famous scene,
Where Beauty is, and Power hath been,
Along the golden shores between
Misenum and Sorrento:
Fair daughter of a hardier race,
And feel thy winning, well-known grace,
Without my old misgiving;
And as I kneel upon thy strand,
And kiss thy once unvalued hand,
Proclaim earth holds no lovlier land,
Where life is worth the living.
TO ETHNA.
Ethna, my boyhood's dream, my manhood's light,
Pure angel spirit, in whose light I've moved,
Full many a year, along life's darksome night!
Thou wert my star, serenely shining bright
Beyond youth's passing clouds and mists obscure
Thou wert the power that kept my spirit white,
My soul unsoiled, my heart untouched and pure.
Thine was the light from heaven that ever must endure.
No chance, or change can break our mutual ties;
My heart lies spread before thee like a map,
Here roll the tides, and there the mountains rise;
Here dangers frown and there hope's streamlet flies,
And golden promontories cleave the main:
And I have looked into thy lustrous eyes,
And saw the thought thou couldst not all restrain,
A sweet, soft, sympathetic pity for my pain!
From this hour forth, my hopes, my dreams, my cares,
All that I am, and all I e'er may be,
Youth's clustering locks, and age's thin white hairs;
Thou by my side, fair vision, unawares—
Sweet saint—shalt guard me as with angel's wings;
To thee shall rise the morning's hopeful prayers,
The evening hymns, the thoughts that midnight brings,
The worship that like fire out of the warm heart springs.
Thou wilt be with me through the pensive night,
Thou wilt be with me, though far, far away
Some sad mischance may snatch you from my sight,
In every thought thy form shall bear a part,
In every dream thy memory shall unite,
Bride of my soul! and partner of my heart!
Till from the dreadful bow flieth the fatal dart!
For worth that only dwells in heaven above,
And if thou'rt not the Ethna that I paint,
Then thou art not the Ethna that I love;
If thou art not as gentle as the dove,
And good as thou art beautiful, the tooth
Of venomed serpent will not deadlier prove
Than that dark revelation; but in sooth,
Ethna, I wrong thee, dearest, for thy name is Truth.
“NOT KNOWN.”
On receiving through the Post-Office a Returned Letter from an old residence, marked on the envelope, “Not Known.”
As e'er a bard set eyes on—
A glorious sweep of sea and sky,
Near hills and far horizon.
Like Naples was the lovely bay,
The lovely hill like Rio—
And there I lived for many a day
In Campo de Estío.
No human skill had planted;
The trees remained for ever green,
As if they were enchanted:
And so I said to Sweetest-eyes,
My dear, I think that we owe
To fairy hands this paradise
Of Campo de Estío.
I read and rhymed and revelled;
In interchange of work and play,
I built, and drained, and levelled;
“The Pope,” so “happy,” days gone by
(Unlike our ninth Pope Pio),
Was far less happy then than I
In Campo de Estío.
As in the grape wine gathers—
Their mother's eyes in each bright face,
In each light heart, their father's:
Their father, who by some was thought
A literary leo,
Ne'er dreamed he'd be so soon forgot
In Campo de Estío.
A year had scarce gone over,
Since he that sweetest place had left,
And gone—we'll say—to Dover,
When letters came where he had flown.
Returned him from the “P. O.,”
On which was writ, O Heavens! “Not Known
In Campo De Estio!”
A “cintra” home created,
Where scarce a shrub that now is strong
But had its place debated;
Where scarce a flower that now is shown,
But shows his care: O Dio!
And now to be described, “Not known
In Campo de Estìo.”
This fern from Connemara—
That pine so long and widely sought—
This Cedrus deodara—
And busts had brains and brio),
Might keep his name at least alive
In Campo de Estío.
The glorious siege reciting
(Of course I presuppose the case
Of reading and of writing),
I've little doubt the Bard divine
His letters got from Scio,
Inscribed “Not known,” Ah! me, like mine
From Campo de Estío.
Must brave neglect and danger;
When Philip Massinger expired,
The death-list said “a stranger!”
A stranger! yes, on earth, but let
The poet sing laus Deo!—
Heaven's glorious summer waits him yet—
God's “Campo de Estío.”
THE LAY MISSIONER.
My heart as strong to imitate as love,
That half its weakness it could leave, and take
Some spirit's strength, by which to soar above,
A lordly eagle mated with a dove.
Strong-will and warm affection, these be mine;
Without the one no dreams has fancy wove,
Without the other soon these dreams decline,
Weak children of the heart, which fade away and pine!
Affections crowd and people all the past,
And now, even now, they come and haunt me still,
Even from the graves where once my hopes were cast.
But not with spectral features—all aghast—
Come they to fright me; no, with smiles and tears,
And winding arms, and breasts that beat as fast
As once they beat in boyhood's opening years,
Come the departed shades, whose steps my rapt soul hears.
And now, tis nearly noon; yet unsubdued
My heart still kneels and worships, as of yore,
Those twin-fair shapes, the Beautiful and Good!
Valley and mountain, sky and stream, and wood,
And that fair miracle, the human face,
And human nature in its sunniest mood,
Freed from the shade of all things low and base,—
These in my heart still hold their old accustom'd place.
How beats my heart with all its youthful glow,
How one kind act doth make my bosom swell,
And down my cheeks the sweet, warm, glad tears flow.
Enough of self, enough of me you know,
Kind reader, but if thou wouldst further wend,
With me, this wilderness of weak words thro',
Let me depict, before the journey end,
One whom methinks thou'lt love, my brother and my friend.
A Christian Priest, within a Christian fane,
And binds with pure and consecrated hands,
Round earth and heaven, a festal, flowery chain;
A circling western ring of golden light
Weds the two worlds, or as the sunny rain
Of April makes the cloud and clay unite,
Thus links the Priest of God the dark world and the bright.
And should be all men's: as a common sight
We view the brightness of a summer's day,
And think 'tis but its duty to be bright;
But should a genial beam of warming light
Suddenly break from out a wintry sky,
With gratitude we own a new delight,
Quick beats the heart and brighter beams the eye,
And as a boon we hail the splendour from on high.
Whose hearts by icy doubts are chill'd and torn;
They think the virtues of a Christian Priest
Something professional, put on and worn
Even as the vestments of a Sabbath morn:
But should a friend or act or teach as he,
Then is the mind of all its doubting shorn,
The unexpected goodness that they see
Takes root, and bears its fruit, as uncoerced and free!
A youth by baser passions undefiled,
Lit by the light of genius and the glow
Which real feeling leaves where once it smiled;
Firm as a man, yet tender as a child;
Armed at all points by fantasy and thought,
To face the true or soar amid the wild;
By love and labour, as a good man ought,
Ready to pay the price by which dear truth is bought
With formal precept, or with face demure,
But with the unconscious eloquence of look,
Where shines the heart so loving and so pure;
All hearts to love and imitate his worth.
Beside him weaker natures feel secure,
Even as the flower beside the oak peeps forth,
Safe, though the rain descends, and blows the biting North!
Mild, thoughtful, modest, faithful, loving, gay,
Correct, not cold, nor uncontroll'd though free,
But proof to all the lures that round us play,
Even as the sun, that on his azure way
Moveth with steady pace and lofty mien,
Though blushing clouds, like syrens, woo his stay,
Higher and higher through the pure serene,
Till comes the calm of eve and wraps him from the scene.
THE SPIRIT OF THE IDEAL.
Stream on the night-winds as ye float along,
Missioned with hope to man—and with caresses
And grace the sensuous soul that it's arrayed in:
As the light burden of melodious song
Lily doth bend beneath its own pure snow;
Or with its joy, the free heart of a maiden:—
Heavy with all the priceless gifts and graces
God through thy ministration doth bestow.
And rob the heavens of stars for Beauty's eyes?
Do ye not fold within love's pure embraces
For human bliss, or rapture superhuman—
Heaven upon earth, and earth still in the skies?
With tenderest charities and faith sincere,
To feed man's sterile soul and to illumine
With the bright promise of a purer region—
A starlight beacon to a starry sphere?
Of aspirations, and all hopeful sighs
That in the solemn train of grave Religion
And make him feel, as o'er life's sea he wendeth,
The far-off odorous airs of Paradise?—
Unto the seaman, ere its bowers are seen,
Which tells him soon his weary wandering endeth—
By daisied meadows prankt with dewy flowers,
With ever-running rivulets between.
God in his goodness gives into thy hands:—
'Tis from thy fingers fall the diamond showers
June's odorous purple and rich Autumn's gold:
And even when needful Winter wide expands
From the harsh east, 'tis thine, o'er all the plain,
The leafless woodlands and the unsheltered wold,
Heaven's warmest down—around the slumbering seeds,
And o'er the roots the frost-blanched counterpane.
Even the effects, much less the remoter cause,
Still, in the doing of beneficent deeds—
Ever a compensating joy is found.
Think ye the rain-drop heedeth if it draws
Or that the sullen wind will deign to wake
Only Æolian melodies of sound—
Thus do ye act, my sisters; thus ye do
Your cheerful duty for the doing's sake—
See the successful issue of your charms,
Bringing the absent back again to view—
Smoothing the grassy couch in weary age—
Hushing in death's great calm a world's alarms.
Am doomed to act an unrequited part—
I, the unseen preceptress of the sage—
Of all whom God's vocation hath assigned
To wear the sacred vesture of high Art—
From age to age, from race to race, until
The expanding truth encircles all mankind.
Dead, sensuous form without the quickening soul.
What without me the instinctive aim of will?—
What the fine ear and the creative hand?
Most potent spirits free from man's control.
When all his soul o'erflows with holy fire,
When currents of the beautiful and grand
Until the heart of the great world doth feel
The electric shock of his God-kindled lyre:—
Or in the breathless after-pause, a strain
Simpler and sweeter through the hush doth steal—
Or rustling grass, when fragrance fills the air
And all the groves are vocal once again:
The Spirit of high Impulse, and the Soul
Of all conceptions beautiful and rare,
On rapid wings—the Ariel of the Muse—
Dart from the dazzling centre to the pole;
Such as surround God's golden throne, descend
In Titian's skies the boundaries to confuse
In Raphael's forms the human and divine,
Where spirit dawns, and matter seems to end.
They mock the sight, but fall upon the ear
Like tuneful rose-leaves at the day's decline—
Entrance some master of melodious sound,
Till startled men the hymns of angels hear.
Of barren ages, one great steadfast soul
Faithful to me and to his art is found.
Join in my sorrows and respond my sighs;
And let your sobs the funeral dirges toll;
Who, turning off upon some poor pretence,
Some worthless guerdon or some paltry prize,
Sink to the low expedients of an hour,
And barter soul for all the slough of sense,—
And fancy's wing its perfect plume unfurl'd,—
Just when the bud of promise in the flower
When the pure fire that heaven itself outflung
Back to its native empyrean curled,
Ah, me to be subdued when all seemed won—
That I should fly when I would fain have clung.
Here we must part, the deathless lay unsung,
And, more than all, the deathless deed undone.
RECOLLECTIONS.
When all the golden days,
Linked hand-in-hand, like moonlit fays,
Danced o'er the deepening green.
We saw the sun descend,
With smiles that blessings seemed to send
To our near native town.
High o'er the hills at morn—
God's glorious prophet daily born
To preach good will to men—
The gates of night and day—
Join with me, love, and with me say—
Sweet summer time and scene.
When hand-in-hand we went
Slow by the quickening shrubs, intent
To see the buds unfold:
New blossoms on the bough,
And see the water-lilies now
Rise o'er their liquid glass.
The scented briar I pulled,
Or for thy kindred bosom culled
The lily of the vale;—
The golden turned to gray,
Join with me, love, and with me say—
Sweet summer time and scene.
Thou hast one memory still,
Dearer than ever tree or hill
Yet stretched along life's plain.
Flowers, fields, and sunset skies—
To see within our infant's eyes
The awakening of the soul.
By the far breath of thought,
To feel our trembling hearts o'erfraught
With rapture when we heard
A cherub's laugh at play—
Ah! love, thou canst but join and say—
Sweet summer time and scene.
One day I must recall;
One day the brightest of them all,
Must mark with special praise.
The spring attained its close;
And June with many a myriad rose
Incarnadined the bowers:
We left our indoor nooks;
Thou with my papers and my books,
And I thy garden chair;
With countless roses lined;
And where the apple still inclined
Its blossoms o'er the box,
In its stone ring hard by
We took our seats, where save the sky,
And the few forest trees beyond
But flowers and blossoms, and we heard
Nought but the whirring of some bird,
Or the rooks' distant, clamorous caw.
Of our dear infant sleeping near,
And thou wert by to smile and hear,
And speak with innate truth and grace.
My task of echoed song I sung;
Turning the golden southern tongue
Into the iron ore of ours!
The story of the hero proved;
'Twas how the Moorish princess loved,
And how the firm Fernando died.
O day, indeed the happiest day;
Join with me, love, and with me say—
Sweet summer time and scene.
Fond Memory's fast dissolving views;
One picture more before I lose
The radiant outlines as they rose.
And for the hundreth time admire
The rhododendron's cones of fire
Rise round the tree, like torch o'er torch.
Each favourite blossom and perfume—
If the white lilac still doth bloom,
Or the pink hawthorn fadeth out:
The fields of young green corn we've gone;
And by the outer gate, and on
To our dear friend's oft-trodden door.
Till deepening twilight warns us home;
Then once again we backward roam
Calmly and slow the well-known way—
Day's dying gleam upon the hill;
Or listen for the whip-poor-will,
Or the too seldom shy cuckoo.
And muse, and hope, and praise, and pray—
Join with me, love, as then, and say—
Sweet summer time and scene!
Mount Pelier, in the county of Dublin, overlooking Rathfarnham, and more remotely Dundrum. To a brief residence near the latter village the “Recollections” rendered in this poem are to be referred.
Calderon's “El Principe Constante,” translated in the earlier volumes of the author's Calderon. London, 1853.
I do not know the bird to which I have given this Indian name it, however, imitated its note quite distinctly.
DOLORES.
Dead and dark in my breast it lies,
For I miss the heaven of thy smile, Dolores,
And the light of thy brown bright eyes.
Bud or blossom in vain I seek;
For I miss the breath of thy lip, Dolores,
And the blush of thy pearl-pale cheek.
Still and chill is its glowing tide;
For I miss the beating of thine, Dolores,
In the vacant space by my side.
And the rose shall refresh my heart,
When I meet thee again in heaven, Dolores,
Never again to part.
LOST AND FOUND.
Una fair, the moon is gleaming;
Fear no mortal eye, fair Una,
For the very flowers are dreaming.
And the twinkling stars are closing
Up their weary watching glances,
Warders on heaven's walls reposing,
While the glittering foe advances.
Full of throbbings without number;
Come! the tired-out streams are sobbing
Like to children ere they slumber;
And the longing trees inclining,
Seek the earth's too distant bosom;
Sad fate! that keeps from intertwining
The earthly and the aerial blossom.
Round the furze and o'er the heather;
Una, dear, I've sought the fountain
Where we rested oft together;
Ah! the mountain now looks dreary,
Dead and dark where no life liveth;
Ah! the fountain, to the weary,
Now, no more refreshment giveth.
Beauty ever gave to Fancy,
Spirit of the silver water,
Nymph of Nature's necromancy!
Fair enchantress, fond magician,
Is thine every spell-word spoken?
Hast thou closed thy fairy mission?
Is thy potent wand then broken?
Fly no more my prayer resisting!”
Then a trembling voice came near me,
Like a maiden to the trysting,
Like a maiden's feet approaching
Where the lover doth attend her;
Half-forgiving, half-reproaching,
Came that voice so shy and tender.
Change to scorn the love I bore thee?
And the fondest heart beside thee,
And the truest eyes before thee.
And the kindest hands to press thee,
And the instinctive sense to guide thee,
And the purest lips to bless thee,
What, O dreamer! is denied thee?
Hast thou not the full enjoyance
Of thy young heart's fond ambition,
Free from every feared annoyance
Hast thou failed, then, in thy wooing?
Dreamed of some ideal duty,
Is there nought that waits thy doing?—
That dear eyes behold it with thee?
Is the work of life less duteous,
That thou art helped to do it, prithee?
Is the near rapture non-existent,
Because thou dreamest an ideal?
And canst thou for a glimmering distant
Forget the blessings of the real?
Down! and repent thy heart's misprision.”
Scarce had I knelt in tears and tremor,
When the scales fell from off my vision.
There stood my human guardian angel,
Given me by God's benign foreseeing,
While from her lips came life's evangel,
“Live! that each day complete thy being!”
SPRING FLOWERS FROM IRELAND.
I find once more a glad surprise—
A little tiny cup of gold—
Two little lovely violet eyes;
A cup of gold with emeralds set,
Once filled with wine from happier spheres;
Two little eyes so lately wet
With spring's delicious dewy tears.
Now bright with smiles, with tears now dim,
Oh! little cup that once was quaffed
By fay-queens fluttering round thy rim.
I press each silken fringe's fold,
Sweet little eyes once more ye shine;
I kiss thy lip, oh, cup of gold,
And find thee full of Memory's wine.
And see as in the camera's gloom,
The island with its belt of bays,
Its chieftained heights all capped with broom
Which as the living lens it fills,
Now seems a giant charmed to sleep—
Now a broad shield embossed with hills
Upon the bosom of the deep.
When will the shield defend and guard?
Ah, me! prophetic gleams forsake
The once rapt eyes of seer or bard.
Enough, if shunning Samson's fate,
It doth not all its vigour yield;
Enough, if plenteous peace, though late,
May rest beneath the sheltering shield.
Of Keimaneigh's bold rocks uphurled,
I see the golden fruited isles
That gem the queen-lakes of the world;
I see—a gladder sight to me—
By soft Shangânah's silver strand,
The breaking of a sapphire sea
Upon the golden-fretted sand.
Swiftly the fiery train runs through;
Oh! what a glittering sheet of glass!
Oh! what enchantment meets my view!
Till Bray's bright headland bounds the scene.
'Tis Baiæ, by a softer blue!
Gäeta, by a gladder green!
I'm carried in my blissful dream,
To where—a monarch in the air—
The pointed mountain reigns supreme;
There in a spot remote and wild,
I see once more the rustic seat,
Where Carrigoona, like a child,
Sits at the mightier mountain's feet.
That happiest year of many a year,
That first swift year of love and hope,
With her then dear and ever dear,
I sat upon the rustic seat,
The seat an aged bay-tree crowns,
And saw outspreading from our feet
The golden glory of the Downs.
The white-walled chapel glistening near,
The house of God, the homes of men,
The fragrant hay, the ripening ear;
There where there seemed nor sin nor crime,
There in God's sweet and wholesome air—
Strange book to read at such a time—
We read of Vanity's false Fair.
Perceived the skill, admired the art,
Felt them if true, not wholly true,
A truer truth was in our heart.
Save fear and love of One, hath proved
The sage how vain is all below;
And one was there who feared and loved,
And one who loved that she was so.
Fair phantoms crowd the more I gaze,
Oh! cup of gold, with wine o'erflow,
I'll drink to those departed days:
And when I drain the golden cup
To them, to those I ne'er can see,
With wine of hope I'll fill it up,
And drink to days that yet may be.
Now for a draught of warmer wine—
One draught, the sweetest and the last,
Lady, I'll drink to thee and thine.
These flowers that to my breast I fold,
Into my very heart have grown;
To thee I'll drain the cup of gold,
And think the violet eyes thine own
TO THE MEMORY OF FATHER PROUT.
I often think of those pleasant times,
In the days of “Frazer,” ere I touched a razor,
How I read and revell'd in thy racy rhymes;
When in wine and wassail, we to thee were vassal,
Of “Watergrass-hill,” O renowned “P.P.!”
May the bells of Shandon
Toll blithe and bland on
The pleasant waters of thy memory!
In this social city have I heard since then
(With the glass before me, how the dream comes o'er me,
Of those Attic suppers, and those vanished men).
Or hath left a token of such joy in me
As “The Bells of Shandon
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.”
“Young Ireland” wreathed round its rebel sword,
With their deep vibrations and aspirations,
Fling a glorious madness o'er the festive board!
But to me seems sweeter, with a tone completer,
The melodious metre that we owe to thee—
Of the bells of Shandon
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.
Where Moore lies sleeping from his land afar,
And a white stone flashes over Goldsmith's ashes
In the quiet cloisters by Temple Bar:
So where'er thou sleepest, with a love that's deepest,
Shall thy land remember thy sweet song and thee,
While the Bells of Shandon
Shall sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.
THOSE SHANDON BELLS.
Whose deep, sad tone now sobs, now swells—
Who comes to seek this hallowed ground,
And sleep within their sacred sound?
And who in age their praises sung,
Within whose breast their music made
A dream of home where'er he strayed.
To drive all evil things away,
Let doubt be dumb, and envy cease—
And round his grave reign holy peace.
And now these bells repay the debt;
Whene'er they sound, their music tells
Of him who sang sweet Shandon bells!
YOUTH AND AGE.
The soft warm air that wraps them round,
Oh! think how long the toilsome root
Must live and labour 'neath the ground.
With ever deepening strength and force,
Oh! think how long 'twas let to play,
A happy streamlet, near its source.
TO JUNE.
WRITTEN AFTER AN UNGENIAL MAY.
His false-fond song shall charm no more—
My heart henceforth shall but adore
The real, not the misnamed May.
My offerings round an empty name;
O May! thou canst not be the same
As once thou wert when Earth was young.
The poet's dream—the lover's joy:—
The floral heaven of girl and boy
Were heaven no more, if thou wert May.
And, oh! how changed from what she has been—
Then barren boughs are bright with green,
And leaden skies are glad with gold.
Were silvery-threaded tissues bright,
Looping the locks of amber light
That float but on the airs of June.
Thy name is soft and sweet as hers
But a rich blood thy bosom stirs,
Her marble cheek cannot display.
So conscious of her beauty's power,
She now will wear nor gem nor flower
Upon her pallid breast of pearl.
So simply flower'd in white and gold,
She scorns to let our eyes behold,
But hides through very wilfulness:
Hath borrowed from some wintry queen,
Instead of dancing on the green—
A village maiden fair and free.
And made her froward, false, and vain
So that her cold blue eyes disdain
To smile as in the earlier days.
Like me shall tearless turn away,
And woo, instead of thine, O May!
The brown, bright, joyous eyes of June.
My heart's deceptive dream is o'er—
Where I believe I will adore,
Nor worship June, yet kneel to May.
SUNNY DAYS IN WINTER.
Warm, and bright, and pleasant;
But the Past is not a reason
To despise the Present.
So while health can climb the mountain,
And the log lights up the hall,
There are sunny days in Winter, after all!
Maiden-like in charms;
Summer, too, with all her promise,
Perished in our arms.
But the memory of the vanished,
Whom our hearts recall,
Maketh sunny days in Winter, after all!
All the best are dead;
But the wall-flower still perfumeth
Yonder garden-bed.
And the arbutus pearl-blossom'd
Hangs its coral ball—
There are sunny days in Winter, after all!
And I love them well:
But this holly's glistening berry,
None of those excel.
While the fir can warm the landscape,
And the ivy clothes the wall,
There are sunny days in Winter, after all!
Wait the innocent—
Those who taste with love and reason
What their God hath sent.
Those who neither soar too highly,
Nor too lowly fall,
Feel the sunny days of Winter, after all!
Vanish from the heart;
Then, although our once-loved pleasures
One by one depart;
Though the tomb looms in the distance,
And the mourning pall,
There is sunshine, and no Winter, after all!
THE BIRTH OF THE SPRING.
'Tis as hopeful and bright as the summer's first beam:
I dreamt that the World, like yourself, darling dear,
Had presented a son to the happy New Year!
Like yourself, too, the poor mother suffered awhile,
But like yours was the joy, at her baby's first smile,
When the tender nurse, Nature, quick hastened to fling
Her sun-mantle round, as she fondled The Spring.
With their friendly regards, condescended to call:
The rough rains of winter like summer-dews fell,
And the North-wind said, zephyr-like: “Is the World well?”
And the streams ran quick-sparkling to tell o'er the earth
God's goodness to man in this mystical birth;
For a Son of this World, and an heir to the King
Who rules over man, is this beautiful Spring!
More lovely than morning appeared the bright morn;
The birds sang more sweetly, the grass greener grew,
And with buds and with blossoms the old trees looked new;
And methought When the Priest of the Universe came—
The Sun—in his vestments of glory and flame,
He was seen, the warm rain-drops of April to fling
On the brow of the babe, and baptise him The Spring!
In the mines of the past for this wonderful Child!
The lore of the sages, the lays of the bards,
Like a primer, the eye of this infant regards;
All the dearly-bought knowledge that cost life and limb,
Without price, without peril, is offered to him;
And the blithe bee of Progress concealeth its sting,
As it offers its sweets to the beautiful Spring!
Of speed that surpasseth the fairy's fleet wings;
How the lands of the world in communion are brought,
And the slow march of speech is as rapid as thought.
With this wonderful wire 'neath the earth and the sea;
When the snows and the sunshine together shall bring
All the wealth of the world to the feet of The Spring.
That The Master who lives in the Great House above
Prepares for the poor child that's born on His land—
Dear God! they're the sweet flowers that fall from Thy hand—
The crocus, the primrose, the violet given
Awhile, to make earth the reflection of heaven;
The brightness and lightness that round the world wing
Are thine, and are ours too, through thee, happy Spring!
And I wake once again, but, thank God! thou art by;
And the land that we love looks as bright in the beam,
Just as if my sweet dream was not all out a dream,
The spring-tide of Nature its blessing imparts,
Let the spring-tide of Hope send its pulse through our hearts;
Let us feel 'tis a mother, to whose breast we cling,
And a brother we hail, when we welcome the Spring.
ALL FOOLS' DAY.
At the door of his golden-wall'd palace on high;
And he bade him be off, without any delaying,
To a fast-fleeting Cloud on the verge of the sky:
“You will give him this letter,” said roguish Apollo
(While a sly little twinkle contracted his eye),
With my royal regards; and be sure that you follow
Whatsoever his Highness may send in reply.”
Took it coolly, of course—nor in this was he wrong—
But was forced (being a clerk in Apollo's post-office)
To declare (what a bounce!) that he wouldn't be long;
So he went home and dress'd—gave his beard an elision—
Put his scarlet coat on, nicely edged with gold lace;
And thus being equipped, with a postman's precision,
He prepared to set out on his nebulous race.
He lit on earth's high-soaring bird in the dark;
So he tarried a little, like many frail mortals,
Who, when sent on an errand, first go on a lark;
But he broke from the bird—reach'd the cloud in a minute—
Gave the letter and all, as Apollo ordained;
But the Sun's correspondent, on looking within it,
Found, “Send the fool farther,” was all it contained.
Quite a humorist, saw the intent of the Sun;
And was ever too airy—though lofty his station—
To spoil the least taste of the prospect of fun;
So he hemm'd, and he haw'd—took a roll of pure vapour,
Which the light from the beam made as bright as could be,
Like a sheet of the whitest cream golden-edg'd paper),
And wrote a few words, superscribed, “To the Sea.”
“Pray take down to Neptune this letter from me,
For the person you seek—though I lately regaled him—
Now tries a new airing, and dwells by the sea.”
The bright face of Thetis to gladden and greet;
And he plunged in the water a few feet beneath her,
Just to get a sly peep at her beautiful feet.
But the god, though a deep one, was still rather green;
So he took a few moments of steady reflection,
Ere he wholly made out what the missive could mean:
But the date (it was “April the first”) came to save it
From all fear of mistake; so he took pen in hand,
And, transcribing the cruel entreaty, he gave it
To our travel-tired friend, and said, “Bring it to Land.”
When it sent it, post-haste, back again to the sea;
The Sea's hypocritical calmness deceived it,
And sent it once more to the Land on the lea;—
From the Land to the Lake—from the Lakes to the Fountains—
From the Fountains and Streams to the Hills' azure crest,
'Till, at last, a tall Peak on the top of the mountains,
Sent it back to the Cloud in the now golden west.
By the Sun's laughing face, which all purple appears;
Then, amused, yet annoyed at the way he was treated,
He first laughed at the joke, and then burst into tears.
It is thus that this day of mistakes and surprises,
When fools write on foolscap, and wear it the while,
This gay saturnalia for ever arises
'Mid the shower and the sunshine, the tear and the smile.
DARRYNANE.
Down the murmuring slopes of the echoing hill—
Where the eagle looks out from his cloud-crested crags,
And the caverns resound with the panting of stags—
Where the brow of the mountain is purple with heath,
And the mighty Atlantic rolls proudly beneath,
With the foam of its waves like the snowy fenane—
Oh! that is the region of wild Darrynane!
And wild are the sacred recesses of Scariff,
And beauty, and wildness, and grandeur commingle
By Bantry's broad bosom, and wave-wasted Dingle;
But wild as the wildest, and fair as the fairest,
And lit by a lustre that thou alone wearest—
And dear to the eye and the free heart of man
Are the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane!
Does a slave hold the land where a monarch might reign?
Oh! no, by St. Finbar, nor cowards, nor slaves,
Could live in the sound of these free, dashing waves!
A chieftain, the greatest the world has e'er known—
Laurel his coronet—true hearts his throne—
Knowledge his sceptre—a Nation his clan—
O'Connell, the chieftain of proud Darrynane!
Whose waters unite in O'Donoghue's lake—
Streams of Glanflesk and the dark Gishadine
Filling the heart of that valley divine!
Then rushing in one mighty artery down
To the limitless ocean by murmuring Lowne?
Thus Nature unfolds in her mystical plan
A type of the Chieftain of wild Darrynane!
Our hatred of wrong and our worship of right—
The hopes that we cherish, the ills we deplore,
All centre within his heart's innermost core,
Which, gathered in one mighty current, are flung
To the ends of the earth from his thunder-toned tongue!
Till the Indian looks up, and the valiant Afghan
Draws his sword at the echo from far Darrynane!
Who from children's sweet lips truest wisdom can gather,
And seeks from the large heart of Nature to borrow
Rest for the present and strength for the morrow!
Oh! who that e'er saw him with children about him
And heard his soft tones of affection could doubt him?
My life on the truth of the heart of that man
That throbs like the Chieftain's of wild Darrynane!
Shall the glad song of mariners echo once more?
Shall the merchants, and minstrels, and maidens of Spain,
Once again in their swift ships come over the main
Lead our blue-eyed young maidens again to the dance?
Graceful and shy as thy fawns, Killenane,
Are the mind-moulded maidens of far Darrynane!
All the joys I have felt by thy magical shore,
From those lakes of enchantment by oak-clad Glená
To the mountainous passes of bold Iveragh!
Like birds which are lured to a haven of rest,
By those rocks far away on the ocean's bright breast—
Thus my thoughts loved to linger, as memory ran
O'er the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane!
“In the mountains of Slievelougher, and other parts of this county, the country people, towards the end of June, cut the coarse mountain grass, called by them fenane; towards August this grass grows white.”—Smith's Kerry.
The abbey on the grounds of Darrynane was founded in the seventh century by the monks of St. Finbar.
The river Lowne is the only outlet by which all the streams that form the Lakes of Killarney discharge themselves into the sea—Lan, or Lowne, in the old Irish signifying full.
“Killenane lies to the east of Cahir. It has many mountains towards the sea. These mountains are frequented by herds of fallow deer, that range about it in perfect security.” —Smith's Kerry.
The Skellig Rocks. In describing one of them, Keating says “That there is a certain attractive virtue in the soil which draws down all the birds which attempt to fly over it, and obliges them to alight upon the rock.”
A SHAMROCK FROM THE IRISH SHORE.
Go quicker round from door to door;
For thee I watch, for thee I wait,
Like many a weary wanderer more.
Thou bringest news of bale and bliss—
Some life begun, some life well o'er.
He stops—he rings!—O heaven! what's this?—
A shamrock from the Irish shore!
By fresh fond words kept fresh and green;
The pressure of an unfelt hand—
The kisses of a lip unseen;
A throb from my dead mother's heart—
My father's smile revived once more—
Oh, youth! oh, love! oh, hope thou art,
Sweet shamrock from the Irish shore!
Thou mak'st the past be present still:
The emerald lawn—the lime-leaved bower—
The circling shore—the sunlit hill;
The grass, in winter's wintriest hours,
By dewy daisies dimpled o'er,
Half hiding, 'neath their trembling flowers,
The shamrock of the Irish shore!
By queenly Florence, kingly Rome—
By Padua's long and lone arcade—
By Ischia's fires and Adria's foam—
By Spezzia's fatal waves that kissed
My poet sailing calmly o'er;
By all, by each, I mourned and missed
The shamrock of the Irish shore!
Irresolute 'twixt the sand and sea:
I saw upon the trellised roof
Outspread the wine that was to be;
A giant-flowered and glorious tree
I saw the tall magnolia soar;
But there, even there, I longed for thee,
Poor shamrock of the Irish shore!
As lately by the lonely Rance,
At evening as I watch the sun,
I look! I dream! Can this be France
He seems to love to linger o'er;
But gilds, by a remoter sea,
The shamrock on the Irish shore!
That fruitful soil, that verdurous sod—
Where hearts unstained by vulgar crime
Have still a simple faith in God:
Hearts that in pleasure and in pain,
The more they're trod rebound the more,
Like thee, when wet with heaven's own rain,
O shamrock of the Irish shore!
True emblem of my land and race—
Thy small and tender leaves expand
But only in thy native place.
Thou needest for thyself and seed
Soft dews around, kind sunshine o'er;
Transplanted thou'rt the merest weed,
O shamrock of the Irish shore.
Or in the rank, red English clay,
Thou showest a stronger form perchance;
A bolder front thou mayest display,
More able to resist the scythe
That cut so keen, so sharp before;
But then thou art no more the blithe
Bright shamrock of the Irish shore!
Thy trampled tears, thy nameless grave
On Fredericksburg's ensanguined heights,
Or by Potomac's purpled wave!
Ah, me! to think that power malign
Thus turns thy sweet green sap to gore,
And what calm rapture might be thine,
Sweet shamrock of the Irish shore!
True type of trustful love thou art;
Thou liest the whole year at my feet,
To live but one day at my heart.
One day of festal pride to lie
Upon the loved one's heart—what more?
Upon the loved one's heart to die,
O shamrock of the Irish shore!
And shalt thou not, as thou shouldst, be
Placed on thy son's proud heart above
The red rose or the fleur-de-lis?
Yes, from these heights the waters beat,
I vow to press thy cheek once more,
And lie for ever at thy feet,
O shamrock of the Irish shore!
ITALIAN MYRTLES.
The myrtles glisten green and bright,
Gleam with their flowers of snow by day,
And glow with fire-flies through the night,
And yet, despite the cold and heat,
Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet.
Where living myrtles bloom and blow,
Hearts where the fire-fly Love may rest
Within a paradise of snow—
Which yet, despite the cold and heat,
Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet.
Like fire and snow within the pearl—
Let purity and love combine,
O warm, pure-hearted Irish girl!
And in the cold and in the heat
Be ever fresh, and pure, and sweet.
As e'er Italia's bowers can boast,
And though no fire-fly lends its glow—
As on the soft Ligurian coast—
'Tis warmed by an internal heat
Which ever keeps it pure and sweet.
The inner fires alone endure;
Like to the rain that wets the leaves,
Thy very sorrows keep thee pure—
They temper a too ardent heat—
And keep thee ever pure and sweet.
THE IRISH EMIGRANT'S MOTHER.
Oh! come with me, and come with him, the husband of thy daughter;
Oh! come with us, and come with them, the sister and the brother,
Who, prattling climb thy agéd knees, and call thy daughter—mother.
This speck upon the sunbright face of God's sublime creation,
When Labour seeks the poorhouse, and Innocence the prison.
Tis true, God's blessed hand at last a better time is sending;
'Tis true the island's aged face looks happier and younger,
But in the best of days we've known the sickness and the hunger.
Too oft, my mother, have we felt the hand of the bereaver:
Too well remember many a time the mournful task that brought him,
When freshness fanned the summer air, and cooled the glow of autumn.
We bowed with mingled hope and fear to God's wise dispensations;
We felt the gloomiest time was both a promise and a warning,
Just as the darkest hour of night is herald of the morning.
No bird of promise in our hearts the gladsome song awaketh;
No far-off gleams of good light up the hills of expectation—
Nought but the gloom that might precede the world's annihilation.
Down to the ship that wafts us soon to plenty and to freedom;
Forgetting nought of all the past, yet all the past forgiving;
Come, let us leave the dying land, and fly unto the living.
How once its emerald flag flung out a sunburst's fleeting glory
Oh! if that sun will pierce no more the dark clouds that efface it,
Fly where the rising stars of heaven commingle to replace it.
Oh! come with us, and come with him, the husband of thy daughter;
Oh! come with us, and come with them, the sister and the brother,
Who, prattling, climb thy agéd knees, and call thy daughter—mother.”
Go, with the mantling hopes of health and youthful expectation;
Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough the expectant prairies;
Go, in the sacred name of God, and the Blessed Virgin Mary's.
To look upon these darling ones the last time and for ever;
My heart has struck its roots too deep ever to be transplanted.
They twine around the yet green grave where thy father's bones are lying;
Ah! from that sad and sweet embrace no soil on earth can loose 'em,
Though golden harvests gleam on its breast, and golden sands in its bosom.
The crumbling lines that trace your names, my father and my mother;
God's blessing be upon their souls—God grant, my old heart prayeth,
Their names be written in the Book whose writing ne'er decayeth.
Those grand cathedral churches with their marbles and their gildings;
Far fitter than the proudest dome that would hang in splendour o'er me,
Is the simple chapel's white-washed wall, where my people knelt before me.
Like that which God bestowed of old, with milk and honey flowing;
But where are the blessed saints of God, whose lives of his law remind me,
Like Patrick, Brigid, and Columkille, in the land I'd leave behind me?
Leave me here in peace, with my memories and devotions;
Leave me in sight of your father's grave, and as the heavens allied us,
Let not, since we were joined in life, even the grave divide us.
For the mighty fire-ships o'er the sea will bring the expected letter;
And if I need aught for my simple wants, my food or my winter firing,
You will gladly spare from your growing store a little for my requiring.
At every festal season be its gentle form before you;
When the Christmas candle is lighted, and the holly and ivy glisten,
Let your eye look back for a vanished face—for a voice that is silent, listen!
Go, with the mantling hopes of health and youthful expectation;
Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough the expectant prairies;
Go, in the sacred name of God, and the Blessed Virgin Mary's.”
THE RAIN:
A SONG OF PEACE.
Welcome, welcome, it cometh again;
It cometh with green to gladden the plain,
And to wake the sweets in the winding lane.
It fills the flowers to their tiniest vein,
Till they rise from the sod whereon they had lain
Ah, me! ah, me! like an army slain.
Each drop is a link of a diamond chain
That unites the earth with its sin and its stain
To the radiant realm where God doth reign.
Each drop is a tear not shed in vain,
Which the angels weep for the golden grain
All trodden to death on the gory plain;
Will waken the golden seeds again!
But, ah! what power will revive the slain,
Stark lying in death over fair Lorraine?
That you swelled the torrent and flooded the main;
And that Winter, with all his spectral train,
Alone lay camped on the icy plain.
The snow-flag of peace were unfurl'd again;
And the truce would be rung in each loud refrain
Of the blast replacing the bugle's strain.
Thou bringest flowers to the parched-up plain;
Oh! for many a frenzied heart and brain,
Bring peace and love to the world again
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