CONTENTS. GENERAL POEMS. PACK INTRODUCTION, . . . . . . . vii In the Twilight, 1 The Inn 4 Last Moments, ......... 7 The Lilies 10 Geraldine's Garden, ........ 12 April, 15 Drifting, 17 Amy's Swallow, . . . . ... . 19 The Old Violin, 21 The Bird's Nest, . 23 Marguerite, . .. 25 My Jack, 27 The Swallow 30 Where? 33 Goethe's House, 35 M585139 iv CONTENTS. PACK Waiting, 39 A Voice, 41 Three Times, 42 The Fuchsia, 48 The Old House by the Mere, 59 A July Dawn, 54 Guesses 56 To Spring, 58 Happy Christmases, '.''. 60 By the Turnstile, 59 The Dead Kose 7! At the Inn, ....... 74 May, 76 Under the Chestnuts, ...... 78 God help Her I ...... 80 Alice's Keepsake, 86 The Manse 88 The Picture, ..... 90 POEMS RELATING TO IRELAND. A Vision, 95 The Mountain Pass, 97 The Four Masters, !01 Ossian, . I04 The Wicklow Septs, 10 8 Home Sick ' 115 The Return, ^7 St Malachy, . , f . . _ - CONTENTS. v PAGE Exiles, 122 Adare, . 125 True to Death, 129 In the Night Time, 132 In Exile 137 Goldsmith's Grave, 140 A Canadian Festival, 145 Luggelaw, 156 The Question, 159 Dead, 163 Edward Martin, 166 To in Penal Servitude, 169 St Isidore Manuscripts, . . . . . . . 172 The Flight of the Celt, 178 A Spinning Song, . 182 Limerick Town, 184 A Traitor, 189 The Dancing Master, 1 92 On the Ramparts 194 The Founding of the Monastery of Donegal, . . . 198 An Interview, 201 John Mitchel, 204 An Australian Message, 209 Reminiscences of a Day, . . . . . . . 212 The Four-Leaved Shamrock, 216 Our Faith Our Fatherland, 219 Tombs in the Church of Montorio, 222 The Green Gift 225 Christmas Dreams in Canadn, ...... 226 CONTENTS. An Irish Deathbed in Canada, Back to the Green Shore, . The Treaty Stone, Ireland My Fiddle, Not Dead, Resurrection ! . PAGE 232 235 238 242 246 249 252 POEMS. BY JOHN FRANCIS O'DONNELL. " Had he but lived, he might have left a book Worthy to be his monument." The Music Lesson. J. F. O'DoNiNELL. WITH INTRODUCTION BY RICHARD DOW LING. LONDON: WARD & DOWNEY, 12 YORK STREET, CO VENT GARDEN. 1891. ED1NBURGE1 : COLSTON AND COMPANY, PRINTERS. INTRODUCTION. IN 1888 Mr Michael MacDonagh began a course of articles in the Dublin Evening Telegraph on " Irish Graves in England." Mr John T. Kelly, Secretary of the Southwark Irish Literary Club, wrote Mr MacDonagh expressing a hope that John Francis O'Donnell's grave would not be forgotten. Mr MacDonagh replied that it was the sight of O'Donnell's neglected grave which suggested the series to him. Thereupon Mr Kelly conceived the idea of putting the grave in seemly order. He called a meeting of the Southwark Irish Literary Club for the purpose of raising a memorial to " Caviare." Mr John Augustus O'Shea drew up an impassioned appeal for aid. The appeal was printed and cir- culated, and letters of sympathy and promises of help came in from many admirers. The grave was put in a more decent condition, and then arose the question of raising a memorial to the poet. Out of those gentlemen who had responded to the call the following were formed into a com- viii INTRODUCTION. mittee : Mr John Barry, M.P. ; Mr Daniel Crilly, M.P. ; Mr F. A. Fahy, Mr John Finucane, M.P. ; Mr E. Fitzpatrick, A.H.RA. ; Mr John T. Kelly, Mr Michael MacDonagh, The Rev. C. P. Meehan, M.R.I.A.; The Very Rev. Canon O'Hanlon, M.R.I.A.; Mr F. A. O'Keeffe, Mayor of Limerick ; Mr J. G. O'Keeffe, Mr John Augustus O'Shea, Mr J. M. Reynolds, The Rev. Matthew Russell, S.J.; Mr T. D. Sullivan, M.P., and the writer. Mr O'Shea was chosen Chairman, Mr 'Kelly, Secretary, and Mr MacDonagh, Treasurer. On Mr Kelly fell the weight of the undertaking. He not only acted as Secretary to the Committee, but also as literary executor to the poet. He got together, with much patience and'pains, the poems which form the present collection. In the latter department of his labour he received most material assistance from Father Russell, Mr T. D. Sullivan, Mr MacDonagh, Mr Crilly, and Mr J. G. O'Keeffe. Mr John H. O'Donnell, son of the poet, placed at Mr Kelly's disposal a collection of his father's verses cut from magazines and newspapers. For months Mr Kelly devoted the scanty leisure of his days to the object he had at heart. He ransacked the British Museum, transcribed hundreds of poems, and entered into correspondence with people who could give him copies of verses, or supply information 'on the subject of his research. A notion may be formed of the labour expended from the fact that he has had to exclude for want of room, a greater mass of MS. than would make three volumes as bulky as this one. INTRODUCTION. ix As soon as all the trouble was over, and the pleasant part appeared in sight, Mr Kelly placed his notes, memoranda, and proofs of the book all completed, in my hands, asking me to write a few pages of introductory matter. I demurred, on the grounds that other members of the Committee were infinitely better qualified for the work, and possessed higher claims upon the privilege ; that I had not made O'Donnell's acquaintance until a few years before his death ; and that I had no new sources of information to draw on beyond a bundle of O'Donnell's letters. Mr Kelly still urged me, and I, being only too willing, in the end consented. " What you say about my * book ' is cheering, but I don't like you to live for a moment under a wrong impression. Towards the production of the volume I would not be able to contribute a stiver, and that is why I begged you to tender it to X. as a specu- lation. Of course, if ever the book gets into type, I would exclude all polemical and political matter. And I would be miserable if anyone else, out of good nature, or from a perfervid faith in my bit of popularity, risked a farthing on my account. If it be not taken up as a venture, let us say no more about it. X. suggested some time ago that I should publish a volume by subscription. And St. Mary's Workhouse within half-a-mile of me ! " This occurs in a letter of O'Donnell's, written, from London to Dublin, on " Sunday night, De- cember 1872." He never got out a volume by sub- b x INTRODUCTION. scription, he never went to St. Mary's Workhouse, but less than a year and a half after this letter was written, he was carried to St. Mary's Ceme- tery, Kensal Green, and. laid at rest for ever. In February 1873 he wrote me again: "About my ' poems,' put the thing out of your head until the proverbial ' time ' of the dramatists 'shall come.'" The " time " of the dramatists has come at long last. The sowing of the poet has been reaped, but the poet himself is not here to rejoice with us at the ingathering. John Francis O'Donnell was born in the city of Limerick in the year 1837. Some say Nicholas Street in the old town, others Upper William Street in the new town, is where he first saw the light. I know nothing of his father or mother, except that in a letter written shortly before his death he spoke of his mother as being then alive. He al- ways retained a warm corner in his heart for his native city. Several of his poems bear testimony to his love of it. He writes to a Clonmel man in January 1872 : " You call Limerick the city of dulness. So it is. But give it to me a million times before the capital of Tipperary." Where he went to school I cannot tell. In his 44 copy " he made free use of Latin and French, and I have heard him speak as though he was familiar with German. In a letter he says, " That who drilled you in Mathematics (I always spell that glorious science with a big M) is the friend whom I asked after." I should like to think his education had not been hindered by much ordinary schooling. INTRODUCTION. xi Anyway, he mounted the public rostrum himself at fourteen by contributing verses in 1851 to the Kilkenny Journal. When only seventeen years of age he reached the goal of poetic National aspirants : in 1854 he had verses in the Nation. A youth with O'Donnell's intensely patriotic nature must have been tired with feelings of intolerable joy on finding himself in that intellectual Mecca of the faithful. His swift, fiery, young, spiritual sight, glancing backward and forward through the years, must have seen the abstract glories of his desires there and then taking concrete shape. Ever since its foundation, the Nation had been the Parnassus of Irish National poetry of Irish poetry absol- utely ; for, observe, there is no such thing as Irish poetry which is not National. The Irish people, in the mass, are the most poetic people of all the world in our era; yet despite the enormous diffusion of the faculty divine among them, Ireland has not been able to produce one single bard who could sing one single verse to the Castle Harp. "Let me make the ballads, and let who will make the laws." The "very wise man" who said this did not pierce to the soul of his own saying. The ballads of a nation are the history of the soul of the people from hour to hour. They express the laws which the people have made for themselves when unable to reach such a clumsy contrivance as the Statute book. They are the laws which inhere in the hearts of the xii INTRODUCTION. people, and in so far as the Statute law is not a diapason of a country's songs, justice is slandered. Davis, Mangan, Mitchel, Duffy, Florence M'Carthy, Dalton Williams, " Speranza," M'Gee, shone in the seeing eyes of young O'Donnell as radiant gods when he took his place in the ranks of the Nation. If the supreme gift of genius cannot be allowed to any of the Nation writers, they all spoke in the sweet, fine tones acquired only by those who have the freedom of the penetralia and speech with the oracle itself. All the Nation writers came of the priestly sept of genius, though they may not have been prophets of their tribe. They had, as might be needed, the spirit of battle or the courage of martyrdom in their veins. They would carry into the conflict no weapons but the weapons of cava- liers. In the long wars some fell, and some, cooling in ardour, retired into peace ; but no man of that Nation band took out of the fight one feather less than the panoply of honour. Into the flaminian order of his race had this unknown Limerick lad been admitted. He, John Francis O'Donnell, seventeen years old, summoned to raise his voice in the choir where the cadences of Davis and Mitchel, and Mangan and Duffy and M'Gee, were echoing still, sound- ing even now ! He allowed to sing among what was left of that band by death, and by the felonious law of felony ! To make offerings at the shrine of The Dark Rosaleen while the altar still smoked of the sacrifice! This was the INTRODUCTION. xiii purification of his lips by the sacred fire ! This was " The consecration, and the poet's dream." Now the young poet made up his mind to adopt writing in some form as a career. He accordingly acquired a knowledge of shorthand, and for about two years acted as reporter on the Munster News, published in his native city. In after life he never forgot the phonographic art. He was the first man I ever knew well who wrote shorthand fluently, and the first man I ever knew well who could write verse on the spur of the moment. I shall never forget the astonishment with which I saw him exercise the two arts conjointly. He and I were chatting, between night and morning, about a poem which he had conceived the idea of while we talked. He said, " Wait a minute," pulled a letter out of his pocket, and began writing with great rapidity on the back of it. " How is this ? " he asked, after a few minutes, during which his hand had not ceased to move over the paper. He read the poem out. I said what I thought, and asked to see the MS. " It won't be of much use to you," said he, with a laugh, as he threw the paper across the table. The sheet was covered with characters that looked to me like Arabic dancing mad, which he assured me was fairly good phonography, for a man out of practice. "And can you always write verse as quickly as that ? " I asked. " Well," he said, " I can make the verses as quickly as that, but they have to be copied or xiv INTRODUCTION. written out in longhand. When I am very par- ticular, I jot down the poem nearly as fast as you saw me just now, throw the paper into a drawer, never think of it for a couple of weeks, then take it out and finish." "Why," said I, "you write verse as fast as prose ! " " Faster," said he ; " as a matter of speed, I could turn out a column of verse sooner than a column of prose." But the experience of O'Donnell's method of work which amazed me most of all I had in the Nation office. I went out into the composing room and found him seated on the only chair, smoking and writing, with his paper on the "stone," a large high table of slate or metal where the pages of newspapers and books are imposed or arranged in the proper order for printing. A very large and extremely noisy machine was in full work below, in sight of the composing room, there being a wide, long opening in the floor to let light down to the nethermost regions. " What on earth are you doing here ? " I shouted above the din. " I I I ," he answered, he had a slight im- pediment in his speech, " I am doing my poem for this week." " What ! in this awful racket ? " I shouted incredulously. " Yes," he said ; "I like the noise. It soothes me," and he went on with the poem. After spending a couple of years as reporter on the Munster News, O'Donnell went to Clonmel in connection with the Tipperary Examiner. Here he found a wife. Mrs O'Donnell was a Miss Jones of that town, a lady of intellectual attainments INTRODUCTION. xv and great musical ability, who survives him and lives abroad. Concerning his domestic life I know absolutely nothing; and if I were intimately ac- quainted with it, I should not consider myself at liberty to speak of it here. Unless a literary man's domestic life has exercised a direct and striking influence on his career, or work, or thought, or fate, I cannot see why it should be obtruded upon the public any more than the domestic life of a doctor or lawyer. I always understood from O'Donnell that his home was a most happy one, and that it had exercised no commanding influence on him as an author. Indeed, his whole life was singularly uneventful, and in all I have learned of it there is nothing exciting or abnormally in- teresting. He was never rich, or anything like rich. I do not think, taking an average, that his income exceeded that of an ordinary Civil Service clerk of his standing in years. He did not ever endure the absolute hunger considered proper to the condition of a poet, and I should be surprised to hear he ever had a sum of money for which he could not easily find a channel of usefulness outside a deposit account. In 1861 O'Donnell had found his way to London, and was the assistant of his old editor of the Tipperary Examiner, Mr A. W. Harnet, then editing the Universal News, an organ of Catholic opinion. In 1862 he was promoted to the editorial chair. The year 1861 was one of the most brilliant in his life. Then his first poem, " Guesses," was xvi INTRODUCTION. accepted by Charles Dickens, and published in All the Tear Round. The famous novelist wrote the young poet a most cordial and encouraging letter, and either in that letter, or during an interview, recommended O'Donnell to adopt literature as a profession. In the course of a meeting, the author of A Christmas Carol gave the young poet ex- cellent advice, and spoke in warm and appreciative terms of the ability of Irishmen in journalism and literature. He said O'Donnell's countrymen were clever, picturesque, intelligent, full of re- sources, but lacked staying power. I am not sure " staying power " was the phrase Dickens used, but it expresses the impression. Dickens had been no more than a couple of years dead when O'Donnell gave me the history of that meeting. I listened like one in a dream. It did not seem possible I could be sitting in the same room with a man who had held private conversation, carried on in ordinary everyday English words, with the man who told of the murder in Martin Chuzzlewit, and created Quilp. Of course, I did not believe Dickens would speak in a foreign tongue, but I did think he would talk lightning. Dickens was an idol of my youth. To-day I know excellent men who walk about London, or drive in cabs and omni- buses, and eat simple food, and tell me they knew Dickens. If I were put on my oath, I should say I do not doubt these men. But in careless offhand moments, I should as soon think of believing them if they told me they had eaten fruit in the gardens of the Hesperides. INTRO D UCTION. xvii " Guesses " was only the first of many poems which Dickens took from O'Donnell in 1861 and 1862. In the former year he wrote a good deal of prose and verse for the Dublin Illustrated Journal. In the latter he went to Dublin to fill a vacancy in the staff of the Nation, and afterwards in the same year he was appointed editor of Duffy's Hibernian Magazine, for which he continued to be a con- tributor until it ceased to exist. In 1863-4 he was back again in London. He acted as London cor- respondent of the Irishman, and subsequently he contributed to the Shamrock. During the Fenian excitement he represented in London the Irish People, the mouthpiece of the Fenians, although he was never a member of the brotherhood. In 1864 he resumed the editorship of the Universal News. This he kept for about a year, when he accepted the sub-editorship of the Tablet, retaining it for three years, until 1868, a prodigiously long time for O'Donnell to care about any routine employment, for he was as fond of change as a schoolboy. He took life gaily, and was absolutely incapable of fretting. When, less than a year before his death, he suffered from a fit of epilepsy, he wrote me in the most cheerful way, and declared that nothing could ever long depress him. In 1870, Zozimus, a comic illustrated paper, was started by Mr A. M. Sullivan in Dublin, with Mr John F. O'Hea as cartoonist ; O'Donnell, from first to last of it, was one of its principal, if not its chief contributor. It was while I was editing o Zozimus that I became acquainted with him. In xviii INTRODUCTION. the course of two long visits he paid to Dublin between 1871 and his death, the acquaintance ripened into friendship. For Zozimus he did all kinds of work, and each admirably one-line jokes, paragraphs, verse, grave and gay, and a serial story. The fertility and facility of the man were most astonishing. His amazing readiness barred the production of results more enduring than the hack work of a journalist. Anything within his powers of doing he could begin on the instant. His very readiness must often to make a bull have stopped his way, and there can be no doubt it got him into straits he never would have entered had he been more deliberate. In a letter of his, published in the Irish Monthly, he says, " I seldom refuse a quarrel." He kept the circle of his friends narrow by his hatred of anything like a suspicion of patronage. The generosity of his disposition made it more easy for him to do a dozen favours than accept one. He was completely destitute of method, and he could not drudge. A vast quantity of his best work was thrown off in journalism from week to week, and with the close of the week most of the interest in it passed away for ever. He had to toil hard and incessantly to make ends meet, and he told me in 1872 that for thirteen years he had never taken a holiday but one of a week, when peremptorily ordered rest by his doctor. Memories of the Irish Franciscans, a volume of verse written at the suggestion of Father Meehan, and published in 1871, and the Emerald Wreath, a collection of his prose and verse, published INTRODUCTION. xix by Duffy as a Christmas annual in 1865, were, I believe, his only substantive contributions to literature. After the excitement caused by the notorious Gal way election petition, O'Donnell ran a serial story, called " Sadleir the Banker ; or, the Laceys of Rathcore," through the Nation. The last poem he sent to that paper was " The Treaty Stone," included in the present volume. Here, also, is to be found the poem which he had by him when he died; it is called, with pathetic significance, "My Fiddle," and is a farewell to his lyre. In 1872 he published a serial tale in the Lamp, and in the same year he became London correspondent of the Boston Pilot. Some of his best poems appeared in Chambers Journal, 1872-3-4 For some time he contributed to the Dublin Review, and wrote for Fun, under Tom Hood. His two best known noms de guerre were "Caviare" and "Monkton West." A letter of his, written in London, dated Thurs- day, and having the postmark of 19th July 1872, says : " Talking of work since Sunday, 2 cols, notes, 2 cols. London gossip, and a leader 1 col., and a col. of verse for the Nation. For Catholic Opinion, two pages of notes and a leader. For Illustrated Magazine, 3 poems and a five col. story." Out of the turmoil and grinding cares of a jour- nalist's life he at last emerged, weary and exhausted, but with hope of producing something worthy of his powers now that mere bread was assured to xx INTRODUCTION. him. Through the influence of Lord O'Hagan he obtained an appointment in the office of the Agent General for New Zealand, with a salary of between two and three hundred a year. Writing on 15th September 18*73, he says: "I got my appoint- ment on Saturday. I don't know myself. My wife doesn't know me. The children shriek as if I were a stranger. They fancy that a miracle has been performed in the house ; but, owing to their inherent obscuration, they can't pick out the saint. I have a project in my head for canonising tailors." If, upon obtaining an official position, he con- ferred with tailors and turned dandy, it is not surprising that his own people could not recognise him, for he had been particularly careless in dress. In stature he was under the middle height, and of full, active figure. His eyes were dark and near-sighted. He carried his head well back, and wore moustaches and a full brown beard. He did not long enjoy his appointment. In September 1873 he considered his worldly troubles at an end ; in the Spring of next year his career was over. He died on the 7th of May 1874, aged thirty-seven years. I have purposely refrained from saying anything respecting the merits of O'Donnell as a poet. The following collection has been made so that those who know and admire his poems may have a re- presentative collection in a convenient form, and that those who have not yet read him may be able to form an opinion of his powers. The last rest- INTRODUCTION. xxi ing place of O'Donnell's remains, in Kensal Green Cemetery, is marked with a simple stone ; by no courtesy can that stone be taken as a monument to the poet: Si monumentum quceris, circum- spice. RICHARD BOWLING. LONDON, 1890. UJ ^ I O C>3 t>e) UJ |2 K 1 5 CO +* to -. 5*g3 J-* W * J w^'rt N) ^"3 d-2 * (3 3 d) Q_r .-i W ^**rH h/ Illijiislliiilll ^-s|*^-stfi ^j b w S -r 9 a 5 a a5 >> a SJ W i r-i G J-3 /-> 5 g-a.i.ffS'BiViS.gl ,1/^N. " cn |:-S'-! I -! '^^3QAC nd.tJ p l p .a > So^ 3 rt tid of exact He possess* ume was w< !, '91. "o C^ cj -H^T ^^ ^^ jO< 1 cT the heart of mg.-TRUT d S3 1 jj> 1*3* s c-S SI R.APHI . C 0-55 8a5^ * of O o-y ( B #s 2 SIB i TO {J I 1! d >>o ) >3^ s 5 3 oJ'S > 3 | id unusual all the resc ial to him HE ATHEK 2co ^ ^S s!- iburnian fl 0>S fl ^S &1 ji< ^H fe H ^ qj H aa tj) *j >li 5 -Si If C/)"< '^ V "So, 11 *s T'Sf o App "^ i 3 ^ 2 x . s s - " "> X rz J ^ iM*ii ^rt?< isf^ii -i M i t2 i l^i5i.|l ^o S ^ p "rt o a) J3|^ a || O'DONOGHUE, Rev. Canon O'HANLON, M.R. S G, O'KEEFFE. N AUGUSTUS O'SHEA, . REYNOLDS, P. RYAN. ower Street, London, W ^^M-|^-^ i ^wi^a . ri ^S^^.-5 ^Q>^^ rb S , tary. ^^^f? rfj O r ^ s jog <1 ^ -w W S <^> ^ w^ & ^4 j w - - o ^2^ .^a H^^^^ SBSffig 2 Q < W o if gS^ggg ^Q^S M sllBK 1 'S|^W | ^> ^ ^ , ; M O 1-1 i POEMS. IN THE TWILIGHT. ROW in my boat in the twilight, half-purple, half-grey, overhead; (Oh, cool is the plash of the water; and green is the weed on the oar); Before me the river runs burning, as if the white lilies had bled, And the track of the keel runs in lightnings that beat on the base of the shore, Whilst the woods by the banks in the sunset, are naming with fire to the core. It darkens! the trees lock above me, they sway from their roots and embrace: O God, what a peace in this silence ! what rest in this sycamore gloom ! Looking down on the hurrying river, it gives back no face to my face: A 2 POEMS. Yet 'tis Earth, for, high up in the branches, there shivers a bird's startled plume 'Tis Earth, though the air and the water be black with the blackness of Doom ! Who sits in my boat, her long fingers clasped quick round the tiller at rest ? What! again from the land of the phantoms, oh, tender, impalpable shade ! Thy large eyes look out on my sorrow, thy large eyes, my Paradise guest; My temples throb high, but the Angel saith : Be of good heart, not afraid ; (The asphodels tangled and bright in her brown hair's voluminous braid). Ah, Winifred, oft through this darkness in old imme- morial years, We loved, as we floated together, the space of the sweet afternoon; Time kept no account of the laughter that followed our fugitive tears; Our hearts were the missel-thrush piping his heart in the joyance of June, From the faint orange gleam of the morn till the south wind delivered the moon. Help, Lord ! I disowned, I betrayed you. Ay, changed to another from you ; O Winifred, Winifred, pity ! O broken heart, plead from the dust ! That you would have poured out your blood at my feet to redeem me, I knew, IN THE TWILIGHT. 3 But I smote you, dead darling, I smote you dashed down to the earth all your trust ; And God drew His angel unto Him, and let the man live with his lust. But ever, in solemnest midnights, I kneel, with my face to your grave, And I call you, I call you, I call you, till round me the tombstones grow white Till the grasses and weeds by your bed in the rainy wind dismally wave ; And I pray to be sleeping beside you forgotten and thrust out of sight, From the vision of man, from myself, in the hell of no dawn-bearing night. Stay, Winifred! Ah, the strong river, it bears me, it bears me afar! (Oh, fierce is the scowl of the water, and black is the weed on the oar !) The darkness is passed, for above me the sky holds one terrible star: She is gone, and the keel's track is sparkling and hissing in light on the shore, And the clouds in the stillness and glory, are flaming with fire to the core. THE INN. [HE queer, old-fashioned Inn stood on the heath, Nine bowshots from the peak-roofed country town; Steeds halted at its doors to gather breath, Before the sheer rush for the Southron down. In front, reposed the long-neglected pond Fissured with mosses green with stagnant weed Around, were old-world flotsam, and beyond, One loop of river, crystal as a bead. It was deep summer, and the simmering heat On stile, and stone, and tree, and hostler beat, But the night gathered, and the air grew sweet : Sweet, and of summer music redolent; There piped the blackbird on the bush behind The parlour lattice, with throat sideways bent, Whilst imaging his shadow on the blind : A red-cheeked damsel sang unto her kine A fireside song, in the extremest tone THE INN. 5 Of sadness : then the distant clock struck nine : A lusty horn, at intervals, was blown. "From London!" went the cry, "The Mail! the Mail ! " And in it dashed four beasts with foam-flecks pale, And ribbons knotted around ear and tail. Booted, and pistoled to the very teeth, The scarlet guard, with ringing heels leaped down, A glow of pleasantry half hid beneath The purport of his grave, official frown. Where had he learned to swear ? The roads were vile ; The times atrocious ; empires cried for sale ; Yet grief was tempered in the side-long smile Which hailed the landlord and the proffered ale. " There " and his hand convulsively would clench " Whether within the dock, or on the bench, God save old England, and confound the French." So passed: a smoking cloud of dust alone Betrayed his passage, leaning to the west. The Inn, its peace a moment overthrown, Relapsed again into its dreamy rest. I heard the landlord's daughter rooms away Fingering the ancient harpsichord: In tangled cadences I read the lay: " A Devon maiden dared to love a lord ; And she proved true, but he proved false ! Ah, me!" There was an instant shift of voice and key, Shut instrument, and wildering hush for me. The ancient bed, with rusted damask hung, The stern brown pictures in the candle-light, 6 POEMS. The coifed canary at the window swung, O'erpowered me with a weird, fantastic fright. Low moans came from the panels, in the dusk, And rustling garments trailed along the floor, The scentless vases breathed anew of musk, And someone whispered through the oaken door. 'Twas midnight, and from stall and shed below, The cocks, with outstretched necks, began to crow And, then, again the bells chimed sweet and slow. Most ghostlike room white bed, the couch of peace, With lavender between the linen set Quaint sill, whereon, to charm them to increase, Full in the moon, stand pots of mignonette; To-night I am your lord ; sheer cleaves the spite Above the lightless streets ; no soul's abroad ; Over the houses, meadow, croft, and byre, Brood silence and the quietude of God ; And so till morning, hour succeeding hour, Timed by the sleepless watcher in the tower, Till sunrise in the east once more shall flower. LAST MOMENTS. |LL day the clouds loom black and dead Across the barren southern lands; The wild rain slants before the blast That blows the swallows from the strands ; Heavily shine the lilac lights Along the garden's blossomed wall; The lime trees shake their blanched boughs; The casements clash within the hall; The windows darken to the east; She dies before the setting day; Immortal brightness fixed burns Within her dark eyes. Let us pray. The yellow, matted mignonette Smells rankly ; and the eglantine Quivers with fear around the porch; The death-watch ticks ; the mastiffs whine ; The struggling, almond-rounded elms Scatter their sparse bloom ; through the floor Up blows the dust ; and, in the storm, The great clock beats the hours no more 'Tis dumb. Vast wings are quivering Amid the universal grey : Her pulse is low, her cheek is fired, She dies at twilight. Let us pray. POEMS. Three double violets, a leaf Of blowing myrtle, daisies red, Blue pansies, and a wasted rose Are grouped beside the silent bed : She sees them and her eyes are wet, For, glimmers through the mournful clime, The flowered hedgerows round the farm, And meadows fresh with early thyme. Speak low ; whilst scarce her breath can stain The glass, one vast expiring ray Lights up her brain with splendour wild; Faint, and more faintly. Let us pray. All day the moon, a golden span, Is bended in the southern air; The willows whiten by the brooks; The hills are barred with troublous glare. Sick breathings from the garden plats The gusty casements penetrate; The fierce laburnum winds its arms, Like scattered fires, around the gate. Moisten her lips, and cool her brow, Kiss her cold palms ; the awful day Is falling, piled with thunder-clouds, Below the forests. Let us pray. The twilight thickens ; and, forlorn, The hawk across the lattice flies; The purple-throated finches scream ; The peacock from the paddock cries. The wind blows chilly from the west, Through tracts of orange vapour rolled; LAST MOMENTS. And broken lines of cattle stream Across the bleak, abandoned wold. Hark, to the bell ! 'tis curfew time; Kindle the night lamp. God ! how grey The light gleams through her closing lids Moon-lighted lilies. Let us pr*y. At times, great footfalls labour slow Along the arrassed corridors; Old portraits beckon from the walls, Quaint faces gaze from open doors. In minute calms of rain and wind, The swallows whistle in the thatch ; The chimneys roar, the gables groan; Thrice shakes the weather-rusted latch. Abroad, amid the cloudy air, One star shines faintly down the bay. The angel of her spirit leans Across the threshold. Let us pray. A blaze of amber splendour streams Around the couch from yonder cleft Of shadows cirqued before the sun; Her pulse is still ; her soul is left. Chilly and white, but glorified, The dead face from the curtained gloom Gazes, instinct with after life, Across the bright, wainscotted room. Put out the lights ; quench all the fires; Strew roses on her virgin clay. The presences of angels fill The house with terror. Let us pray. THE LILIES. WALKED amid the lilies, at the morn, And they were fair, With trembling chalices that banqueted On sun and air. In the cool depths of the green inland lake I saw them rise, Chilly and white as stars that break and break Through autumn skies. At eventide, slow pacing, I returned ; Ah ! sad to see ! Gone were the bright inhabitants of morn, That welcomed me ! What keel of summer skiff, red-beaked and slow, Had ridden o'er My white lake-garden, blotting out its lights, 'Twixt shore and shore ? No answer and no answer. Lucid sprites, Where'er you be, THE LILIES. ii The spring is flying backward o'er the hills, Be patient ye. I hear the wind-swirled trumpeters of March On wave and plain; Be patient, spring is coming quick, and ye Shall rise again. GERALDIN&S GARDEN. HIS is the garden; its twenty paths, Drawn from the dial, merrily run Down where the autumn's undermaths Lie speckled with shadows of leaf and sun; Here you may count them one by one : The stooping stems of the lime and larch, The violet haze that folds their roots, And, out through the great laburnum arch, The orchard croft, and its fire of fruits. There are no steps in the garden yet, No sounds, save the bird in the lilac hedge, No trailing vesture of violet Touching the yellowing long box edge, Or bending the reeds by the fountain's ledge. For Geraldine comes in the afternoon, When the copper-beech shadow tempers the glare, And the luminous phantom of the moon Is thin and white in the sultry air. GERALDIN&S GARDEN. 13 Sweet, ere the wicket shall give you grace To pass and enter, I pluck this rose, First of the summer, that in the space Of the ivied gable tenderly blows, As a pearl through your twisted tresses glows. I shall pluck it, and leave it here Down on the pathway who knows you'll stray, With some sweet purpose not over clear, Out from the beeches, and down this way ! Should you see it, as you come down, Through the whispering lilacs all alone; A gleam of gold on your purple gown, Your hair by the orchard wind back-blown In beautiful disorder strown, Should you see it, my fancy is : You may take it in careless mood Careless at first, then guess and guess, Till a happy tumult shakes all your blood. There am I dreaming ; and here you are ! Let me hide in the cloister of the yew, Where not a glimmer of sun or star Can trickle the matted branches through, No, nor a wink of the sultry blue. Here you come with your airy grace, Your dainty footfall and sidelong glance, Whilst over the bloom of your pure, sweet face, Fifty shadows coquet and dance. You pass my rose. If it could but speak ! Now you return and pause awhile, And, over the damask of your cheek, Slowly ripples a tender smile; What if one watched you all the while ! 14 POEMS. Where is the sin if one takes a rose, Idly cast from a garden seat ? Oh, nattering wind, that comes and goes, One effort, and blow it straight at her feet. Were I a woman I'd take the flower, You are a woman, why, take it then; How know you 'tis not a fairy dower Downward dropped from a random rain Of blossoms hurrying over the plain To Queen Mab's nuptials ? O, love, accept The earliest rose the garden bears, It blew up there where the swallows slept Under the thatch, in the cool spring airs. 'Tis hers ! it lies on her beauteous breast ! There where my head and my heart would lie, In one sweet trance of delicious rest, Careless how ran the seasons by, What waxed or waned in the changing sky ! 'Tis hers ! and she quits the garden seat, My heart beats louder than I can breathe; 'Tis hers ! it lies on her bosom's beat, And a thought I can guess is underneath. APRIL. [OW many pipes have dittied unto thee, Rain-bringer, swathing the blue peaks in mist, Whose blossom-lights are lit on wold and lea, Before the tempestings of March have ceast To stir the heavens ! Thy south wind comes and goes, And periwinkles twinkle in the grass. And oxlips faint amid the meadows cool : Mayhap, the fiery-arched laburnum blows, Whilst through the emerald darkness thou dost pass, With swallows skirring round the breezy pool. With thee, ripe dawnings, saffron streaked with white, Float from the sunrise; and the happy lark, Leaving the clover-buds to dew and night, Catches thy voice betwixt the light and dark. By hooded porches, looking to the sun, The almond stirreth, and the wallflowers blush, Ascetic ivies pulse through stem and frond; The jasmine bells, unfolding one by one, Take to their amber hearts a phantom flush; And long-haired willows whiten by the pond. 16 POEMS. Season of broken cloud and misty heat, How the green lanes find echoes for thy horn, Blown over purple moorlands, to the beat Of nodding marigolds in marsh and corn ! And thou hast benedictions for the birds, Couched in the red dead nettles, where they sit Choiring for seed-time; the poor robin shrills A pipe of welcome; or, amid the herds, The martens chirrup greetings, as they flit Along the barren reaches of the hills. Lo ! as the day behind the chestnuts dies, And yonder cloud dissolves, half rain, half bloom r Thy bow is bended in the weeping skies, Thy shadowy splendour bridges the vast gloom 'Twixt sunset and the stars. A mournful drowse Falls on the flockless meadows a low swoon Tingles along the windless woodlands' rim; The twilight sickens in the lampless house; And, merged in vapour, the half-risen moon Leans on the trunked forests, vague and dim. DRIFTING, LOAT, little bark, down yonder stream, By many a margin fringed with bloom Of lilies, amber-leaved and wan, Arid poplars fair with silver gleam ; Float round yon island in the sun, Slide slowly through the winking gloom Of many an immemorial wood, Whose trunks make cloisters for the flood. Blow southern wind, and fill her wake With creamy swirlings, faint and sweet Go, break the sunlight on her sail; Loosen the blossom in the brake, And waft, from primrose plot and vale, Their odours rich and exquisite. Go, little bark, the shining west Shall find thy prow a nook of rest. Speed, happy lovers, stream and breeze Glide with ye towards the peaceful night, 1 8 POEMS. O babble softly in her ear, Dark -violet river, till she sees The golden-horned star appear, Suspent in azure mist and light, And hears, across the sobbing foam, Bell-voices and the songs of home. Float on, float on ! The heavens are fair, The last flame burns amid the leaves, The last bird pipes on yonder bough, The last crow blackens the rich air, The cistus drowses on the eaves, The lustrous freshet trickles slow; The earth has lost the sun, and lo! Around the oaks the brown bats go. AMY'S SWALLOW. |E AD is Amy's friendly swallow Bird which dared no flight toward morn Till the sycamores were sallow And the reapers slew the corn, And the ash was red, or shorn Underneath her eaves he lingered, All the full-leafed summer days, Till the hazels bent brown-fingered, And the grassy country ways Winked, at eve, through rolling haze All his fellows had departed Flown abreast across the seas He, by wayward instincts thwarted, Stayed, to haunt her lattices Her grey porches her sad trees. Soon came winds afraught with sorrow Bee and bird alike to tame; Dreary morrow chased to-morrow Dawns surcharged with storm and flame: But for him no morrow came. 20 POEMS. On the pent roof, balanced lightly, Dolorous he watched the sun In the east disclosing whitely Reddening till his span was run With the sullen sunset gun. Then, awaked to wild resistance, To imprisoning of Fate, Amy's swallow dared the distance 'Twixt him and his southern mate : Amy's swallow dared too late ! For the cruel tempests brayed him Whirled him in their fierce unrest Blew him, dead, to land, and laid him Close by the beloved nest Which the spring suns charm the best. Darling, could thy kisses waken Purple lightnings in his eyes Plume those wings so rudely shaken, Once again, with clarion cries, He would speed through earth and skies. Thy caresses, Pet, avail not, Ah, if I should tempt the foam, May my winging backward fail not, Finding such a tender home As the heart that mourns his doom. Hapless swallow ! Happy swallow ! Outcast guest of storm and sleet \ Many a mate of thine might follow, Were he sure of bliss complete Dying at my lady's feet. THE OLD VIOLIN. |LD violin, sweet friend and love, The world is dark ; we're growing old ; The light is vanishing above, No more I see your strings of gold. The love-knots which our Ellen tied Around your carved neck long ago, Have faded in the friendless tide Of summer heat and winter snow. Old violin, Dear violin, Companion of my wanderings, Your golden moans, Your plaintive tones, Plume memory with radiant wings. The sunny fields through which we've strayed, The woods we've sought from sun and rain, The pebbled brook and chestnut glade, Like blessed phantoms fill my brain. Our welcomes as, at set of sun, From purple heaths and hills forlorn, The villagers with labour done Came dancing through the yellow corn. Old violin, Dear violin, Once more like laughter touch my ears, 22 POEMS. Once more arise And fill my eyes With floods of unavailiog tears. How often, in those olden times, When shadows folded all the east, And the white chapel's pious chimes Tolled sweetly for the rural feast, Have you and I, in happy trance, One green field from the dusty road, Seen the brown groups of harvest dance Till brows were red and ringlets flowed ! Old violin, Dear violin, Even now, with blinded eyes, I see The roses red That twined your head, The brown ale foaming at my knee. Solace of my declining life, Heaven blessed us with tranquillity, In all the moods of peace and strife, No pair could more contented be. We left the monarchs, crowned above, To act their wise or foolish parts, And, with our strains inspired by love, Ruled the great universe of hearts. O d violin, Dear violin, Though fame and fortune could not last, We have no fears For coming years, And no repentings for the past ! THE BIRD'S NEST. | HEN" clouds hang low on moors and seas, Ere, deep in woods, anemones Make twinkling firmaments for spring, The red-cheeked village children stray By hedges mossed with red and grey, In whose green lights the linnets sing. happy sound ! if then be heard, Beneath some bough fresh-leaved and warm, The chirrup of a startled bird The quick wing apprehending harm ; For there quick eyes are sure to find, In coyest ambushes of twigs, The rounded nest, the clustered twigs, Slow swaying to the pulsing wind. Love was the architect who drew The lines symmetrical and true, And winged their substance from afar From moist, sheep-whitened fields and brakes From marges of reed-shadowed lakes, Gleaming below the crescent star. The sharp-plumed spear-grass tribute gave, The nettle yielded up its crown; And chased o'er field and freshet wave, Here came the captured thistledown, 24 POEMS. To build an airy palace fine, Where in the hours of moon and dew, The little birds might watch the blue, And all day long the sun might shine. 'Twas built; and in the twinkling shade Of branches crossed and diverse braid, The mother sat with brooding wings, Hearing from boughs that drooped above, Her mate's shrill canticle of love Descend in crystal twitterings. But he is hushed, and she has flown To some red gable, when she sees Her fairy chamber overthrown, With all its leafy pageantries. No full-fledged throat shall cheep to her What time along the flowered grass One flash of mail the bee shall pass, And cones grow golden on the fir. Brown villagers, whose hands have rent The roof, the curtain of the tent, Too many a day shall grieve for this Sad days, when never shall be heard The sweet bereavement of the bird From brake or pendent precipice ! Then, when the autumn red for corn, And knotted fagots, treads the woods When fogs rise yellow through the morn, And all the land 's a- wail with floods You'll say in whispers tremulous : "Oh, had we spared the linnets' nest, Their brood upon our eaves might rest, And all the long day sing for us." MARGUERITE. I HE wind that from the north, all day, Had blown the swallows from the seas, Dropped round the gables quaint and grey, And touched the golden poplar trees. Brown autumn, from the woods afar, Looked through the setting lights of morn; Dim in the west one sickly star Leant on the level plains of corn. While sadly, at the casement white, Pale Marguerite looked wistfully Towards the dumb star, and often cried, "When will the angels come for mel" Like winged spirits from the bough Of the great poplar rained the leaves; The white rose in its autumn blow Dropped snow-like from the gusty eaves. Red, to the fountain's sanded stone, With seeded mouth the robin new. And still with mingled mist and moan The north wind through the garden blew. 26 POEMS. " Blow, oh, blow," said Marguerite, And turned her face unto the sea. " The day is breaking; but alas ! When will the angels come for me 1 " The vapour on the low, blue hills Was reddened with the morning fire, The weeded wheels of mountain mills Showered the green waters down the bire. Swift fled the brook across the lawn, Thick with the radiant fallen leaves, And like a spirit in the dawn The swallow shouted from the eaves " The day is come," said Marguerite, " The bird is piping in the tree, The stars are setting but, alas ! When will the angels come for me ? " I hear the low- voiced convent bells Come floating from their forest fold. The pilgrims kneel beside the wells, The opening east is fired with gold. Afar I see the shining walls Of a great city in the skies, And countless wings whose splendour falls Over the gates of Paradise. The night is fled, the day is come, The open doors of Heaven I see. White hands are stretched from out the clouds The blessed angels come for me." M Y JA CK. the roof -line, sharp and red, The black crows stand against the sky, And windy clamourings are bred Within the elm trees standing nigh. Hard clinks the chapel's evening bell, The mill-wheel answers dreamily; Whilst from the deep carnation sky A glory rolls down field and fell : It smites the mountain to the north, It burns upon the window free, Where Jack stands up, with eyes of mirth And clapping hands, to welcome me. Dear lad, again, the wild gold hair Makes ringlets in the autumn wind, And in those eyes, so blue and fair, The sweet, fresh soul has grown more kind How quaintly, too, those arms are set In indolent, and frank repose, Upon the long green box, where grows The wild thyme mixed with mignonette ! 28 POEMS. O happy shout ! the choiring lark, Caged coyly by the glinting pane, Ne'er uttered, between light and dark, A blither, a more natural strain. Come down, and dance into my arms, My heart shall have full holiday; Come, let us range by smoking farms, And poppied girths of wheat and hay. The scythe is glittering in the grass, The weeds are burning on the hill, The blackbird's voice is scarcely still He keeps a song for Candlemas. O hasten, ere the stars are up, And bring the moonrise in their wake ; Haste ere the lily folds its cup, And vanishes into the lake. Your hand in mine, your mouth to mine, The perfect, pure-lipped rosy shell Tiiat on the feast of Valentine, Seven months ago, bade me farewell ! Ah, Jack, that voice was in my ear When in the night-time by the Main The German house-tops hissed with rain, The chimneys shuddered far and near. Against the clouds the old house rose, Behind it spread the rolling wolds, And you stood in the privet close Among the yellow marigolds. That dream is fact ; we too again By long beloved hedges walk, And separation's bitter pain Dies in the music of your talk. MY JACK. The stifled pang, the injured sense, The shame of doubt, the wrong of sin, Turn into benedictions in Your clear sun-lighted innocence. Look, there's the sun behind the wood, The clouds one puff of golden gloom ; Now for the night's divinest mood Low laughters and the lamp-lit room. 29 THE SWALLOW. [HILST warm and deep the summer lies Amid the dreamy hills and vales, With visions of remotest skies, And seas that gleam with shining ails : Merrily then the swallows run, Chasing the shadows and the sun, By lighted tarns and lilied floods ; Or wheel round some moss-crusted spire, That takes the daylight's freshest fire, Above its sanctuary of woods. This is the time the swallow sings The cheeriest moment of his stay Ere yet, with swiftly cleaving wings, He flies, flies, flies away. When winds across the mere blow cold, And half the air is dark with rain, When forest leaves are laced with gold, And barns o'erflow with brown-husked grain By shores that hear the ocean's boom, The swallows circle in the gloom, THE SWALLOW. 31 Chattering jarringly and loud. Their home, at times, they cry, is far Below the crescent and the star That tops the crimson evening cloud. Drearily then the swallow sings. The sweet south beckons him away, And thither on exulting wings, He flies, flies, flies away. The pilot of the unseen air, Along whose track the lightnings leap, By tokens manifold and fair Allures the swallows o'er the deep. Through storms that teem with misty dew, Through heavens of mingled cloud andjblue, They follow fast, with day and night, Till over slopes and plains where shines The campanile amidst the vines ; They dash into the clime of light, They rest upon a fairer shore, They chorus to a louder lay. O wanderers ! will ye evermore Fly, fly, fly away. Deem not the day will always last, Deem not the rose will ever blow, Unchilled by the recurrent blast, Amid the land of wind and snow. From yonder Alps, whose giant spars Seem shafts of fire to prop the stars Form where the waves round Venice'shout, The headlong tempest yet shall come, And beat to earth the vineyards' bloom, And blow the lamp of summer out. 32 POEMS. Strong is the certitude of change, O swallow ! thou wilt have thy stay, And then again, impelled to range, Wilt fly, fly, fly away. Sad brother, heir to flesh and cark, The sun not always lights thy path ; The winter comes austere and dark, And fills thy setting day with wrath. Remember, when thy soul is torn With longings for departed morn, And pangs of manifold distress, Beyond the vapours of this breath, Apast the cloudy veils of death, Shines the clear morn of righteousness. Be faithful until God decide, To break this crucible of clay, That thou may'st cast its shards aside, To wing thee to eternal day. WHERE! MINUTE gone. She lingered here, and then Passed, with face backward turned, through yonder door; The free fold of her garments' damask grain Fashioned a hieroglyph upon the floor, Then straightened, as it reached the corridor. Down the long passages, I heard her feet Moving a crepitating music slow And next her voice, an echo exquisite, But modulated in its tender flow A harp through which the evening breezes blow. Upon the table there were books and flowers And Indian trifles; a Mahratta blade Whose ivory hilt sustained a cirque of towers, Wedded by the inexplicable braid On Vishnu's shrine at harvest full moon laid. The curtains shook; a scarlet glamour crossed The stained wood and the white walls of the room Wavered, retreated, trembled, and was lost Between the statue's plinth, the console's gloom, And yon tall urn of yellow blossomed broom, c 34 POEMS. I see her face look backward at me yet, Just as she glided by the cypress chair; Her happy eyes with happy tears are wet, And, over bust and shoulders, cool and fair, Stream the black coils of her abundant hair. In what far past in what abysm of time Have I beheld that self -same look before ? There was no difference of hour or clime: A garment made a figure on a floor, Which straightened sweeping towards a corridor. Rare trifles were around me, curtains blew, And worked their restless phantasms on a ceil ; A sidelong bird across a casement flew, Upon the table glittered graven steel, And a low voice thrilled me with soft appeal. All things were there, as all things are to-day, But where 1 I half remember, as a dream, Such accidents, in epochs long grown grey Such glory, but with ever-narrowing beam, From which I'm severed by some shoreless stream. Have I forgotten is this flash of light, Which makes the brain and pulse together start, Some ray reflected from the infinite Worlds, where I mayhap have left a heart The Infinite of which I am a part ? Who shall unriddle it ? Return, sweet wife, And with thy presence sanctify this pain; Cling to my side, O faithful help of life ! Lest, in the hour when night is on the wane, The destinies divide us two again. GOETHE'S HOUSE. HIRSCHGRABEN 23, FRANKFORT. Frankfort nestles by the Main; The broad flood rolls below the town With many a foaming warp and strain, Past vineyards, mills, and bridges brown. The streets are thick with press of trade; Gilt tabards flout the tavern door; Stout burghers in the market prate; Housed in the grim cathedral's shade, The red-capped country merchants roar; The sharp-spurred Prussian stalks elate. We left the dusky gallery, Where, high above dark maple floors, Gleamed from the panels, three and three, The gold ghosts of the Emperors. From backgrounds mailed Byzantine- wise, The gorgeous shadows glimmered through Procession vast of son and sire ! There one robe counted fifty dyes, Here this one streamed, a world of blue; But, rounding all, a flare of fire. Who mourns, we asked, for dynasties, To whom men's hearts paid bloody toll? 36 POEMS. Through simpler forms, one hears, one sees, The mightier Dynasties of Soul. Your Charles looms down a phantom fine; Your Robert is of regal mould; How bravely Julian wears his scars ! For us, we love a fairer line, Who, if their faults were manifold, Did sweeter work below the stars. He smiled on us, the wrinkled man Who led us through the echoing town, Relit his pipe of porcelain, And turned the spectral staircase down. We followed close through twenty ways, On whose rough pave his slippers dropped Soft as in daylight moves the mouse; At last, emerging from the maze, Before an open door we stopped : "And this," said he, "is Goethe's House." That picture ! We had crossed the square, As one goes swiftly through a dream; All round, the houses tall and fair Turned to us fronts of myriad gleam. O'er many a grotesque window top, Winged steeds on clouds and lightnings stamped, Perk faces leered from vines and scrolls; Lean dragons sprawled on stall and shop, Maned lions amid roses ramped Lutes, lyres, lamps, torches, aureoles ! Hirschgraben they have named the street : Its gables, sheer, triangular, Blotched by recurrent frost and heat, Give issue thin to moon or star; GOETHE'S HOUSE. 37 Sly dormer casements twinkle high, Deep doors below keep wind and gloom, Long halls show gleams of garden green; Huge chimneys slant against the sky, Odd shadows brood in every room, And cobwebs droop from wall and screen. And this, indeed, was once his home ! (Triumphant Number Twenty-three !) These tiles he trod these stairs he clomb, Up high as eye can strain to see. Perhaps he leaned across this sill, And watched, above the courtyard wall, That deep-aisled chestnut gather leaf, What time the swallow's cry is shrill, When winds and showers are musical, And clouds are low, and light is brief. We pitied him whose starved critique Would mar the quiet of the place, Preferring the austere Antique To our full-blooded, riper grace. Fool ! leave to us this precious hour, The glass case and its treasured freight The blotted leaf, the fretted glove, The rusted quill that bore such flower ! The mildewed seal, the faded date, The page that tells of Wertber's love. A time-old music haunts the place; (Outside the Strass for tumult roars), Strange lights across the ceiling race, Strange shadows lurk about the doors. Here all his ribboned letters lie; A violet, five cones of pine Gathered in what forgotten woods ! 38 POEMS. A pencilled sketch from Italy Three peaks above a land of wine, White with the rush of torrent floods. " I knew him," quoth our wrinkled guide, "When I was young, and he grown old; His great, broad temples, either side, Were touched with hard and grizzled gold. His dreams were vast, his words were few, Yet sown with tangled germ and seed. He was our clear apocalypse, Who plumbed our better future true, Rousing the world from thought to deed With trumpet-blasts of fifty lips. " He died we bragged about his fame, The thing least precious which he gave; Came after-years, and spikes of flame Made fiery garlands for his grave Sharp flames that stung our dullish sense, Too tame to face the Difficult, And sloughing strength in dose and trance- Fierce fires whose spikes meant no Pretence. You smiling ask: The great result f < Look up to us look down on France!" So babbled he, abstracted lost In the weird measures of his strain, Till we had gained the street, and crossed The market leaning on the Main. His voice pursued us through the night. Long after Frankfort's heaped-up eaves Grew black against a heaven of wine Till Mayence blossomed into light, And one saw through the vineyards' leaves The moon-white levels of the Rhine. WAITING. HOU of the sunny head, With lilies garlanded, And bosom fairer than the blown sea-foam ; Spring, in what waste desert dost thou stay Whilst leaves await thy presence to unfold 1 The branches of the lime with frost are grey, And all imprisoned is the crocus' gold : Come, sweet Enchantress, come ! Though, in the sombre west, Thy star hath lit his crest Pale Phosphor, fronting full the withered moon Thy violets are sepultured in snow, Thy daisies twinkle never in the sun, Rude winds throughout the ruined forests blow, And silent is the dove's melodious moan : Enchantress, hasten soon. White are the country ways, And white the tangled maze, Loved of the oxlip and the creeping thyme ; Bare shakes the poplar on the sullen ridge, Cold glooms the spectral mill above the flood ; Hoarse torrents stream beneath the ivied bridge, And lightnings strike the darkness of the wood; Enchantress, bless our clime. 40 POEMS. No bloom of dewy morn, No freshly blossomed thorn, Gladdens the importunings of sad eyes ; The day wastes drearily though cloud and sleet ; Over the watered meadows and stark vales The night comes down impetuous and fleet, And ships and cities shiver in the gales : O fair Enchantress, rise. Arise, and bring with thee The rathe bud for the tree, The healing sunshine for the trampled grass, Loose tendrils for the boughs which bless the eaves, And shield the swallows in the rainy hours, The pendent flames which the laburnum heaves, And faint scents for the wind-stirred lilac flowers : Enchantress, breathe and pass. Men knew, and kissed, of old, Thy garment's glittering fold Thy radiant footprint on the mead or waste ; Earth kindled at thine advent altars burned, And ringing cymbals bade the hearths be gay ; But now, in sunless solitudes inurned, Thou leav'st the world unto reluctant day : O haste, Enchantress, haste ! The larks shall sing again, Between the sun and rain, The brown bee through the flowered pastures roam, There shall be music in the frozen woods, A gurgling carol in the rushing brook, An odour in the half-unbosomed bud, And dancing foxgloves in each forest nook: Then, come, Enchantress, come. A VOICE. |MID a nunnery of dewy flowers Walked the moist morning, many years ago; The pulses of grey fountains notched the hours, The dial reddened in the broadening glow. And one came to me through the garden paths, Pausing amid the scented lavender, Under the lilacs steeped in purple baths, And rooted deep in golden moss and myrrh. And lifting up an amber viol, she Sang to the sun and heavens and dying dusk, Till all the fruit trees breathed of thyme and musk, Till the green peaches burst their fragrant husk And hung like jewels upon branch and tree. And I awoke to hear in saintly sighs A sweet voice rise and fade into the skies. THREE TIMES. \N the days of the Paschal season, the beautiful Easter time, When the cowslip lights in the dark, damp grass, and the heats of the summer clime Are meshed in the long-flowered lilac; when the rich laburnum wakes A million fires in its boughs that call to the blossomed furze o' the brakes, Our darling to earth was given. She came with the redbreast's note, When the robin's bosom is damasked, and the wind- blown swallows float All day o'er the meres of the inland. She came, and we thanked our God, For the sense of a holier rest fell round the threshold of our abode. She stretched to the sun her happy hands, dimpled in pink and white, And her laugh was blithe as the voice that rings 'twixt the dark and the morning light, THREE TIMES. 43 When the larks are lost up in heaven, and day after day she grew, Till the wee, bright bud of infancy to the flower of girl- hood blew; Ah! happy times, when at noon she chased in the gardens the butterflies, As they turned to the sun their soft wings stained with crimson and amber dyes, Or chirruped back to the goldfinch, swung on a purple spray Of the mezereon, as amid the flowers of the dial-plot shelay. I know not why, but I often thought I saw in our Helen's eyes Dawn-like breaks of the dreamfulness of an inner Paradise, Some sweet thought shadowed across her soul a moment lit in her brain, Leaving behind an after-pause of passionate bliss and pain, For she lived upon sunlike fancies said that stars i' the air Were God's own angels who watched the world for ever and ever there; That the moon was the olden Eden; and the blaze of the evening west The golden city where God's beloved for ever and aye found rest. There is a voice in the white-leaved limes, like the hum of a meadow brook, Low on the grass of the lawn there shake the leaves of an open book; And I hear sweet gusts of laughter; our Helen is laugh- ing and singing, Above her head, in the blue crisp air, the sycamore bells are ringing. 44 POEMS. Sing on, sing on, for heaven flees past, and the clouds shall soon dislimn, And there lieth beyond their tender haze a land where the days are dim, Where the richest fruit holds ashes of comprehended truth, Whose sun is the glimmering gleam that falls from the peaks of the hills of youth. II. Home from the wide, wild world home, to us, back again Our darling Helen has come, and sits by the southern window pane, Thence looks she o'er leagues of pasture and girdles of chestnut woods, And merry parklands from which there breaks the flash of approaching floods. She sighs and says she is happy, and sighing in silence turns Till the maiden rose of her dimpled cheek with the blush of a first love burns. Hark ! 'tis a step on the garden path, O exquisite toned ear, Whose sense prefigured the footfalls ere they themselves were here. He is seated beside her beside my hope and my pride, The casement in twain lies open O Truth, in the world outside, Know'st thou one fairer or sweeter, brighter or better than she, Whose slender fingers are tangled in the dark oak rosary 1 THREE TIMES. 45 Watch how the wind o' the orchard ruffles her yellow hair, Till the tender rim of her gentle ear to her lover's eye lies bare Till the fair abstraction that lurketh like moonlight on her face Breaks at its touch and beareth some still diviner grace. She will leave us, ere April is back with its rainy charm, To rest her head on another breast to lean on another arm: For thus the great world slideth, and its thick mutations range From cycle to epicycle, through all the circles of change. God bless her where'er she goeth, my darling, my idol- child; As a dove in the clefts of the mountains, her way be undefiled, Happy be she as the singer who rose in the morning's calms, To meet her soul in the garden, 'mid myrrh-blooms, aloes, and palms. There comes from the woodland chapel the tremulous sound of bells, For the silver-throated steeple 's a-reel ; and the hearts of the mighty dells O'erflow with myriad echoes ; the deep bell-music grows As forth, from her home in the lilacs, the bride to the bridal goes. Shine out, O day, from the forest of clouds, where thou liest hoar, Spread her a mile of sun 'twixt this and the holy door. Haste up, O happy summer, from tropic darkness and heat, That the lilies may mix with the violets, and be blessed by her virgin feet. 46 POEMS. m. Night over winter land and sea, and the dark is planet- proof, Nought doth shine save the frozen snow that clings to the peaked roof Nought doth shine save the windows three, above the weary lawn, And the white, white face of the dead that looks patiently towards the dawn. A thin hand laid on a pulseless heart in the quiet of the room, Feet that come and steps that go low whispers in the gloom A smoke-stained lamp that swings and flares in the gusty corridor, And haggard eyes that wait yet fear the black plumes at the door. On the outposts of the morning, 'twixt the beatings of the clock, Far below the barren moorland, blithely crows the red manse cock. Lo ! the window panes grow yellow, for the falling snow has ceased, And an atmosphere of saffron floods the spaces of the east. Give me peace, and leave me darkness ; I am tired of the sun, I am sick of moon and daylight, time and clime, for she has gone; Inward to the land of silence inward to the darksome land, Bearing palms of holy patience in the hollows of her hand. THREE TIMES. 47 Yesterday, and she was with us, watching us with glassy eyes, In whose glare I knew returned old dream-thoughts of Paradise. Low and sweet she spoke of spring time, when the brooks should run again, And the cowslip and the wild thyme waken to the fruitful rain. " Look ! " she said, " I see the summer " and she raised her head and gazed On the casement where the glory of a brazen sunset blazed Caught her heart, and murmured something in the faint- ness of her breath, Some sweet words, alas ! delivered only in the ear of Death. Dear one, in whatever heaven thy meek soul hath found abode Think of us, who linger distant from the presence of our God. Unto earth we give thine ashes, blessed with solemn song and rite, Knowing, trusting they shall blossom, when the solid roof of night Shall roll backward into chaos. Hark ! it is the morn- ing bell, Pallid lips and closed eyelids dearest, sweetest love, farewell. Night is past, the hateful daylight crawls across the chamber floor; God sustain me God uphold me the black plumes are at the door. THE FUCHSIA. the mountain lodge we sat, At night, and watched the slanted snow, Blown headlong over hill and moor, And heard, from dell and tarn below, The loosened torrents thundering slow. 'Twas such a night as drowns the stars, And blots the moon from out the sky; We could not see our favourite larch, Yet heard it rave incessantly, As the white whirlwinds drifted by. Sad thoughts were near ; we might not bar Their stern intrusion from the door ; Till you rose meekly, lamp in hand, And, from an inner chamber, bore A book renowned by sea and shore. And, as you flung it open, lo! Between the pictured leaflets, lay Embalmed by processes of Time A gift of mine a fuchsia spray I gathered, one glad holiday. THE FUCHSIA. 49 Then, suddenly, the chamber changed, And we forgot the snow and wind ; Once more we paced a garden path, With even feet and even mind That red spray in your hair confined. The cist us trembled by the porch, The shadow round the dial moved : I knew this, though I marked them not, For I had spoken, unreproved, And, dreamlike, knew that I was loved. Sweet wife ! when falls a darker night, May some pure flower of memory, Hid in the volume of the soul, Bring back, o'er life's tormented sea, As dear a peace to you and me. THE OLD HOUSE BY THE MERE. KNEW not thou wert gone Knew not that thou hadst flown, Missed not the flower-pots on the window sill, Nor the bird's cage within the cool, cool door ; Saw not the vacant shadow on the floor, Nor missed the clock-beat in the chambers, still ; For there were heat and blossom in the eaves, And shaking twinklings in the laurel leaves, And on the upland, golden sheaves, And hedges black and roan: Madeline, Madeline ! Back swung the rusted gate Back to the yew-walk straight. The thin, white pathway wandered to the house ; Down on the garden glared the chimney stacks, The brown wall gleamed with all its mossy cracks Through the dead peaches' crossed and tangled boughs. THE OLD HOUSE BY THE MERE. 51 I heard the robin on the cistern sing, I saw the goldfinch shake his violet wing, Half reddened by the suns of spring And felt not desolate: Madeline, Madeline! The green rime clogged the pane, The glass was plashed with rain, Within the low porch where we often sat, The barren vine had fastened on the seat And hid the oaken carving, quaint and sweet, And hugged the threshold like a rush-wove mat. And Psyche's statue in the dust lay prone, The amber-sanded hour-glass overthrown; Ah ! then I knew that thou wert gone The wild truth dazed my brain : Madeline, Madeline ! O lonely, lonely rooms, dear familiar glooms, Fair pictures shining from the sunny wall. Old-fashioned graces hid in every nook, Bright chambers which thy feet had long forsook, Abandonment and grief sat mute in all. I flung the lattice open to the day, I leant above the flower-beds, broad and gay, And heard the fountain sift its spray, With weary interval : Madeline, Madeline! 1 called thee by thy name, And thought thy silence blame ; No dear voice answered through the silent air, 52 POEMS. No footstep sounded in the corridor, No bright face glittered at the open door I and the mocking echoes wandered there. My beautiful, my own, what space of earth Doth hold thee 1 From what happy twilight hearth Speed thy pensive fancies forth Half passion and half dream 1 Madeline, Madeline! Thy face is near my eyes, Years bring it no disguise Neither thy vesper sigh, nor matin tear. Thou art the highest star in memory's sky; A little cloud drifts slowly, slowly by, And takes thy glory to its atmosphere. I see thee not, but know thy fixe'd home, Thy long light trickles through the waning gloom ; The riven vapour breaks in bloom, Bloom dropped from Paradise : Madeline, Madeline! Rise, tender, mystic night, Rise on the skirts of light ; Give me thy fires upon my dreary way, Past the wild mere, and down the solemn wold ; Shower, autumn, shower thy slowly-garnered gold Around the dim house, in the fading day, Slide sweetly o'er the roof that veiled her sleep, In those old years lost in the mournful deep Of times that neither sow nor reap, Holy and infinite : Madeline, Madeline ! Blue, on the misty down, Gleams the belated town ; The vast heavens throb with palpitating fire THE OLD HOUSE BY THE MERE. A cold bloom wanders on the darkening bay, A cool sail glitters to the wasted day, And dipping, wavering, floats me nigher and nigher. Before the languid pulses of the breeze, Speed we to-night across the yeasty seas To stranger clouds and stars than these ; My heart, my soul, my own : Madeline, Madeline! 53 A JUL Y DA WN. |E left the city, street and square, With lamplights glimmering through and through, And turned us toward the suburb, where Full from the east the fresh wind blew. One cloud stood overhead the sun A glorious trail of dome and spire The last star nickered, and was gone ; The first lark led the matin choir. Wet was the grass beneath our tread, Thick-dewed the bramble by the way ; The lichen had a lovelier red, The elder-flower a fairer grey. And there was silence on the land, Save when, from out the city's fold, Stricken by Time's remorseless wand, A bell across the morning tolled. A JULY DAWN. 55 The beeches sighed through all their boughs ; The gusty pennons of the pine Swayed in a melancholy drowse. But with a motion sternly fine. One gable, full against the suu, Flooded the garden-space beneath With spices, sweet as cinnamon, From all its honeysuckled breadth. Then crew the cocks from echoing farms, The chimney-tops were plumed with smoke, The windmill shook its slanted arms, The sun was up, the country woke ! And voices sounded 'mid the trees Of orchards red with burning leaves, By thick hives, sentinelled by bees From fields which promised tented sheaves ; Until the day waxed to excess, And on the misty, rounding grey One vast, fantastic wilderness, The glowing roofs of London lay. GUESSES. KNOW a maiden ; she is dark and fair, With curved brows and eyes of hazel hue, And mouth, a marvel, delicately rare, Rich with expression, ever quaint yet new. O happy fancy ! there she, leaning, sits, One little palm against her temples pressed, And all her tresses winking like brown elves ; The yellow fretted laurels toss in fits, The great laburnums droop in swoons of rest, The blowing woodbines murmur to themselves. What does she think of, as the daylight floats Along the mignonetted window-sills, And flame-like, overhead, with ruffled throats, The bright canaries twit their seeded bills ? What does she think of 1 Of the jasmine flower That, like an odorous snowflake, opens slow, Or of the linnet on the topmost briar, Or of the cloud that, fringed with summer shower, Floats up the river spaces, blue and low, And marged with lilies like a bank of fire ? GUESSES. 57 Ah, sweet conception ! enviable guest, Lodged in the pleasant palace of her brain, Summoned a minute, at her rich behest, To wander fugitive the world again. What does she think of ? Of the dusty bridge, Spanning the mallow shadows in the heat, Arid porching in its hollow the cool wind ; Or of the poplar on the naked ridge ; Or of the bee that, clogged with nectared feet, Hums in the gorgeous tulip-bell confined ? At times, her gentle brows are archly knit With tangled subtleties of gracious thought ; At times, the dimples round her mouth are lit By rosy twilights from some image caught. What does she think of 1 Of t lie open book Whose pencille-1 leaves are fluttering on her knee ; Or of the broken fountain in the grass ; Or of the dumb and immemorial rook, Perched like a winged darkness on the tree, And watching the great clouds in silence pass ? I know not ; myriad are the phantasies That trouble the still dreams- of maidenhood, And wonderful the radiant entities Shaped in the passion of her brain and blood. O Fancy ! through the realm of guesses fly, Unlock the rich abstraction of her heart (Her soul is second in the mystery) : Trail thy gold meshes through the summer sky ; Question her tender breathings as they part, Tell me, Revealer, that she thinks of me. TO SPRING. [ROM the grey wicket of the morn, Under the shadow-braided skies, With violet twilights in thine eyes, Thou walkest across the fresh, green corn. I see thy pathway in the dark, Thy sweet feet print the fields with light With primroses and snowdrops white, And silver on the larch tree's bark. I know thy coming. Underneath The black and leafless lattices, There comes the moan of blowing trees, The wallflower's faint ascetic breath. I know thy coming for the air Blows soft upon the sleeted pane, And drips the eaves with amber rain, And scatters odours everywhere. Far down, amid the shallows dank Of the cold freshets, mallow-blooms Are broadening in the willow glooms, And cowslips flame on brae and bank. TO SPRING. 59 O peace, rest ! Thou wintry jar Of piping nights and mornings cold, With fogs upon the sunless wold, And thunders in the west afar; Leave us a while, that we may rise, With bright hands on the happy latch, That we may go abroad and catch The season's passion from the eyes Of fringed daisies that espy The sun's return, before the furze Turns golden; or the swallow stirs His dusk wing in our faithless sky. On many a sandy river shore, And emerald lawn, the chestnut stands, And shines along the pasture lands, The gleam of blossomed sycamore. And in the hours of sunshine brief, But barred with shadows every one, On gables looking to the sun, The honeysuckle gathers leaf. Blessed be thou, sweet time of spring, And not alone that thou dost come, Thy white arms piled with freshened bloom, And songs that make the woodland ring. No more amid the myrrhs and palms, Of highest heaven, dost thou repose, And feel upon thy crownless brows The light of ever-crimson calms. Thine aim is higher. Thou art the type Of resurrection of the spring That yet shall wake the sleeping thing, When God is pleased, and time is ripe. HAPPY CHR1STMASES. the December weather, grey and grim, In the December twilight, keen and cold, Stood the farmhouse on the green-reached hill Piled with thatched roof 5=, mellowed into gold; Under the dark eaves trailed the famished vines, Blood-ribbed skeletons of autumn days, And the quaint windows, looking to the downs, Flickered and darkened in the ruddy blaze. Three leagues around, the meadows to the moon Yearned like a silver dreamland, faint and white, Below the deep-ploughed road a little pool Glimmered breezily in the tender light. The great ash caught the glory as it dropped From bough to bough fantastically fair, And the stars looked into its leafless heart, Through shifting vapours and translucent air. Wild looked the gardens round the drowsy house, The laurel sparkled in the sifting frost; But the white gables, where the roses grew, In the dank atmosphere of fog, were lost; HAPPY CHRISTMASES. 61 The wicket swang with a perturbed cry, The mighty watch-dog crossed the dial floor; My heart beat as I stroked his shaggy head My heart throbbed as I stood beside the door. In the sweet Christmas light that filled the porch, As with a glory round a saint she stood, Welcomes innumerable were on her lips, And her cheeks reddened with tumultuous blood. My own, my darling one, my life, my love, That made the common ways of earth divine; 'Twas sweet to stand beneath the balmy roof, Three fingers of thy gloveless hand in mine. But dearer, sweeter, richer still to know That thou wert mine, and that thy gentle heart, Won by long sufferance won in hope and doubt For me preserved a sanctuary apart; Some sweet spot in a maiden's nature, where Her thoughts flower loveliest with unconscious growth The Eden of her soul where passion lives, As if the guest to go or stay were loth. In the old chairs before the household fire We sat and gossiped; we had histories, Dear nooks beside the winding river banks, Dear names carved deep upon the cherry trees. Old quarrels that the fresh love consecrates As with some richer and diviner charm, Old theories we wove as oft we went Through the soft evening pastures, arm in arm And oft I raised my head, when the tall urn Bubbled between us, and I caught your eyes, Dear, holy love, fixed sad upon my brows, And full of dim, delicious mysteries; 62 POEMS. Our hands upon the cloth one moment met, A rough hand, and five fingers cool and white, And the whole chamber vanished in the mist Of an unknown and exquisite delight. Do you remember how your father looked Stared me with pity, stared at me in wrath; Well, he was old, and sorrowing shadows lie On the thick hedges of a downward path. He did not love me; I was strange to him; His mind had measure of the ancient score; He liked a man whom the king's herald knew And nailed his pedigree above his door. Those were poor times (you did not love me less) And weary toil fetched slender recompense; Silent and sad the grey past hung behind, Before the future loomed dark and dense. I saw the sneer that writhed on his lips, And the white pallor of his feudal blood; I rose, and stood, and trembled on the floor, Passion, and love, and misery at feud. And then I went, but when I reached the path, Slid straight between the alder trees, I turned, The moon looked yellowly across the downs, The moon upon the broken dial mourned; The moon looked full into your yearning face, And touched the raven ripples of your hair ; But the old saint-like atmosphere was lost To the fierce vision blended with despair. Forgive me, oh, forgive me, patient one, I blamed you for my sorrow and my shame; Once thrice I turned and stood to say good-bye, But with the message wild reproaches came. HAPPY CHRISTMASES. 63 Out on the night, a-past the wicket step, Out in the dark, disconsolate and poor, Sad as the wind that, blown from the low hills, Fainted in monodies from moor to moor. n. The year lay dying in the east, The Christmas chimes had swung and ceast, The Christmas light died at the feast. Down looked the moon, but looked no more Upon the silent river shore, Or on the hilltops faint and hoar. Down into London's struggling gloom, Down on the city of the Doom, A scarf of cloud around her bloom. Below the bridge the black ships lay, The thin lamps gleamed from quay to quay. The thin masts trembled in the grey. At times a voice was heard to cry Some sudden warning ; by-and-by A swift plunge told its mystery. And deep and grim the river went Past arch, and tower, and monument, As with a wail of discontent. The clocks tolled two, and near and far Rung in a fierce prophetic war, The chimes roared back with brazen jar. And as they ceased to clang and stir, The foggy night grew silenter, As nearer day the moments were. POEMS. Upon the bridge I stood alone, Listening to the slow waves' moan, Lapping the weedy buttress stone. Friendless and homeless, 'twas to me A sort of Christmas company To watch the swirls glide to the sea : To see the starlight glimmer grim, Across the currents vague and dim, And wish that I could go with them. I touched my breast and trembled there 'Twas chiller than the morning air Close lay a cherished lock of hair. And then, dear heart, my eyes grew wet; I saw, in vision desolate, The hill the house where first we met. The sweet old landscapes that we knew, When nights were fair and skies were blue, And every wind in odour flew. I said : " To-night, beside the hearth, The light of the sweet household mirth; Old days to her are little worth. Or if they come they scarcely raise A tear to dim her laughing gaze, And glitter in the Christmas blaze. Buried and dead am I to her; The sighs of some new worshipper, Make all her seltish pulses stir. Some neat, new suitor, in disguise Of hollow laughs and tempting lies, And fine sense of proprieties." HAPPY CHRISTMASES. 65, Behind her chair I see him sit, Filling her ear with borrowed wit, Which she pronounces exquisite. And the soft fingers and the palm, That were to me earth's precious balm, She gives him with untroubled calm. And by-and-by, for his reward, She rises to the harpsichord, And crucifies my darling bard. 0, heartless havoc ! when such ears Suck in the whispers of the spheres, Nor utter thoughts in silent tears ! O, shameless barter of a faith, Sworn to exist unto her death : Trifled away in one short breath ! I clenched my hands in bitter woe, I felt my brain in tears could flow, But my ill-angel answered Xo ! The sun came up, the cloud went down, And the sick daylight, dank and brown, Struggled across the mighty town. And I went whither, ask me not Mine own, that morning is forgot ; Hidden in one blind mercy blot. in. 'Twas summer time, the radiant world of June Fell on the dreamful earth, Within 'twas coolest shadow ; the red broom Lay piled upon the hearth. 66 POEMS. Through the slim spaces in the lattice breadth The sun sloped from the eaves ; The very atmosphere waxed tremulous With the green stir of leaves, With airy whispers from the distant woods, Around the moorland reach The whisper of the fainting lilac boughs, The low voice of the beech. The subtle melodies the hot gusts sucked From the quaint woodland bridge, That shone a perfect circle in the brook, Beyond the last wold ridge. And when the birds sang and the echoes blew, And beat upon the blind, That shook, a purple languor, in the sun, And rose with the sweet wind, Again for me the old world charm revived ; It seemed as after death One woke from sleep upon a fairer earth The dreamland of our faith. Beside each other in the porch we sat, The quaint old-fashioned place, Built up of knotted boughs and peaked roofs, And rich in country grace. Between us and the roadway stretched the lawn ; The wicket was not seen, For the laburnums raised their slender trunks And branching firs between. HAPPY CHRISTMASES. 67 Long on the grass the gable shadows stretched, And then the chimneys threw Their grim phantasmal shadows on the sward, That dim and dimmer grew. " At last, at last," I dare not see her face, I dare not catch her eyes ; But my heart yearned with a sudden pa'n, My breath was choked in sighs. " Can you love me ? " I asked, " Dear, answer me." The purple curtain shook; I heard the ripple of sweet moans that mocked The murmur of a brook, Of a pure brook that glides in summer time, Through fields and pleasant air, Stealing the beauty of the golden moss And lilies white and fair. So it was all confest ; my own was mine, And I in peace was blest ; A tender hand upon my shoulder lay, A face was on my breast. And ere the holy lights of Christmas threw Their glory on our life, Under one roof, beside one household fire, I sat beside my wife. Dark grew the dial, but we little recked How the sweet minutes ran ; Or how the dusk was posting up the east, A faint star caravan. 68 POEMS. For we were happy though my love was sick Sick with protracted doubt That digs the heart in sepulchres, and blows The flame of patience out. I had returned to her, and conquered much Conquered the goods of life ; And dragged a conscience and a victor's spoil Out of the seething strife. I had returned to her. In the whole world Else whither could I go 1 I knew the path as if my feet had left Their prints within the snow. And she the light came back in her sick eyes, The light of the rich past She caught my hand in silence and in tears, And then she said, "At last." Dear love, God's sweetest sweetness comes in woe, His balm is given in pain ; The Angel of the Promise wakes and smiles Above the cloud and rain. BY THE TURNSTILE. I HERE'S light in the west, o'er the rims of the walnut, Low croons the stream, in the meadows below, Shrill sings the robin, a-top of the briar, Black, through the golden dusk, darkens the crow. O love, from the hamlet, that gleams in the sallows, Come up through the pastures come upwards and smile, That your dear face may shine twenty roods through the twilight, And sprinkle with starbeams the stones of the stile. Come hither, come hither, 'Tis midsummer weather ; Airy-paced, violet-eyed, dainty-lipped lisper, For into your pink ear, sweetheart, if you let me, If but for a moment, I'd hurriedly whisper. O daisies that glitter in long tangled grasses, White wastes of delight that stream fair to the moon, Unprison your lids, though the dank dew is falling, And catch the sweet footsteps that hasten here soon. 70 POEMS. There's a candle a-gleam in the grey cottage lattice, There's a shadow that comes 'twixt the light and the pane, And a dear little head slily peers through the casement, Turns backward, and leaves me the shadow again. Come hither, come hither, 'Tis midsummer weather ; The windmill has stopped, dear, ah ! that is our token, For ere the night falls through yon great arch of planets, One quick little word in your ear must be spoken. There's an echo that comes from the dusk of the paddock The echoes of feet that are tripping and walking, There's a murmur that creeps through the heart of the pasture, O love, is it you, or the daisies, are talking ? ; Tis she, for the wild mint, scarce crushed by her footstep, Gives out all its odour that's all it can give her And the stile that I've sat by since six in the evening, Turns round, ay it does, of itself to receive her. Come hither, come hither, 'Tis midsummer weather ; Now answer me this, by the round moon above me, Do you 1 well, after all, what's the use of being talking? Sure you wouldn't come hither if you didn't love me ? THE DEAD ROSE. WAS morning; through the eastern pane, Bloodshot with sunrise, came the sound Of intermingling wind and rain, From coign and buttress heaped around; I stood once more on holy ground: From floor to roof, from jamb to groin, The wine-dark volumes round me rose; This was her cloister in the years Men mourn with heartaches, not with tears, And agonies of unrepose. The square, trim garden flashed outside, The hollyhocks against the sun ; The terrace, chestnut-arched and wide, With quickening shadows overrun. Midway, a triton stooped, and spun From his cold shell a film of gold A pulsing, palpitating spray And here my lady loved to be, Close by her friend, the damson tree, When rosied with the sinking day. 72 POEMS. Sighing, I turned, and towards me drew A volume from the littered heap : Her eyes had searched it through and through, And two white leaves were sealed to keep A thought for one across the deep A dead rose skeletoned in dust Which I had pulled twelve years ago ! And this, through all the tides of change This was my lady's worst revenge Her last kiss for the latest blow. The air shook the mezereon, And made a glamour down the hall ; One mildewed banner swayed alone, The rest hung huddled to the wall ; I trembled, and remembered all : The fountain leaped, the terrace gleamed, And she was white, and I was wroth; Three words reproaches and I went, Yet felt in my worst discontent That white face shining down my path. O slander, cherished till too late ! sweet life, darkened in its prime ! O living impotence of hate, Which scorns results of tide and clime, And waxes with increasing time ! Yet she was wronged, my lady wronged ; 1 will not curse them let them be, For this poor relic's darling sake : The ill they wrought, let God unmake, And may His pity guardian me. Good-bye ! The flower was at my heart, The Tudor casements sank behind ; THE DEAD ROSE. On wings voluminous and swart, A cloud came rushing up the wind, And made the waves and beaches blind, The lightnings lit the hissing surf One wrack of fire a moment still O flash and fade and flash in vain, There was a lightning in my brain There was a grave below the hill. 73 AT THE INN. the black rafters overhead, The log-wood firelight winked and gleamed ; * Through the square window, thrice bull's-eyed, The misty April moonlight streamed. The dog lay coiled upon the hearth, The cricket made all holiday, And still blind Tom, the pedlar, sang, With husky voice, his changeless lay : " Let others break their hearts for wealth, And toss about on the ocean foam ; I love to live in the dear old land, For 'tis better, my boys, to die at home." Around the house the wild wind blew, And, on its hinges, shook the door, The log spat fire, and three big sparks Like coals glowed on the earthen floor. Sudden the cock crowed high and long, Chuckled the hens, a breath or two; Down the broad chimney showered the soot ; But Tom sang, to his mission true : AT THE INN. 75 " Let others break their hearts for wealth, And toss about on the ocean foam ; I love to live in the dear old land, For, 'tis better, my boys, to die at home. A stir went creeping through the thatch, The rafters groaned like things in pain, The great blue bull's-eyes 'gan to drip, The moon went out, down came the rain. The cricket stopped, the dog outstretched Yawned in his torpor, then the bell Tolled out 'twas midnight; on went Tom, The ballad pleased his humour well : " Let others break their hearts for gold, And toss about on the ocean foam ; I love to live in the dear old land, For 'tis better, my boys, to die at home." The guests climbed up the dusky stairs, With closing eyes and stooping brows, The thatch gave back the sound of rain, And the storm whistled across the house. Not a star could be seen outside, Not a candle glimmered within; But Tom went on in dark and storm, To the shrill sound of his violin: " Let others break their hearts for gold, And toss about on the ocean foam; I love to live in the dear old land, For 'tis better, my boys, to die at home." MA K PEN, sweet flowers, your eyes, Earth's awake, Rain droppeth from the skies, The songs of throstles rise, In field and brake. Come churchyard marigold, Flower of the sun, O pansies bloom, O lilies break the fold, Unbosom one by one, And come ! Shy daisies of the mead, Quick, be up, And let your lids be red, Round every yellow head, And dew-charged cup. Puce honeysuckles blow Blow in the grass; Mint, from the gloom, Breathe out your odorous woe, As nymphs and shepherds pass, And come! MA Y. Primroses, moist and pale, Sun the hedge, Spread sunshine down the vale, Climb over park and pale. The brooklets sedge Is dark without your light. Naiads do cry, And bitterns boom, Through all the grey daylight, Till the sweet sun doth die, Come, come ! May is upon the earth, And above, The swallow leaves the north, Crickets sing on the hearth, The world is love. The furze is heaped with fire, Whitethorns are gay, Flowered is the broom, The larks repair their choir. For 'tis the month of May, O come! 77 UNDER THE CHESTNUTS. ELL us, O Croesus, languid and weary, Pacing the highway in purple and white, Which doth thy crown or those cap and bells, airy, Sit upon brows that have more of the light ? We camp on the greensward, we roll in the meadow We sleep in the starlight, when laughter is done; Choosing the prime of the shine and the shadow, Down in the bypaths under the sun. Winter with us is a season of splendour, Logs crackle gaily on altar and hearth ; Then comes the spring, and a voice, low and tender, Whispers " green leaves " in the ear of the earth. Summer has babblings of vintages mellow, Creaking of wine-presses sanguine and dun, Chatter of harvest time, sheafy and yellow, Down in the bypaths under the sun. Look in our Rubric : the pages are olden ! Worshipping fingers the binding have rent. What can corrupt the philosophy golden Which seasons the worst with the salt of content ? UNDER THE CHESTNUTS. 79 Croesus, whilst smiles may be spare in your palace (Round the dial of riches the hours slowly run), Hark to the laughter that startles the valleys, Down in the bypaths under the sun. Magnate and consul a moment come hither, Round by the bridge, o'er the dry torrent's bed, Sit on the wild thyme, and taste of the weather Shed from the olive trees branched overhead. Here's wine that has cobwebbed one hundred Decembers (Pan ! what a vintage resides in that tun) ; And delicate kid, broiled on chestnutty embers, Smokes in the bypaths under the sun. Ha ! there's a fig for your banquets and mumming, And temples that throb with the griefs of debauch, Whilst we suck the prunes where the sycamore, blooming, Trails round the meadow a shadowy watch. Yours be the state, and the galley-oar's labour; Ours let it be through the vineyards to run, Chasing the swallows with timbrel and tabor, Down in the bypaths under the sun. GOD HELP HER. ["Jemima was not more than two months, I think, over six years old when she went out. She said : ' Mother, I want some boots to go to school ' ; so I sent her out, and saved up what she earned until it was time enough to get them. She was a corpse from going in the turnips. She came home from work one day, when about ten and a half years old. wilh dizziness, and her bones aching, and died, and was buried in little better than a fortnight." Evidence of a Mother before the Children's Employment Commission in reference to Agricultural Gangs.] HEARD the fierce wail, incoherent, Of one in her need Heard the cry of a heart too much broken By torture to bleed. For the red joyous blood had abandoned The core where it leapt, Ere the little child, grown to a woman, Knew sorrow, and wept Knew sorrow, and with it bereavement, The cot's narrow space Framing round the ghast ruin of childhood, Stiff limbs, pallid face ; GOD HELP HER. 81 The mouth shrivelled up, and half open, The hair's ebon stream; Lids drooping their night-waves of lashes Like one in a dream. Ay, a dream that will perish, dissolving, When, out from the skies, The trump of the summoning angel Bids earth to arise, When the sepulchre feels, in its bowels, The stir of the Dead, When the flesh shall no more be a burthen, When time shall be fled; Then the trance of the child shall be over, For heaven shall break, That God may pass through the partition For righteousness' sake. Lift the little thing out of her ashes (No longer wind-blown) And hers shall be guerdon eternal The palm and the throne. Who slew her, who strangled God's darling ? Stand forth you accursed, Stand forth in your villainous splendour, The last shall be first. ii. Six years only six! yet she laboured In silence and pain, Bore the blaze of the dizzying sunshine, The brunt of the rain. Reeling feet trod the sharp, biting stubble, Ay, trod till they bled, And her hands, as they fought with the thistles, As poppies were red. F 82 POEMS. Toiling hard without tear, without murmur, The little thing went, Till her brain in the struggle grew weary, Her courage was spent. Christ died, in His pity to save her, The slave of the Mart, Where conscience is ruled by the Mammon, The absence of heart; But man marred the gracious redemption, He wanted a slave, A thing to pick stones from the pasture, And waste to the grave. So scorning, denying the mission Of Him who laid down Life and love on the hill that looks over The perishing town, That quaked at the footsteps of Herod, A child, yea, a child Was chased like a beast by the hunter From home to the wild. From the sweetness of kisses, embraces, The nameless drew grace, The light and the peace of the household, Where, face meeting face, Create the pure intercommunion Which the world cannot give Create that most precious assurance : 7 Tis something to live. in. 'Tis come, the supreme consummation, The Merciful Death Just stood at the desolate bedside; Said " Hush " to her breath. GOD HELP HER. 83. How quiet she lies in the coffin ! How thin her hair's gold ! She looks she was ten years last birthday- Full twenty years old. Starved, haggard, and stiff with expression, Her corpse is a text Of this world's unreasoning vengeance, The wrath of the next. Caps off, here's my lord, the gang-master, Arm in arm with his bride, Mark, she leans on the chest of the monster, Her eyes glow with pride. I knew him, the true British face Nose and forehead in line, The eyes, in profile, drawn obliquely The squint of the swine. And my lady, how bravely she bears it ! I knew her well, too, Knew her and her rancid complexion, Her eyes' bilious blue. No word for the poor squalid darling Who lies in the gloom Of the casement, all patches and bull's-eyes, Of this wretched room. " She's dead ah, I thought so ; no matter." And did he dare speak ? And what was that feminine titter, The possible freak Of a woman who humoured her mate "With unwomanly art, Affronting her GOD and her conscience, Belying her heart ? Lord, watch how she smothers her laughter, And wears the demure; 84 POEMS. And the ruby that burns at her throat Is the blood of the poor! Weep, woman, in agonised silence, 'Till tears make you blind; Till they look on your voiceless bereavement, And call you resigned. The coffin, the shroud of the pauper, The spiritless clay, Are dues for the voice, the embrace That should comfort to-day. Yes, here in the heart of " Free England " The Murder was done The slow loathsome murder of System That rots in the sun. Not the bloodshed of fair open strife, Foot to foot, blow for blow; When a man cleaves his enemy's forehead, And stamps down a foe. Not this; but unholy conspirings, By legalised arts, To age the fair tresses of childhood, To break little hearts. Ah ! cowards, ah ! worse than assassins, The day shall yet come When the face of that blue, wasted victim A seraph's shall bloom. When she, and you too, in the Presence Of Judgment shall stand; If there be a Providence watching, I know at which hand. IV. As one sometimes hears the dull crackle In dusks of the crypt, GOD HELP HER. As the searcher unfolds from the read-stane The pale manuscript, Slants it lightwards a little and sees it, The lamp shining on, Then flies satisfied with his treasure Bight out to the sun : So I hear the Angel of Record, He turns the thick leaves, The Book of Accompt whose fierce pages Are read as oat sheaves. to ALICE'S KEEPSAKE. | HE linnet swung high on the gold laburnum, That tender, beautiful morn; The shrill lark twinkled on pulsing pinions O'er leagues of yellowing corn. The river ran cool through violet hazes, By forest and gleaming pass; And the lowing of herds came slowly windward, From meadows knee-deep in grass. Then slow through the jewelly, radiant weather, By bow'ry hollow and nook, I went with the fugitive July shadows, To sit by the singing brook. O brook, what meaneth that crystal l>alble, That chatters of purple hills Of upland breezes that shake the heather, And dance with the daffodils ? There is a glittering mystic cypher In all you utter and say, As down through the hearts of the branchy woodlands, You sparkle from day to day. ALICES KEEPSAKE. 87 You will not tell it, you will not speak it; But I shall know it aright; I pluck this lily the shielded secret Is hid in its bosom white. And she whom I love shall yet reveal it With her pure heart's innocent lore; Shall break the blossom, and read the cypher That's writ on its amber core. Onward the brook ; and I returning, Through many an ocean gloom, Saw the grey day break, tired with crimson, Shine through the mists of home. I heard the moan of the inland poplars, The whirring of windmill sails, The murmurous echoes that troop at daylight From pastoral fields and vales. Day fled, and I stood on our darkened threshold The pilgrim of many a land, My arms flung wide for our gold-haired Alice, The lily within my hand. She did not rise, and she did not answer, Her palms were crossed on her breast; For the angel of God had stilled her breathing, And a silent saint was our guest. But I placed the flower in her waxen fingers, And whispered, " My beautiful love, Bring this with thee when our souls encounter At the gates of the city above." THE MANSE. | HE Manse, with thirteen brick-red gables, Quaintly hooded with sandstone dark, With ivied stacks of crumbling chimneys, Stands on the skirts of St Cyril's park : The diamond casements are green and shattered, The mullions mellow and grey with rime, And even the vine on the porch has rotted In the frosts and rains of forgotten time. All round the silent, pathless gardens The red fruits drop in the summer hours; And the wind blown out of the roofless arbours Is faint with the breath of the levelled flowers. High on the terrace, woodbine muffled, With blossoms the Greek urns overflow; And the swallows nest in the shattered statues That bend by the fountains, far below. Stained and broken, the dusky arras Like twilight hangs in the voiceless rooms; And the misty cirques of the fractured skylights Teem with imperfect lights and glooms. THE MANSE. 89 All day, the sunlight, in dusty splendour, Inward slants on the oaken floors; All night, the moon, with a mournful glory, Floats through the echoing corridors. Many a time, in the precious seasons, Hidden behind the veils of fate, A young wife smiled from the diamond lattice, And children laughed at the jasmined gate : Tender affections, fond endearments, Brightened the life of the happy throng; The day was buried with prayers and laughter, The nights were epics of peaceful song. No more : the richly-blossomed trailer Garlands the round of the channelled eaves; The dial glows in the crimson briar, The linnet sings in the privet leaves : The white rose blows in the tangled hedges, The laurels gleam by the garden door; But they, the gracious and gentle-hearted, Walk in that ancient Manse no more. THE PICTURE. |HAT is my love like ? She is fair, Fair as a lovely autumn star, Twinkling through the woodland air. A cloven cherry is her mouth, Her breath a breeze that wanders far, Through hills of camphire in the south. A milky shoulder, gleaming shy, Peeps, silver-blanched, above her gown, As from a fragrant nunnery. wondrous, wondrous is her hair ! A braided wealth of golden brown, That drops on neck and temples bare. Her hand so oft doth kiss her lips That half the damask blood has flown To ruby her fine finger tips. 1 will not swear me for her eyes, For when we meet my lids are prone Supine before their witcheries THE PICTURE. 91 She hath a voice like a slow brook That crystals over sands of gold, And sings in every flowery nook. And her blithe laugh is soft and low, And rich in meanings manifold A viol that the spring gusts blow. Her beauty grows from hour to hour, I meet her face in gloomy ways I meet the sunbeam with the shower. A glory shines before my gaze, And dreaming, wide-awake, I go Through long, long years of radiant days. POEMS RELATING TO IRELAND. A VISION. SAW one, pale and stricken, by the sea, Where the tide laps the crags, and cloudy stars* Rising and falling through the endless night, Light the black beaches and the sandy bars. Around her mournful brows were interlaced Garlands of rosemary and shamrock leaves, And on her cheek the wan bloom lurked that falls From moonless heavens upon autumn eves. So sad, so sweet ! The passion of all time, The heritage of conquered race to race, Immortal grief, intensified despair, Sat in her closed eyes and drooping face. Yet beautiful withal the mystic charm The sense of loveliness unspeakable That wrapt her as the grey mist wraps the morn, Breathed from the Paradise from which she fell. And, leaning on a broken harp, whose strings Answered with discords to the ocean wind, She sat the hopeless future spread before, The rayless ages thronging thick behind ! 96 POEMS. For, with the echoes of the caverns, came The full- voiced generations of the past: Prophet, and Priest, and Seer, and Warrior, The field's bright ensign, and the galley's mast. And there were cries of triumph on the shore, And shouts of fighting men upon the brine, And thund'rous pseans from exulting hosts, Wafted round beakers beaded with red wine; Which died away in sullen glooms and calms, In whose great hearts the voice of tumult woke Clashing of hostile swords and ringing shields, And banners reeling in the battle smoke. Lo ! as I gazed there came the sound of prayer, And pealings of sweet bells, for conflict ceast; The blackened beach blushed roses to the mere, The fair sun topped the vapours of the east. And listening for the dewy note of morn, From the four corners of the breaking skies, I heard the voice of prophecy exclaim " God's faithful one, thy griefs are past Arise." THE MOUNTAIN PASS. JIX-AND-THIRTY fighting men Gathered in the mountain pass : Blazed the camp-fire cheerily, Twinkled all the dewy grass Sword and carbine, pike and staff, On the heather bloom were laid From beneath some sun-browned coat Shot and flashed another blade. Six-and-thirty fighting men ! Oh, the days go merrilie ! All the stars rise right and left : Ireland shall be free ! There's Michael of the mountain, stout, There's William of the hazel glen, There's Peter of the broad bull's chest- Three gallant, fighting, warring men. G POEMS. And there's our chief a tower of might, A castle on the mountain crags His eye is sharp as eagle's eye, His feet are fleeter than the stag's. Six-and-thirty fighting men ! Oh, the wars go merrilie ! All the stars rise right and left ; Ireland shall be free ! Essex comes from south, they say; Let him come, we'll measure swords ; We, the outposts of the land, Keep no faith in empty words. We, the outposts of the land, Swear by heaven, our sovereign might, Not to shame O'Donnell's flag, Nor forego the nation's right. Six-and-thirty fighting men ! May the war come merrilie ! All the stars rise right and left; Ireland shall be free ! Whilst O'Neill with shout and gun Thunders through the stubborn north ; Whilst the Saxons, east and west, Drench with blood both field and hearth Whilst the foe in England plots, Whilst the foe at home deceives, Whet the sword and light the fire Curst be he who misbelieves. Six-and-thirty fighting men ! Oh, may war come merrilie ! All the stars rise right and left; Ireland shall be free ! THE MOUNTAIN PASS. 99 What's the news they bring to-day ? England's queen is stark and dead ; Tndor of the Tudors base, May the black pit be her bed ! Ah, before her massive strength, Cecil's cunning, craft, and lies, All the chieftains of the north Broke their heart's supreme emprise. Six-and-thirty fighting men ! War will yet go merrilie ! All the stars rise right and left ; Ireland shall be free ! Spanish ships are on the main; Plunder loads each choking hold, Flag and pennon reel in silk, Keel and stern are wrought of gold. And a banner blest at Rome, Floats above the high masthead Half of it is red and green Half of it is green and red. Six-and-thirty fighting men ! War we'll wage right merrilie ! All the stars rise right and left ; Ireland shall be free ! Mike M'Gee, your trusty pike Is rusting with the hurtling rain ; And the filly smells the wind, Thick with garbage from the plain. Teirher that the'corn is nigh, Oats in bushels, wheat in stacks, Grass that shines as shamrocks shine All along the mountain tracks. ioo POEMS. Six-and-thirty fighting men ! Oh, the war comes merrilie ! All the stars rise right and left ; Ireland shall be free ! Look ! That flash along the east ! Morning to you, Mistress Moon ! Hooh ! There sounds the warning gun, God be thanked it came so soon. Boys, there's battle in the wind ; There it goes, the roaring drum ; If I'm not rejoiced to-day May the good God strike me dumb ! Six-and-thirty fighting men ! Oh, the war comes merrilie ! All the stars rise right and left Ireland shall be free ! THE FOUR MASTERS. HERE sleep the FOUR? What blessed earth What aisles, with burning windows, hold, In porphyry, or red rough gold, The sages of the South and North 1 Where rest the men who whilst this Isle Was barred with black Oppression's cloud, Faced death and dungeons with a smile, Nor held their heads less straight and prond ? They crept to peace in far Lou vain, Shrouded in the Franciscan grain ; Caring no more to greet the sun, The hand's work and the heart's work done. Beside the sea of Donegal The coasts beloved of Gaul and Spain From sunrise to the sunset's wane, Their shadows dropped from wall to wall Through years of change. Few watched their toil, And fewer still the glory prized Of saving from a trampled spoil The truths a warring world despised :' There in that narrow little room, Our martyrs' palms took fresher bloom, 102 POEMS. And o'er those rudely sanded floors Moved poets, kings, and warriors. What visions must have lit their brains ! What splendours rolled apast their eyes As gradually they saw arise The bright thrones, the majestic reigns ! As, statue-like, beneath their hands The living, breathing Erin grew, And smiled upon the fruitful lands Of corn, and oil, and wine, and dew. At their swift touch the prophets spoke, The bards to strains of triumph woke, Kings led the hosted worshippers, And queens sang from their sepulchres. Or, nearer down the tides of Time, When the austere, grey pillar tow'rs Which dial the incessant hours Merged into mystery sublime; The pageant of our story sweeps Through dolours and through days of light ; The fleets contend upon the deeps The shores with wrestling steel are bright : The graves are dug within the sand, The salt surf rusts the broken brand, And, in the hush, the women's cries Rise sharp and frantic to the skies. Weirdly they tell of Ireland's loss When her great chiefs were forced to fly, And, underneath an alien sky, Exchange the falchion for the Cross. Their hands are firm their eyes are wet ; They think of Donegal the lone, THE FOUR MASTERS. 103 In sapphires of the ocean set The crags and castles of Tyrone. Never again their chiefs shall tread The plains which foreign fraud made red ; But the true FOUR will write their fame In words that burn like living flame. O fortitude that beat down Fate ! Faith whose fount was ever clear ! O love which sorrow made more dear ! toil that took no toll of date ! Rare, ardent spirits, but for ye Our nation had no glorious page No beam of immortality To bridge the severed age and age. And ye the foul world knew ye not ! Resigned and gracious, blessed the cot Within whose walls, 'mid storm and strife, Our Island's story leaped to life. O friends, forgotten (if ye were), The dawn of preparation nears : Your vigils, blessed with prayers and tears, Were passed in no ungrateful air. The gallant, kindly Irish race Decrees the Cross ye bore shall bear, On Donegal's wind-beaten base, The names which love made sweet and fair.* Long may that Cross's Celtic crest Tower o'er the waters of the west, And symbolise on that grey shore The glory of the Faithful FOUR. * At the time when this poem was written, 1873, it was proposed to erect a Celtic Cross to the memory of the Four ^Masters on the coast of Donegal, near the scene of their labours. The Cross was, however, afterwards erected in Dublin. OS SI AN. POKE my heart in the dearth of the night, of the evil, the terrible night : What boots it to thee, O descendant of poets, and sages, and kings, That thou wearest a garment fine-threaded with issues of blackness and light That in courts thy harp rings ? Thou hast seen all the glamour of Tara, the musters of shield-covered men, The fires, the rejoicings, the tumults, the trophies, the long spoils of Meath Hast seen the processions march sunward the flame of their spears on the plain; Yet their guerdon was Death ! To death have gone down the pale victors the bearers of sparth-given scars; They sleep coldly, mutely, for ever, the cromlechs their silent abodes; Where be they ? Ah, vainly I question the mutable eyes of the stars, And the shrines of the Gods. OSSIAA 7 . 105 There are pastures full fat in the heavens; red deer that are swift as the cloud, When rolls from Hy-Brasil the tempest, and, inland, the forests grow dim; There are women delightful and fragrant, by sunshines of saffron o'erbowed Yet who has seen them ? I lost my next brother in battle, and dying he swore on his knee : " If there be This an Hereafter, by Bel, hear my oath loud and deep : From ashes, and carcase, and cromlech, my spirit shall stand before thee, Be thou 'wake or asleep." O vigils with tear-stains made noisome ! O famished, inveterate years ! I've watched till mine eyes sucked in darkness, and shrank at approaching of flame; From winter, till over the shoulder of Hesper the green time appears, But never he came ! Where be he? The void has his atoms; dispersed, he's dispersed by the wind Made mad by the rank excitations of lightning, and thunder, and sea; He rolls round the world, an existence of particles shape- less and blind; Yet the dust is not he ! For ashes and death both are solvents the meeting of flail and of chaff, That sets the red wheat in the corn-ear from husk and entanglement free; io6 POEMS. But the grain hath not conscience or sentience; it weepeth not, nor doth it laugh Yet who laughed as he 1 'Twill come I must follow him surely; his night shall be part of my night, His action a part of my action, his doom shall be part of my doom; Copartners in misery, blindness through myriad epochs of blight, We must grope through the gloom. Towards what ? Ah, the mystery grieves me. Towards what ? and towards what ? and towards what ? If Heavens or Hells or the Voids held but ultimate hope of release From uttermost midnight, I'd choose that my name and my songs be forgot, If we only felt peace. I've rhymed to the chieftains and sages; at councils and camp-fires I've sung, Or, heated with mead, flung my hands where the moon in the skies stood at bay Of the blood-boltered brands of the sun; in the Gods' ear my psalters have rung, But no answer made they. The swift, sharp rejoicings of life, and its gladsome contentions are dead ; I lean as a pine thunder-rift on the sands of a wave- channelled shore, The salts and the breathings of brine make its trunk fearful orange and red : But for bloom ! Nevermore. OSSIAN. 107 At midnight the grey curtain shakes; deep at midnight a hand parts its fold, And a stark, cold Intelligence looks with a stare of request in my face, That face is as old as a million of ages a million times told 'Tis the Spectre of Space. The world knows me not, and I know not the world that perhaps may know me A Thing undefinable, ghostly, a Thing void of meaning or date. Soul be calm : there's a flame on the land, and a voice on the crests of the sea, Say to Patrick, I wait. THE WICKLOW SEPTS. I HIS is the pleasant land of Feagh MacHugh Green valleys threaded by melodious rills Heaven upon heaven of the tearful blue That steeps and overlaps our Irish hills; Here rolled the tide of war in hurtling days, Here reeled the standards, and dispersed the hosts Each peak and promontory red ablaze With signals answering to the storm-vexed coasts; And here St Michael's Chapel, reared by him * Whose heart is bound to Ireland and to God, Looks o'er the teeming pastures, clear or dim The Crosses on its porches fair and broad. Around him burns the blood of Feagh MacHugh The ever valiant, ever faithful Race, Who've kept the Lamp of Life refreshed anew Through all vicissitudes of time and place; And in the shadow of that Church there be The Convent where the sweet- voiced Sisters pray Angels of Mercy and of Charity, Whose lives are one angelic holiday. * Rev. Richard Galvin, P.P., Rathdrum. THE WICKLOW SEPTS. 109 Peace unto him and them who bless the land The gallant fighting land of Feagh Mac Hugh: The clime that held aloft the smiting hand Whilst Ireland to herself was leal and true. O'Donnell, breaking heart and hope in Rome Was ever brighter, nobler spirit bent 1 Thirsting once more to see the blessed home 'Mid immemorial woods and castles pent, Calls to his side, this solemn August day, His grey-haired poet: "You shall sing for me, Dear bard, one heartful, long- resounding lay Of Wicklow, guardian of the land and sea." The pale light lessens, as, with folded hands Eyes fixed upon the Crucifix he tells Of horrent conflict of the warring bands, The storms that swept and crimsoned Wicklow's dells ti \\r r ite on, write on; when we shall be no more Heaped ashes in the red sepulchral urn Some brave heart Ireland's fortunes shall deplore, And for our fate five million hearts shall mourn." CTDONNELVS CHRONICLE. WHEN bursting cloud and howling wind High up in heaven made discontent, Along the streets, for tempest blind, My solitary way I bent: With me one gallant spirit went O'Hagan be he quick or dead, I pray the saints may call him heir Ten thousand blessings on his head, And on his clustered yellow hair. I io POEMS. For long 'twixt dungeon walls I lay, Immured in Dublin's massy keep; I had no sense of night or day No lucent hour the boon of sleep I am a man, and do not weep. And on this night when earth was still- Save for the conflicts of the stars A faint light fell upon the sill, And some hand rent my prison bars. I was abroad ! The liberal air Danced to the motions of my blood ! 'Twas freedom ! freedom ! everywhere, On spinning vane and streaming flood. A welcome came from hill and wood. I felt the tameless, blessed wind Pelt frozen roses on my cheek, And 'tis the frenzy of our kind I only thought I could not speak ! Then, piloted across the night, And from the haunts of savage men Up mountain slopes with snow-drifts white, Apast the beasts' and robbers' den, I reached at last that lonely glen, Where reigned the Prince of Green Fertire, Who rendered God and man his due A spirit wrought of purest fire The gallant, valiant Feagh MacHugh. He sheltered me he honoured me : I broke his bread I drank his wine; I sat beneath his crowning tree, And heard the streams innumerous pine Down verdurous gorge and dark decline. THE WICKLOW SEPTS. in Ten thousand cattle graced his fields, His allies claimed two hundred horse; Friends owned his lances and his shields His foemen owned his blows and curse. And whilst his mountain banner flew Amongst those broken slopes and peaks, Where Nature blooms in form and hue. Through fifty million myriad freaks ; A liar is his name who speaks Of Fighting Hugh as one who knelt A suppliant at Saxon knee : With skean in hand, or knife in belt, He wrought to see his country free. Hear it, Russell, from the rock That frowns above the stern defile! Hear it, whilst eddies shock to shock, Down the grim valley, mile on mile ; O faithless Saxon, pause and smile Whilst surge along the tides of war : The swift attack the close the rout The broken plume, the trampled star The conquered's cry the victor's shout. Audley, Carew, and Cosby fell Saw the last glimpse of heaven, Ben Dhu, As the awakened shout and yell Thy naked dells rang through and through. O'Tooles, Fitzgeralds ever true Dealt that sharp blow for Ireland's sake ; And we shall deal that blow again, Though every leaf in bush and brake Should leap to life as Englishmen. U2 POEMS. The hope the trust the courage steeled In fires and storms to bear the faith, Are proof that Ireland will not yield, But with unalterable breath, Carry the Old Flag down to death. They shall not slay thee O my Queen ! Whom knaves and tyrants would debase, Thou yet shalt lift thy head serene, Abo\ 7 e a glorious, ransomed Race. In Glenmalure the Saxons lie They sleep between the ferns and stones- Let him who nurses enmity Descend the wild, and count their bones, Whilst the north storm at midnight groans. Cry out our triumph, Avonmore Rehearse the day thy waves ran red, And the tall rushes on thy shore Were heaped with trophies of the dead. What need to curse the ruffian hand That slew MacHugh dear, gallant chief? His sons shall yet possess his land, God's hand shall heal his people's grief : Their day of dole be light and brief : The cause he battled for is lost ! No ! Ireland never shall stoop down, Despite the heaviest, reddest cost ; Or rend her robe, or break her Crown. In London town they say the Cause Is crushed, is vanquished ! God above Shall we submit to ruffian laws, That strive to quench our faith and love ? Dear as the message from the dove THE WICKLOW SEPTS. 113 That winged storm-crossed from out the Ark The green leaf cloven in its bill Comes the sweet message, bright or dark, From Irish plain and Irish hill What, we the men whose blood is fire Whose bones o'ercast the open earth Devoted mother gallant sire The children of the shrine and hearth Shall we pass down amid the mirth Of those barbarians ? God is good If sometimes His Apostle faints And He will guard through time and flood, The pillared Island of the Saints. Write down that hope in letters red Red with my heart's sharp misery Red with the wrath that wrings my head Red with my soul's last agony; However men may waste or die, The Great Lord keeps a better time, And when before Him I shall stand, I'll say, in Ossian's flowing rhyme : " My God, I've died for Ireland ! " Shall hope shall courage not renew, Whilst some hand, howsoever weak, Plucks up the banner of MacHugh, And hurls its lights from peak to peak ? Shall not true men spring up to speak The story of our Ireland's wrongs My holy Ireland, dim for tears Whom poets consecrate in songs That are the music of the years ? H U4 POEMS. Courage ; the Fifteen wars are o'er Shall I survive to fight again 1 Ah, never, never, nevermore, I and my saffron-shirted men, Shall hurl red war through gorge and glen. The Saints about me move all night, With covered chalices of gold : Their hair is fair their raiment white And I am prematurely old. Die ! And to die so far from where The wild Atlantic laps the coast Far from O'Byrne's nine-guarded lair, And from O'Toole's unvanquished host : I had my youth, and used to boast, And never feared the slow decay That saps the issues of my brain; But in the saint's unclouded day I shall renew that youth again ! This is the pleasant land of Feagh MacHugh, The paradise of valley, plain, and mist Land where the violets, in morning's dew, Are mingled jacinth and pale amethyst. And one beside me moves the dearest heart * That ever throbbed unto our Irish air; The evening darkens redly we must part : Close on the sea, the hills are sharp and bare, And winged with tempest; half the sky is blue And fresh with tender starlight. O good-bye! Green oasis in one man's memory Dear land of gallant, valiant Feagh MacHugh ! * Rev. C. P. Meehan. HOME SICK. JLOW fell the night, a starless mystery ; The wasting moon, in vapours glorified, Dropped intermittent splendours on the tide, On the far -flashing roller, and on me. And there was aching at my heart; I knew From that dumb pain of parting no surcease, As the dark ship, with slowly-slanting masts, Clave the resisting surges of the seas. Child of her children, I had learned to love Dear Ireland, and her quiet pastoral charm, The rain-cloud hovering over field and farm, The broad bright mead, the shadow-changing grove: Nor less the busy tumult of her streets, When, as the sunset, through her commerce rolled, The mists half-poised above the city roofs Blazed into burning citadels of gold. Often, at twilight through the white-massed sails, From the tall bridges had I strained mine eyes, Longing that I, to other lands and skies, Might follow them, as followed the swift gales. ii6 POEMS. Ah me ! the dream had changed to barren fact, Deep in the eastern darkness Ireland lay, The light that lingered on her shores last night Would be forerunner of our coming day. If the wan wave made substance to our feet, Soon I and mine had trod that reeling floor, Yea, wandered fugitive from shore to shore, Back, back to home with pilgrim paces fleet. Hoarse soughed the surge beneath the sliding keel, And greyly rose the roller's shattered crest, Whilst, struggling through the shaken element, The great ship heaved and battled toward the west Then an unutterable sense of pain Shot through my heart, and startled all my blood, Unpitied 'mid the rounding dark I stood, That nameless sorrow mastering my brain. I wrestled with the agony; and then, As came, of old, the angel to the strife, Pressing my little daughter to her breast, Beside me, on the wild deck, stood my wife. And back to its allegiance came my thought With fainting steps, and purposes most dim, 'Twas exile, but 'twas exile still for them, Sorrow and ill, yet sorrow sweetly wrought. I leant my head a moment on her neck, A voice cried truce to the subsiding war. And when again I looked up to the clouds, Lo ! the clear radiance of the morning star ! THE RETURN. INGE more the red familiar streets Are round me; and the Irish sky, Filled with its myriad cloudy feats, Bends deep above. The sea is nigh : I fancy that its music comes Between the triply-breasted ships, Where Dublin quay clasps close the tide, Palace and hovel reared beside, And the salt wind upon my lips. Dear City of the days long dead, Whose hopeless Hope o'erlooks the seas, Thy very life with Death is wed Where are thy dazzling pageantries 1 Where is the pride that nerved thee once The glory of secure renown 1 Thou seated here, provincialised, Beggared and utterly despised Queen with rent robe and shattered crown. ii8 POEMS. The beauty of the sunrise smites, With fire of heaven, thy temple walls; The splendour of the sunset lights The pillared porches of thy halls; Glory, and grace, and colour fill Thy measure to its wide extent; But thou art torpid as the kings Who sleep in the imprisoning rings, That make their grave and monument. What man could know and love thee not, Even in the garments of thy shame Even in thy bitter, bitter lot Thou stainless lady, free from blame 1 Thy very pavements ring with song, For there the Irish heart took voice There struck the high heroic chord There uttered the inspiring word That bade the Celtic world rejoice. If ashes be thy meed to-day, The Crown awaits thee with the Cross, And heaven, that is thy hope and stay, Keeps record of each tear and loss. The nations totter in the dust, Their might, their power, as shadows flee, But thou keep'st in those earnest eyes, Blue as thy radiant, sapphire skies, The Springtide of Eternity. SAINT MALACHY. CLAIRVAUX, FEAST OF ALL SOULS, 1148. [iLENT and grey, against grey skies, The monastery gables loom, The yellow sunset tiares and dies, The lamp burns redder in the room. By that red lamp Saint Bernard stands, And bends o'er Malachy supine, Stretched on the ash, before the shrine, With moving lips and folded hands. His toilsome pilgrimage is o'er And here he faints, from Ireland far, Far from Beg-erin's haunted shore, The ivied cavern of Imar. A wind blows up the mountain steep, The hail beats roughly on the grate, The cowled monks throng round and weep, Or pray with sobs importunate. 120 POEMS. He hears nor wind, nor rain, nor sigh, His heart is in the bleeding side Of Him, the Loved, the Crucified, And burns to share His agony. Alas ! no martyr's palm is his Not his to tread the fiery share, For heaven unfolds bliss after bliss, And there are angels in the air. Ah, many eyes, too soon, shall rain Hot tears through Ireland's sea-girt bound; Armagh shall mourn in ashen grain, And Ibrac wail, through all its round. In Benchor's choir, the joyful song Will sink into lamenting strain, Never his monks shall see again Their father "beautiful and strong." Let Cormac weep upon his throne, And yet exult, for he whose deed Gave him the crowning chair of stone, In heaven for him and his shall plead. 11 Into Thy hands" his voice is low, But yet distinct amid the storm : " Lord Jesus" How his fixed eyes glow, Whilst gazing on Christ's bleeding form ! Above, the bells of midnight toll With sullen clangour; as they cease, Comes like a message fraught with peace, The organ's penitential roll. Speed, steadfast soul ; the fight is done; The heavens are cloven for thy flight, And, piercing myriad depths of sun, Plunge into God's excessive light. SAINT MALACHY. 121 Morning : and as St Bernard turns From the white altar, dimly seen, A spirit shape before him burns Uplifted wings with eyes between. "Tis Malachy ! He vanishes ; A sudden perfume fills the place The perfume of the mystic grace Of heaven's adoring sanctities. The grave is dug the chaunt is loud And calmly in his last abode, The brown Cistercian robe for shroud, Sleeps " Malachy, the friend of God." EXILES. [KEY, wrinkled wanderers, on shores remote, And lands forlorn, where the swallow's wing Drops on the skirts of summer ; and the throat Of the green linnet bubbleth not to spring ; Brown toilers, fugitives from fairer skies, The star- vaults of the meeting west and north ; Inheritors of mournful histories, Whose sweat has colonised the teeming earth ; Rare women, beautiful and sad and chaste As twilight dews upon your native heaths, What time the April blows with rainy haste, And the swart cowslip in the hedges breathes ; From many lands, from myriad willow glooms, From the cold rivers of captivity From monuments, from households, and from tombs, Your faint, sweet voices float across the sea. I hear them not in many broken wails, But in one wild funereal orison Gathered, as a hundred separate sails Mass to a single snow-cloud in the sun. EXILES. 123 I hear them rising like a choral woe, Rolled along battlefields beside the main A breathing misery, chaunted loud and low, From the great torture of a people's brain. For unto you and me belong no more, The swords and cymbals of a victor race ; The seething craftsmen on the humming shore, The powers that terrify, the arts that grace. We live on bleared traditions of old days Vast fables builded on the sands of truth, From which shine out, through immemorial haze, Gleams of our broken strength and faded youth. We couch at sunset around burial mounds Girt with the solemn presences of death ; In holy kirks and consecrated grounds, Whose stones are testimonies to our faith. Still rolls the world ; but unto us no change Comes with the busy action pf the years ; Suns rise and set ; the golden seasons range Through the frost-pierced or purple atmospheres. Could bruised hands crush the brazen throat of might, We should not wield the distaff but the lance ; Could tears and prayers dispel this living night, The heavens should quake and yield deliverance. And yet we trust ; and hungering longings fill Our hearts for the green copse and sunny thatch ; The quiet water by the peak-roofed mill, The dear familiar finger on the latch ; 124 POEMS. The daisied meadows and the breathing kine, The evening gatherings by gables brown, The old, white chapel with its bells divine, The blue fog hovering o'er the inland town. Yea, more than these remembered tones and looks Which in our dreams find faintest counterparts Clear as the glitter of the July brooks The wild, white lilies blowing in their hearts. The holy graveyards where our dead repose, Round roofless ruins in the hazel woods ; Where the sad summer breeds her fairest rose, And March fans into life the violet buds. O friends forlorn, while holy faith and trust Kindle such God-like passions in our soul, We need not grovel in the charnel dust, Nor chaunt one long eternity of dole. The corn-seed gathered from the shrivelled palm Of him who slept for ages stark and mute, Sown in the fallow, blossoms in the calm, And heavenward bears again its perfect fruit. ADARE. |HE morn comes freshly from the east, It strikes with fire the upland ridge. And pours a shaft of gold between The midmost shadows of the bridge, Where, late at eve, shall dance the midge. Flame fills the immemorial tree, Which keeps its chestnuts for the time When harvest banquets through the world, And the hot breezes flow in rhyme. Soft sleeps the village in the maze Of dreary elm and scyamore ; Soft slides the river's rosy tide Through blossomed sedges by the shore, Rushes, and pendent willows hoar. The little boat moored in the cove Takes no pulsation from the stream, But shadowed on the water lies, The lovely image of a dream. 126 POEMS. I leave the village to its rest White walls with ivy diapered, Brown roofs that in the springtime give Asylum to the happy bird, Whose wing the southern air has stirred ; And wandering down the grassy marge Of Hague, amidst its Paradise, Turn one green bend of lawn, and, lo ! Three Hundred Years confront mine eyes. Three Hundred Years in channelled stones, Hewn in some quarry vast and fair, But touched with melancholy grey That habit of our Irish air Which slays, but still knows when to spare. Chancel, quadrangle, tower are here, Gaunt cloisters, roof and mullions riven, With that clear interspace through which Souls, tired of flesh, looked out to heaven. I see it all the choir, the stalls, The broad east window, smote with blood (Bright as six rainbows ribboned) St Francis' brown-robed brotherhood, Each with his crucifix of wood. Slowly the instant pageant fades ; Ruin returns to leaf and stone ; A shadow rises from my brain, And I am, with the sun, alone. And who were these ? By what access Of patience did they find their way To those cold penitential aisles To stifle self, to bravely pray Until their hairs grew scant and grey, AD ARE. 127 And some one plucked them by the sleeve, Some hour of interrupted breath ? They turned to find who touched them so, And met the smiling face of Death. They were not wasted hearts alone Craving forgiveness and the rod Whose hearts' best wine had spilled to earth, And left the sediment to God ; They heard no outside world applaud. Their daily boon companions were The matin lark, the sunset rook ; And for excitement and repose, The cloister, or the desk-chained book. Fresh minds, and young, within these walls True to some master impulse came Some thought that in their being lurked, As in the black flint lurks the flame : Christ's friends are always not the same. Rome towered above a prostrate world The while He walked in Galilee ; He left the Caesar to his throne, He kept the children by His knee. If, to refine his discontent, With tears and fastings, vacant days, Statesman or soldier hither came To trample on his gown or bays, And heavenward turn his fretful gaze, Thrice happy he j but happier far The pure soul, unassoiled by strife ; Repose was but the life of one, And Action made the other's life. 128 POEMS. Heaven knows it all. We blindly move, Seeking solutions of our fears. Ah, nobler consolations fall In rains of penitential tears, Through those thick hazes peace appears. We would be wise, we would be good, We would have heaven our single hope, And yet insult that single trust With crucible and telescope. TRUE TO DEATH. [" A scouting party of our gallant Italians, advancing nearer the Pope's fastness, brought back an Irish Zouave. He was wounded in nine places. He had six bullet penetrations in his chest, and three or four (it was hard to distinguish) lance-thrusts in his back. He died in great agony, incessantly calling for water; but no murmur of complaint escaped his lips. He was the apotheosis of a soldier." London Paper, 1870.] |E it where it may be, on beleaguered land or sea, To the last, the red last, lives our Irish chivalry. The Wild Geese fly away; there is turbulence in France, For Louis quakes and prays, and his enemies advance. But they scatter them as spray round the wave-dividing cliff; On fields they strew the bones of invaders stark and stiff. And Paris leaps in praise, her gold trumpet at her lips, For the glory of the Irish, and the shame of hosts and ships. i 130 POEMS. Forgotten was that triumph, but it lives, it lives again, In the splendour of our brotherhood companionship of pain. And though no more (on treachery may light the blight accurst) The ensigns of the Irish through the Gallic vanguard burst, In other fields, not all remote, their emerald standard shone, When down went the imperial flag, and France stood all alone. Like the tigress of the Deluge as she heard the waters seeth, And leaped unto the highest peak, her cub between her teeth, So stood Red France, so stands Red France, her bare head to the sleet, With Paris girdled to her heart, and freedom at her feet. O banner of the race that lives, predestined to endure ! O oriflamme of people tried and whom the fire keeps pure ! Unrol thy folds majestical, for underneath thee lies, His lips to sunset open, and his eyes shut to the skies, As true a soldiei\ true a heart, as ever, ever met The bat fries' crash, the rifles' hail, r the storm of bayonet. Heavy his heart, this hour perhaps, divorced from friends and home; Behind him rise, in middle air, the panting roofs of Rome. TRUE TO DEATH. 131 Behind him sits the Pontiff chief, crowned with a triple crown The sign that sees the empires and the dynasties go down : As complications come to naught, conspiracies fall dead Beneath the everlasting march of Time's avenging tread. He knows his mission, and he dies, sublimed by hope and faith This the gold gate whose avenue o'erbridges years and death. O glorious death, to die for this ! to gather into rest, With lances splintered in the back and bullets in the breast ! Torn by the storm of circumstance, struck down in war's eclipse, With "Jesu Maria" in his heart, and Ireland on his lips. IN THE NIGHT TIME. AN ARTISAN'S GARRET. \INKj chink : 'tis the rain on the roof The dull, the monotonous rain; And there comes from the corner a querulous cry The cry of a creature in pain. I see that white face though the garret is black, For the darkness refuses a ray; A piteous expression, pinched, asking for food, And longing in sleep for the day. O child of my heart, hush that terrible wail, It creeps through my marrow and brain : The barns overflow with the wealth of the year, Yet the robbers deny thee a grain. Lord ! matched with this torture of body and soul I count swiftest death but a trifle; 'Twere better than starve to fall under the hail, Or be clubbed by the butt of the rifle. Tinkj chink : 'tis the rain on the roof; And my wife murmurs quick in her dreams; Is she walking once more where we met and we wed In that dear land of meadows and streams ? IN THE NIGHT TIME. 133 Ah, perish the fancy, the selfish deceit How she haggles and hucksters for more She is pawning her cloak for a morsel of bread For the little one stretched on the floor. And her once tender heart 's like the heart of a Jew, As she fights for the penny denied The penny to purchase a measure of milk For the boy sobbing fast at her side. Preach of patience to Death ! Oh, all-seeing God ! From my lips take this bitterest chalice. Better fester and rot in the hulk of the hulks Better swing like a thief from the gallows. Tink, chink : 'tis the rain on the roof, And the wind in the shivering street; Ah, well for the wind and the rain they care not For the morrow and something to eat. No ghastly beseechings of hunger-blanched lips Sound mournfully wild in their ears, Whilst mine is the grief frozen solid and cold, And alien to merciful tears. I will toil give me work labour early and late, And none shall smite stouter and stronger Coin blood into bread if it drive from the door This coffinless carcase of hunger. "Lie still, trade is dull; all the markets are crammed, Little good in this meaningless clamour; The furnace is empty, the rust eats its way Through chisel, and anvil, and hammer." Tink, chink : 'tis the rain on the roof, Another day breaks in the skies; Its light will look down through the rent overhead On haggard and ravenous eyes. 134 POEMS. My poor wife gets up in the glimmering dawn, With the cough of the grave at her throat, And she covers her shoulders lean, wasted, and cold With the rags of my twenty-patched coat. A spark in the fireplace a crackle a gleam, And she crouches her down in despair To warm her thin hands at a morsel of fire The back of our very last chair Rocking and groaning. Oh ! woman, may God Send rest to the pangs of thy sorrow; There's nothing to sell, and there's nothing to pawn, And the poor are too friendless to borrow. Tink, chink : 'tis the rain on the roof, And my little one creeps from his bed, Kneels down by his mother, looks up in her face On her shoulders he pillows his head. They gaze on the embers, the flame 's dying out, And closer together they sit : " Have you any bread, mother, for poor little Tom ? " " My darling, I haven't a bit." No tears, no repinings, no curses, no sighs, Pass up from the shivering pair; But I hear in the lulls of this tempest of March The whisper of voices in prayer. "May God grant that father to-day may get work; May God give him patience and meekness ; May God send us comfort, and help in this hour Of trial and hunger and weakness." Tink, chink : 'tis the rain on the roof. Has heaven then truly decreed That men of this land of the Isle of the Saints Are to fight with perennial need 1 IN THE NIGHT TIME. 135 Is a Christian to starve, to submit, to bow down At some high consecrated behest, Hugging close the old maxims that " weakness is strength," And " whatever is, is for the best " ? "Bear your woes, O my people, they're badges of grace ; Rebellion 's the devil's own snare, Of the traitors appealing to bullet and sword, As you value salvation, beware." Oh, texts of debasement ! Oh, creed of deep shame ! Oh, gospel of infamy treble ! Who strikes when he's struck, and who takes when he starves, In the eyes of the Lord is no rebel. Tink, chink : 'tis the rain on the roof: My boy there may yet come a day When, armed with the sharp sword of vengeance and right, The wrongs of the past you'll repay. My bones they may moulder in Pauperdom's sleep (Not mine be the blame or disgrace), Forget me, if you will, but, boy, never forget Your poor mother's death-stricken face. They've killed her, the tyrants. Each hope of our hearth But the hope of reprisal is fled They've slain her, they've robbed her, thy mother, my wife, May her blood be as fire on their head ! The past is the past, but the future comes on, A future that's teeming with labour, When the hypocrite cant of the knaves of to-day Shall be drowned in the ring of the sabre. 136 POEMS. Tink, chink : 'tis the rain on the roof. O prodigal scorners of time, Is meanness a proof of God's chosen elect Revolution a damnable crime ? We fight and we struggle and conquer abroad, Little recking the pain or the doom ; We pine, and we starve, till we perish and rot God pity us only at home. I^rise to go forth yet a crust may be got * And I think " Is this ever to be 1 " No, no, answers heaven, be true to yourselves, 'Tis only the true that are free. Up, manhood of Ireland, and silence the slaves Who work agitation and plunder; Up, brothers of Ireland, retemper your souls In the red battle's lightning and thunder. IN EXILE. |H ! 'tis more sweet to me than truth could be The garden, and the casement, the red house, The broken column in the plot of thyme, And the stone gods with ivy-circled brows : How many years ? Say ten say yesterday; Dear, no heart's calendar obeys the moon ; Life is the keyboard of a master tune No matter who may play. When we met first, the heavy-laden air Was thick with the rank steams of autumn's breath j For us the earth leaned backward upon spring, But, for the roses, earth had uttered : death. Here blew your China blossom, gold and cream ; It smelled of the cursed east ; the pard-like flower Sent out a shrivelled blossom for an hour A swift and perfumed gleam. I love the place for all its vague regrets, Its hopes and visions hosts of these were true ! I love it for the wind that blew at noon, And, shaking the acacias, came with you. 138 POEMS. 'Twas there you stood the morning that I cried : " Hate me, or be mine love me you must ; " And all the glory of a woman's trust From this pure face replied. You know the river there ; by deep Doonass Whitens the rapids to the star or sun, And the torn deep sends up incessantly A cry of anguish or an orison. My God ! this hour I'd kneel me in the dew, And wet my lips with the frost-mellowed grass, To kiss the path where first I saw you pass The path of box and yew. I knew I never kept, and could not keep, The litany of promises I made, When last, in that red boat, amid the sedge We slided down the green phantasmal shade. You bent above the tortuous, slow foam, And marked the huge weed writhing in the lymph- What was it, sweet ? The palace of the nymph, The strong house of the gnome. Well, whilst you fashioned these imaginings, I, speaking in the pulses of the oar, Prejudged the life, the home that might be ours, Not in this land, but on some dearer shore: Where laughs the Irish laugh the Celtic note, Where the cock crows at midnight, and the lark Shouts to the sun, whilst half the world is dark, With quickly throbbing throat. We may not see it, Alice, the grey isle, Anchored in the tumultuous gale and mist Of seas that vex the depths from to coast to coast, Of skies that change from night to amethyst. IN EXILE. 139 For I ain doomed; and you are doomed with me. I would have saved her, raised her if I could, Spilling upon the altar steps my blood, If that could make her free. Your heart is in your eyes ! You love her too, Italian Alice ; and your lips flash white. God of all Mercies, 'tis an Alpine storm, With two great planets shining down the night ! face so crossed with pity and revenge, For the cursed land that I and mine call theirs Cursed land of breaking hearts and ruffian snares: Cursed land that knows no change ! Cursed, and yet dear ! Oh, Alice, let us go Cursed, and yet dear ! There's dew upon the grass ! Walk where the granite glimmers through the turf. Cursed, and yet dear ! The left path of the pass, And by the steaming vineyard, the way's clear. Just sing that ballad, Alice, as we wind Down the sheer hill, the sun and snow behind : Thrice cursed, and yet most dear ! GOLDSMITH'S GRAVE. LOVE this quiet Temple nook, This ancient haunt of wren and rook, Thick writ with legends like a book. Dark circled in the town it lies, Above it loom the misty skies, Outside the songs of commerce rise. Ten paces from the battling street, Lurks the old-fashioned, quaint retreat, A land of murmurs, loud and sweet. Afar the yellow river gleams, Within there is a sound of streams, An island lulled in dreams it seems. There, open to the sun and rain, There, alien unto tears and pain, There, whilst the seasons wax or wane;- Rich-hearted Goldsmith takes his rest, Earth's silent, unobtrusive guest, Between the sunrise and the west. GOLDSMITH'S GRAVE. 141 Great gable roofs rise all around, Their tops in clouds of vapour drowned ; Vast shadows floor the level ground. A fountain sings, and when it stops, Bell-like from out a privet copse, The robin's benediction drops. Bravely he sleeps, and never knows When spring comes flying o'er the snows, When summer wears her palm and rose. His genius, ripe and secular, To us is no cloud-brooding star; God knoweth how it flames afar. How risen above this misty state, Moved by an impulse swift and straight, It burns at heaven's magnific gate. He's gone: his dust below us lies, But were the veil rent from our eyes, His soul might shine from yonder skies. I love those alleys deep and old, While all around, in gusts of gold, The autumn leaves fall manifold. Great Johnson leans at yonder door, With aspect cynical and frore, With goodness in his heart's heart's core. Grave, and sedate, and overwrought, A " Rambler " turns he, thought by thought, With philosophic insight fraught, 142 POEMS. I see sly Boswell near him stand, With tablet-slip and pen in hand, Noting some aphorism grand. Little knows he of prose or verse, His sense of Art is to rehearse His Master, his great universe. Then by-and-by, as sunset tolls, That despot of men's brains and souls, Huge Burke, amid the twilight strolls. A lattice opens on the square, And Goldsmith, with his wind-blown hair, Thrusts out his head and hails the pair. " How fares the Doctor ? " " All is well." "Will Blank's sublime heroic sell?" " Does Burke still guess at heaven and hell ? " Thus Goldsmith : " Here are children three Fresh from God's mint, the nursery; I'll go and kiss them wait you three." All day the naming moth hath writ, All day his genial head was lit With quips of country-scented wit. " Beau Tibbs " had to his garret clomb The " Traveller " pined afar from home, Or " Doctor Primrose " turned his tome. And ever, on the creaking stair, He heard a step creep unaware; The quest : " Is Mister Goldsmith there ? " GOLDSMITH'S GRAVE. 143 " Copy, good sir" ; his head he shaken, A queer face at the Devil makes, And into merriest laughter breaks. But with the labour, and the day Ended and over, care away. " Come, gracious Doctor, we'll be gay." They pass me, moving towards the Fleet, I hear the tread of myriad feet, Beating along the dear, old street. One word I catch amid the stir: The Doctor, to his worshipper, Growls, and intones his mighty " Sir " ; Poor Noll, half patient draws a breath Of curious pain; 'tis life, 'tis death, Just what the Doctor fashioneth. Ah ! dear, dear Poet, lord of heart, Master and mystery of Art, In thee the Graces were apart. Couched on a cell of vulgar clay, Thy soul's irradiant beauty lay, A sepulchre from day to day. But ever, in thy noblest theme, Ever in thy heart's sweetest dream, Ireland and Auburn were thy theme The two were one ; and she who passed Gathering weeds, where lilies glassed Their faces where the whirlpools massed 144 POEMS. Their currents, was a subtle thought Of Ireland, cursed and overwrought Of Ireland cursed, and wrongly sought Others indeed have sung a strain Of terror, passion, peace, or pain ; They've passed away thy songs remain. Here in this quiet Sabbath light, Whilst the sad trees are gold and bright, I stand, no priest, no Sybarite, Beside thy grave, thy lonely urn, Whilst all the trees that flame and burn, Despondent o'er thine ashes mourn. A CANADIAN FESTIVAL. jOUND the oak trees, round the oak trees, round the palms and pine trunks hoary, Bearded with the moss of ages, linked with dim cathedral arches, Gather we, as, setting seaward, sinks the sun behind the forests; And the moon, a white-cheeked phantom, walks amid the rosy meadows; As the first star, born of twilight, trembles overhead the cedars, And the marsh fowl, westward flying, fleck the slow decreasing splendour, And the smoke plumes from our log huts glimmer bluely, upward flowing ; We are gathered, not in silence, for the hour hath inspiration, We are gathered, not in dolour, though our hearts are brimmed with sorrow, Sorrow for the Past behind us sorrow for the Future coming; K 146 POEMS. Ruined homes and lonely churchyards; peace and cant and rotting quiet, Banners flaunted, not in battle, but on courtly towers and breezes, Swords flashed forward, not in conflict, but like faggots bound together. Ah ! the world forgets its mission ; ah ! the days are growing coarser, And the clay of common nature mixes with the brighter metal Till the earth is bronzed with meanness ; and the watch- cries of our fathers Blazon hatchments, blazon tombstones; dumb yet myriad- voiced reproaches To the sloth that eats the Present, and the shame that waits the Future. Let us hope : within the darkness which doth front our straining vision, Something new is taking birth and struggling bravely to the sunlight; Infant wailings ! yet we hear them ; baby pleadings ! they have potence, And anon shall swell to thunders; when the tender hands grow firmer, Broader in their grasp of finger, stronger in their knitted muscle, Fit to hurl broad bolts and upwards bear the buckler, in whose shadow, Peoples maddened by oppression and athirst for retribution, Forest - hewers, water - bearers to the God - accursed oppressors, A CANADIAN FESTIVAL. 147 Shall fling down their tools and shackles, and arrayed in triple conscience, Forward, onward, wheresoever Right is bound and Power is rampant, Bear the creed of liberation, and the shafts that smite Resistance. Dimly seaward, where the silence broodeth black across the orient; Kingdom of a million mornings gates that daily bloom with sunrise, Glorious east; around whose outposts, when tbe fogs are crimson-shafted By the arrows of the daybreak, cocks awaken, clarion- throated ; Far away behind the billows, scarfed with vapour, maned with lightning, Far below familiar planets, ever broadening through the twilight Through the sad Canadian sunsets lies an island sphered in ocean, Scattered o'er with flying sea mist. In her vales the green wheat bloom eth Through the curved palms of April, and the blood-red moons of harvest; There amid the homestead shadows, orchards riot, apples ripen, And the mellow pears wax luscious in the bronzing winds of autumn. There in lonely woodland places, where the marsh-pool fringed with rushes Lieth like a lake of quiet, sits the solemn plumed heron. And on uplands, bramble-crested, phantom-draped, in ash and willow, 148 POEMS. Gloom the gravestones of our fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, sweethearts (Christ receive them !). From the nor'land where the cliffs spur back the surges, To the south that steeps its headlands in the swathes of the Atlantic, Plenty floweth. Heavens, avenge us ! We have wrongs and recollections. At our mother's board we hungered, on our household hearths we trembled, Strangers fattened on our labours, slipped the red-eyed hounds of havoc, And, o'er ruined homes and altars, chased us from the land that bore us. Earth, preserve the bones bequeathed in our sorrow to thy keeping, In thy vast sepulchral silence, treasure their decaying ashes. We have said " farewell " in patience, fixing eyes upon the future, When the tumult that's approaching, though its triumph hour be distant, Shall bear witness to our vengeance. Hark ! there tolls from out the hemlocks The low chimes of prayer ; how often in the valleys of dear Ireland, When the waggons crossed the corn folds, 'mid the sheaves of yellow barley, Have we heard the silver vesper, breaking through our harvest carols ! God be with it, angels watch it land of Saints and Bards and Soldiers Cresset in the dark of Europe ! garden of the Faith of Ages! A CANADIAN FESTIVAL. 149 God be with it God be with it ! though our hands delve foreign quarries, Wrenching drops of gold from granite ; though the crown of man's ambition Glitter on our aspirations, Ireland, we cannot forget thee! Glorious home of storm and darkness, bloom and radiance, truth and beauty, Blessings calm thy mournful present, triumph bless thy dawning future ! Thus they sanaf, a group of exiles. In the low Canadian silence Streamed the river through the forest, with a sad unceas- ing wailing Wailing like a pining spirit ; in the splendour o'er the tree tops Eddied round the dusky eagle ; and from bosks and brown-leafed jungles Shrilled the pipes of birds : slow lapsing gathered thicker half the twilight, Till the grass was aisled in darkness. Then the log fires, piles of odour, Crackled in the crisped clearing, and the smoke wreaths drifted nor 'ward. And the flames in fans leaped upward, lapping tongues of panting crimson, Round the huge boles of the pine trees and the branches of the cedars, Till the foliage glimmered golden, shaken by the misty sea wind. " Home, sing of home, of lonely Ireland, gentle Ellen ! Of our country 150 POEMS. Let us hear a grey tradition, hymned in peace above the tree tops." Rose she up, a tender maiden, at the bidding of her lover, Knelt beside her grey-haired father, singing, wound her arms around him : THE SPRING. Now blows the white rose round our garden pales, Now by the wicket, breathes the scented briar ; Now flowers the happy lilac in the sun, Now the laburnum wakes in gusts of tire ; But never, never shall they bloom for me. High on the uplands, the brown woods are touched By gentle visitings of morning rain ; The cowslip in the budding hedgerows teems, The sun-eyed daisies whiten half the plain ; Ah never, never shall they bloom for me. Thou com'st no more to build below our eaves, Long-winged swallow, for they are no more ! Poor redbreast, thou hast ceased to shrill thy heart In friendly shadows by our open door ! Ah never, never shall ye sing for me. Dear mother, thou hast ceased at morn to pass, By leafy lattices, to watch us sleep ; Thy palms are fettered with the salt seaweed, Thy head is rocking in unfathomed deep ; Ah never, never wilt thou come to me. O home, O friends, O long familiar haunts Chapel, and brook, and wood, and mossy bridge ; A CANADIAN FESTIVAL. 151 The fisher bending by the shallow stream, The windmill whirring on the glebe-land's ridge ; Ah ! never, never shall you shine for me. Sad are our memories, sad, unbidden tears, Deep mingled ecstasies of peace and pain, Sad are the thoughts that glimmer round our hearts, The odours of wild-flowers in falling rain, Ah ! bitter, bitter are my thoughts to me ! Good-bye ! and I could say unnumbered times, To friend, and stream, and tree good-bye, good- bye ! Only remains to comfort us a while Love, like a late light in a darkening sky, Ah love, in sorrow, thou abid'st with me. She ceased, and for sorrowful pauses, around the red ring of the log fire Dumb was the silence of anguish, whilst she nestled close to her father, And hid her white face on his bosom. Then Owen moved back in the darkness And pressed his brown hands to his eyelids : " Sing for us, Owen ! " they clamoured ; "Sing us a song of the mountains ; a brave ballad, breathing of heather, And stirred with the pulses of torrents." He, laughing, slung forward his rifle "Then let's have a chorus, my brothers; and here's to the brave iron mountains; Here's to the Galtees hurrah ! men, and long may they flourish defiant ! " 152 POEMS. Up through the dusk of the forest ascended the cry of the exiles, A cataract arching a darkness, a-roar in the span of its falling. THE MOUNTAINS. MY spurs are rusted, my coat is rent, My plume is dank with rain ; And the thistle down and the barley beard Are thick on my horse's mane ; But my rifle's as bright as my sweetheart's eye, And my arm is strong and free What care have I for your king or laws ? I'm an outlawed rapparee ! Click, click your glasses, friends, with mine, And give your grasp to me ; I'm England's foe, I'm Ireland's friend Click, click, I'm a rapparee! The mountain cavern is my home, High up in the crystal air ; My bed is the limestone, iron-ribbed, And the brown heath smelling fair. Let George or William only send His troops to burn and shoot We'll meet them upon equal ground And fight them foot to foot. Click, click your glasses, friends, with mine. The midnight's made for glee ; Stout hearts beat fast for Ireland yet Yes I am a rapparee ! Hunted from out our fathers' homes, Pursued with steel and shot, A bloody warfare we must wage, Or the gibbet be our lot. A CANADIAN FESTIVAL. 153 Hurrah ! the war is welcome work, The hated outlaw knows ; He steps unto his country's love O'er the corpses of his foes. Click, click your glasses, friends, with mine, In coming days I see Stern labours for our country's weal Yes I ana a rapparee. " Bravo ! strong Owen," they shouted, and the sorrowful hush of the forest Was slit by their clear ringing bravos, till the green lizard shook in the grasses, And the fronds of the oak palpitated. Then one sang a story of passion, And the soul-threaded tones of her anguish flowed forth on the air like a wailing : TIME AND A VIOLET. 'Tis many years, remorseful years, since last we met; The turnstile of the dark oatfield in chaff was set; On the brown barn roof lurked the light that swam out of the moaning sea, Dearest, God's gentlest peace was mine, for thou wert there with me, with me. The purple moors along the east with fog were white, But all our garden paths ran clear into the night; Over the pea plants, blossomless, hummed many a wander- ing-homeward bee, I felt the glory of thy love, standing close by me, by me. 154 POEMS. Thou did'st not fail when smiting bars unroofed our home, Thou did'st not weep, though thy strong cheek was reft of bloom, But in the fire of suffering most patient thou did'st look at me, And though my heart was nigh to burst, weeping, I turned my eyes to thee. What doth it gain to tell that woe crushed thy brave frame, Till sickness knit thy temples round with girths of flame? Thou died'st upon the mountain scarp, in houseless, friendless misery, For what was II I knew not what, what could I do but wail for thee. Peace to thy ashes where they rest in green Kincor, The yellow shallows shelve in sands along the shore; Peace unto thee, and rest to me, from heaven to-night I only crave Time and a violet to- plant on thy forgotten, stoneless grave. " Arrah, Willy Delany," cried John, " come and give us a tune on your bagpipe ! The night's getting late and I'm anxious to dance all the stars out of distance. And give me your hand, Peggy Reidy; hark ! there goes ' The Jolly Foxhunter ! ' Whoo ! sure 'tisn't dreaming and crooning will do the right work for old Ireland. A CANADIAN FESTIVAL. 155 Jewel ! look at the inoon, she comes out just to peep at a real Kerry double, Give it to her, my sons, heel and toe, for they say she delights in diversion ! " Then up sprang fantastical shadows, and never did Tempe or Provenge Behold in the hearts of her valleys a merrier flock of wild dancers. At last the grey morning winked faintly across the hot breath of the revels, And back to the log huts they wandered, with prayers for dear Ireland and freedom. LUGGELAW. thy dim wave, O Luggelaw ! The mountain fir, dismantled, towers, |And spring with winter dallying, Has garlands sparse of buds and flowers. Above thee rolls the ruling cloud, Around thee creeps the sliding mist ; But in thy central current burns One blaze of stainless amethyst. The glory of the hills is thine The clinking bell the birds' delight And this serenest glimpse of heaven, Which smites thee with protracted light. Firm knit his sinews, steeled and wired, The boatman grasps the beating oars j We drift into a land of dreams Dark vistas of enchanted shores. The mighty mountains hem us in Above them is the perfect sky Loud through their purple peaks and scalps The March winds pour their litany. LUGGELAW. 157 All else is silent save the waves' Soft, silver, lapping undertone, And the slow motion of the woods, Which sway and sway, and moan and moan Clear cut and cold, in lucent depths, Spread the pure heaven, the gorge, the cliff, The bent ash shaking on the rock, The woman in the distant skiff; The thin, white line that steeply winds And curls around the lonely ranche The boulders anchored in the slope, Where once rolled down the avalanche. The oarsman pauses in his toil, And points his finger overhead, " 'Twas there," he cries, " in other years, St Kevin made his flinty bed." The grey sea-eagle builds his nest Rough eyrie in the beetling coast, The eagle of the mountain makes The unsealed crag his home and host ; And he the saint the eagle-eyed Far from the sounding ways of men Found home and sanctuary sweet In one rough crevice of this glen. His churches rise amidst the wilds, His name resounds from sea to sea, Though to his race alone remains A fragrant, fruitful memory. Deep dipped the oars the sharp wind rang Along the intertangled vale The boat bent over to the flood, And sudden sunset fired her sail 158 POEMS. A far bell tolled from off the height, A grey cloud veiled the mountain crest, The maiden moon rose curved and wan, And crimson twilight filled the west. And so we mutely floated on, Out of the lake's mysterious grace, Back to the dreary, dreary world Of consciousness and commonplace. THE QUESTION. [OU asked me, twice, in anxious mood, What good can Ireland win, achieve, By boasting of the right of blood What sullen Day can she retrieve 1 I answer : for the common good, Let her be Hopeful and Believe. If destined to be conquered slain, By native foe or foreign fate, Of Ireland solely would remain A memory void of space or date : A dim tradition of the main A leper by the city gate. But Ireland wears no lepers' sores : Her eye is clear, her stature strong ; Through her strong veins the life-tide pours In mighty tides of speech and song ; he watches, by the echoing shores, The birth of Right, the death of Wrong. 160 POEMS. Poor toilers we, with sword and brain, We help her with our utmost power ; We write her name on rath and plain Her banner plant o'er fosse and tower. We watch the seedling in the rain, And wait till heaven shall give it flower. Greece fought ; at last, her great heart burst Her spirit quailed before the foe ; Poland, the mightiest and the first, Surrendered at the triple blow. But Ireland ten times dared the worst, And England never laid her low. Persistent in her hidden strength, And wakeful in her vigil's dream, Confiding, surely, that at length, The issue of the years would seem, Not the poised torch and amaranth, But Freedom and the Sun a-beam. It has not come ; a hundred cells Hold fast our bravest and our best ; They sing in pain the air that dwells In every movement of unrest ; The anthem of the heart that tells How man is cursed and God is blessed. Again you turn to me and say : " But why such gallant sacrifice ? The peaceful lands before them lay, They needed no avenging cries ; They might have clearly said their say, And spared the tears of women's eyes." THE QUESTION. 161 And, answer thus, I freely give : Suppose them happy, self-content Suppose them cursed and fugitive, Their natures took their natural bent ; They knew the Nation could not live, By fraud and foul oppression rent. They saw this Ireland trampled down, They hoped no mercy from the foe, In wasted field and ruined town, Altar and hovel tumbled low ; And by the Harp that wears no Crown, They swore to lay the Saxon low. They failed, I grant you Klapki failed But not the cause for which he bled ; Disaster, blood, and tears entailed, Till beaten Hungary ran red ; And Europe howled, and Europe railed Above the victors and the dead. But still the mighty May gar Race, Persisting, won the doubtful day : The Empire, charmed to sudden grace, Achieved its mission forced its way ; The Nation's sons got breathing space. Its heart resumed its pulse and sway. Are we unworthy less renown 1 Are we unworthy less reward ? We, who despite our Master's frown, Cling to tradition of the sword, And prize the axe that strikes us down, More precious than the spiteful word. 1 62 POEMS. I say : let history answer this, For us we freely risk the chance, And, meanwhile, be it joy or bliss, Our constant motto is : Advance. To ladies, whispered voice and kiss ; For freemen, rifle, sword, and lance. You see our corpses strew the field ; You see our standard in the dust ; You see our legions backward reeled, Before the foes' imperious thrust. We'll dare all that before we yield, The Cause is good, and God is just. DEAD. ALLEN, LARKIN, AND O'BRIEN. EAD," said the grey mother, crooning At night by the quick wasting fire ; " Dead," said the shuddering children, And clung to the knees of their sire; " Dead," ah, abhorred consummation ! Would God we had strength to forgive " False," cried the storm in the housetop, "For ever they live." Pale student with palm-shaded eyebrows, And lips white and rigid as death, You see in the knout and the coffin The emblems of hope and of faith; Three graves in a vile British prison Where never shall bloom flower or leaf Three graves ! they're the seed of our triumph, Our Trust, our Belief. Had they died for a dream they were noble, Having died for the truth they were great, Proud hearts that beat highest and swiftest, As swiftest and darkest gloomed fate; 164 POEMS. We were told we were dead as a nation A corpse with its face to the sky Objectless, powerless, hopeless They gave it the lie. And their blood to confession was witness, Their deaths were the seal of their creed, Translating the visions of ages In actual substance and deep ; They, and they fell as befit them They died the brave deaths of brave men; Let them leap from their ashes to-morrow, They'd strike so again. Ay, strike whilst above this good nation One emerald tatter shall fly, And God though He quenches the starlight Shall leave us one mark in the sky; One wreck from the enemy's pillage, Though sodden with bloodstain and dust Oh graves in the cloud-covered prison Three shrines of our Trust. For if Ireland, cursed, beggared, and slandered, Had nothing to show for her cause, Save protests, remonstrances, wailings, Against England her lash and her laws, The Nations might blush for our meanness, Or laugh at our eloquent might; Those corpses below have redeemed us, They fought the good fight. They fought it they proved to our Masters The truth that too long was unfelt : No dungeon can hold or extinguish The fire and the force of the Celt; DEAD. 'Twas seen in the white face of London 'Twas seen in its wild unrepose, Three men stirred the land like an earthquake, And these men were those. "It is good," saith the Chronicler, "wholesome To pray for the peace of the dead." But the heart of a nation secured them The palms of the martyrs who bled; For Ireland they poured forth their life tide, Heroic, defiant, and grand Rest happy, forerunners of Freedom, God save the old land ! i6 S EDWARD MARTIN. [A printer named Edward Martin was fatally injured in a cab accident in Drury Lane, in October 1869. Whilst unconscious he several times muttered the name of " Kelly," and the police, then eagerly on the lookout for Colonel Kelly, the Fenian organiser, rescued at Manchester, concluded that the injured man was the re- quired revolutionary leader, and bore him off to prison, were he was surrounded by detectives. His death was undoubtedly accelerated by the rough treatment he received. Partly to protest against this treatment, partly to deceive the authorities as to his identity, and partly to honour an earnest and steadfast worker in their country's cause, the Irish in London organised a public funeral. Martin was a native of Kilkenny, and was at one time on the printing staff of the Irish People. He is buried in Stratford churchyard.] |O cry from the long-marshalled masses That stream through the City to-day; No clamour of voices exultant, No vehement banners' display. Like a sea of black pines on an iceberg Close-columned and clustered they come ; And yet not a peal from the bugle, No roll from the drum. Above them, victoriously nodding, Shakes ebon and multiplied plume, Distinct, in the light of October Six darknesses seen in the gloom ; And low, 'neath this forest of silence, He sleeps in the swathes of his shroud A warrior stretched on his buckler A star in a cloud. EDWARD MARTIN. 167 Whose ashes thus trouble the highway 1 Whose silently move to that bourne Where tyrannies never may trouble, And never shall patriot mourn ? They're his who, in shame and disaster, Beside us unflinchingly stood : Ay, his who would pour in our struggle His heart's brightest blood. With the brain of the seer, the perception Which sublimates instinct and thought, Amidst us from boyhood to manhood He modestly, silently wrought. Not eloquent he, but laborious, Not boastful, yet ready to die, If we could but fling the old banner More near to the sky. In dens, and in by-ways of London, Long leagues from the Nore of his youth, He toiled as the shining apostle Of Freedom, Exertion, and Truth. He left to the babblers their babble, He left to pretenders their fame ; And what has he left unto Ireland ? A creed and a name ! Yea, more ; the rare mystical talent Which will not be vanquished forego The work that's in hand, should no certain Result be the fruit of a blow. Persistence and hope his convictions, He practised the tenets he preached ; Sleep well in the calm of thy silence, By Death overreached. 168 POEMS. That death 's not in vain, yet lamented For once it has brought face to face, In thunder-thrilled highways of London, The strength of our Foes and our Race. They looked, they beheld our battalions File past with the roar of a tread Loud enough to pour panic through England- Or wake up the dead. We, Jews of the west, in this Ghetto Are hated, derided, and banned ; And toil as we may, there's against us The ravenous, blood-spilling hand. We, Jews of the west, in this Ghetto Are Irish in conscience and core ; And swear by the coffin of Martin, We'll bear it no more. One dies, and his friends gather round him Ten twelve, thirty thousand they come Not a blast, I have writ, from the bugle, No mustering beat of the drum. But give us the sword and the trumpet, Let England rise up full of trust, The invisible legions behind us Would stamp her to dust. Through many veils, heaven discloses The purport, the aim of its plan : Our Ireland above the pall weepeth : Our nation is less by a man. Have hope, O despairing, O heartless, We dared not a guess at our strength, And here, by the green grave of Martin, We KNOW IT AT LENGTH. TO IN PENAL SERVITUDE, arid island, seething in the sun, Heaped sand and ashes where the salt weeds grow, Bitter and harsh as the rank weed upon The rotting frieze of some cursed portico, Through which the devastating sea-winds blow. This is thy home, O Friend of former days, Nor less my friend to-day, that leagues divide, With intervening stretch of land and tide, And alien stars that o'er our rooftops blaze. Well, we made not the world shaped not our fate Owned not control of shifting circumstance; 'Twas ours to humbly trust and humbly wait How opposite, withal, has fallen our chance : Friends, home, for me ; for you disseverance ! Grim London quakes around me as I write Highway and by-way teem and swarm with life The shouting of the combatants at strife, With brazen mutiny fills day and night. i;o POEMS. But thou, fast pinioned to that barren shore, Hearest the ceaseless raving of the wave Mixed with the clank of chains, the warder's roar, The dying protest of the tortured slave, Whom earth the merciful affords a grave A long asylum in her silent breast, Where he sleeps well, no more to feel the lash, Nor dread the lifted rifle's sudden flash In that far bourne where peace is manifest. I think I see you, as in dear, past times ; Temples o'erclustered with the dusky gold Which the sun pours through boughs of singing limes- The pensive mouth blue eyes austerely bold, Proud head thrown back, and arms in massive fold. We sit in that fair chamber looking to The rounded garden where the lilac flowers The beech made music to the flying showers, And half the windows dripped with April dew. " Ireland was dead, not buried " thus they spoke Dead of a broken heart abased, discrowned, Her fair neck circled with her tyrant's yoke; And round her bier no sob of pitying sound For choked grief made the silence all profound. Traitors and knaves had stabbed her to the heart; But you had faith ; she will, you cried, arise : Some blessed Easter morning, earth and skies Shall see her from the ash and cere-cloth start. Hope august, that, through those dismal years, Survived immutable, as if God bid Be still the dial shade that ever steers Its path round the eternal pyramid, Whose bases in the desert sands are hid ! TO IN PENAL SERVITUDE. 171 Men sneered, reviled dwarfed souls that could not see The after harvest in the buried wheat ; But you persisted; and, the task complete, Yours is the suffering yet, the victory ! Look through the savage bars that hem you in Look forth, great heart ! The earth is changing face, Hope, courage, labour, have begun to win, And Ireland 'mid the Nations cries for plaee. That cry may be disposed a little space, But you have made it potent to the end. Pace thy poor dungeon with a gladdened brain Though bitter be thy heritage of pain, What triumph can thy triumph's force transcend 1 Man has not witnessed it. This heel-trod isle Fills with a vaster life throughout its length ; Watch and be patient for a little while, Till we shall rightly understand our strength ; Palm boughs for you no more of Amaranth. You are the victors, you are the elect. Blood, tears, and sufferings make us what we are ; Lo, rises from the grave, as climbs a star, A Nation mighty in its self-respect ! THE ST ISIDORE MANUSCRIPTS. IN THE FRANCISCAN CONVENT, DUBLIN. I ROM Ireland of the four bright seas, In troublous days these treasures came Through clouds through fires through darknesses To Rome of immemorial name Rome of immeasurable fame. The reddened hands of foes would rive Each lovely growth of cloister, crypt Dim folio yellow manuscript Where yet the glowing pigments live; But a clear voice cried from Louvain : " Give them to me, for they are mine ! " And so they sped across the main The Saints their guard, the ship their shrine. Yet other days : and scroll and leaf With fruit and foliage glistened o'er, Found sanctuary, not too brief, In thy dim halls St Isidore Where sandalled feet still tread the floor. The halls where Barren, Hickey trod, Where Fleming and where Harold wrought Where many a saint perfection sought, Wept, laboured, prayed, and passed to God THE ST ISIDORE MANUSCRIPTS. 173 There, by the daylight, or the lamp, The brown Franciscan bent above Those pages rusted red for damp, But priceless as profoundest love. Yet later days : and he, the vile, The foul, the doubly-blasted king Within whose court but syrens smile, And hymns to Aphrodite ring; Those jewels, void of cost, would fling Broadcast upon a gaping world That will not know, and never knew, How many fires our flag passed through Before its radiant folds were furled: He would stretch forth destroying hand, To filch the glories of our Race; Thank God, the brave Franciscan band Have saved us from this last disgrace. For here in storied Dublin are The scrolls, the trophies of a time, Burnt in our fortunes like a star Which, breaking in some rayless clime, Makes one vast depth of dark sublime : O'DonnelPs writing, clear and sweet O'Neill's decisive, firm, and strong Fragments of that heroic song To which the Irish heart kept beat, Whilst yet our country, helmed and plumed, Gave valiant challenge to her foes, And over fields, by fortune doomed, The sun of Hope, though clouded, rose. Warrior, prelate, poet, sage, Their glorious handicraft is here 174 POEMS. Echoes of that disastrous age When Ireland, foiled on field and mere, Held the old faith more dearly dear. What banner rose, what standard fell, What man proved false, what man stood true, Through all these days of crimson hue These stained and mildewed pages tell. From out these records breathes a past That did not die in empty words, But backed its purpose, stern and vast, With flashing guns and clashing swords. O'DonnelPs heart is sick in Rome, And here he writes his agonies: His eyes are strained across the foam, Whither, amid conflicting seas, His castles take the morning breeze. A lion chafing in his cage, O'Neill protests, exhorts, commands; He cannot burst the iron bands That bind him helpless in an age Which saw the wide world clothed in steel, To champion warring rights and wrongs Which filled the Nations with the peal Of long-resounding battle songs. Luke Wadding writes in words that burn With all the passionate desire That thrilled his soul, when wasted worn He saw his country's hopes expire, In blood and ashes, storms and fire. He loved her truly, served her well, And when the cause for which he toiied By cruel treacheries fell foiled, Amid its ruins he, too, fell. THE ST ISIDORE MANUSCRIPTS. 175 Great heart that broke in twain beneath The cloudless, deep, Italian sky, Thy city's and thy country's Faith Embalm thy noble memory. The fighting hand the fearless hand The hand of dauntless Owen Roe ! With stately sweep, erect and grand, The lines across the pages flow Each word direct as is a blow. There is no Crown without a Cross : If Ireland leaped with joy to see Your swift career of victory, That Ireland also wept your loss. Peace to thine ashes, gallant chief, No braver ever bared a sword, Gone down amid a nation's grief By generations yet deplored. Here, like a trumpet, clear and loud, O'Queely's voice rings through the crash; He will not see his country bowed, While there is steel to smite and flash, And flanks of battle barbs to lash. O warrior prelate, would the men Who sway us had thy courage now The thorns would fall from Ireland's brow, And she would leap to life again. What splendid death ! For Liberty To fall in consecrating gore The broken Cross upon thy knee, And at thy head the red claymore ! Look well on this 'twas Rothe who writ : How deep and strong the writing runs 1 76 POEMS. What tender grace, what gentle wit Mingled reproofs and benisons ! Kilkenny, thou had'st many sons Who bore thy fame o'er land and sea, And made thy name a household word In wilds where foot had never stirred, But none more resolute than he. True Bishop, he served Ireland well, When fell the cause Confederate, And conquerors, inspired by hell, Decreed us to a bloody fate. Liber Hymnorum ! Beauteous book, Grey with the glory born of time, Dim leaves which the Franciscan took At dewy eve, at early prime Even at midnight's measured chime And on them wrote, with pen devout, The cries in which the saints of God Adored the blessed path He trod, When sorrows ringed Him round about. Stand firm, dear Book, that all may see That in the years which have no name, Our country had a history, And Europe echoed back her fame. Rare psalters whose initials glow With fairy fancies birds and flowers Roses of everlasting blow And blooms of never-fading bowers Blue lakes, green isles, and mystic towers ! O blessed be the monkish hands Which filled each page with such sweet grace, When earth for Learning found no place, And war streamed red across the lands. THE ST ISIDORE MANUSCRIPTS. 177 Fade never, but be monument Of what the brave Franciscans did, When battle shook the Continent, And half the world in gloom lay hid. Ireland shall treasure book and scroll; And from their sacred leaves may rise A newer and a mightier soul To raise her nearer to the skies, And win her grander destinies. And Ireland never can forget The loving men who through long years Sad centuries of silent tears Their seal upon these treasures set, Guarding them for the brighter day Which, be it far or close at hand, Must pour inevitable ray On this unconquerable land. THE FLIGHT OF THE CELT. I ROM the lakes and shining inlands From the hilltops green and hoar; Our broken race are flying Down to the sea-lapped shore. The deep before them, and behind The land they'll tread no more. Mothers and gentle maidens Swarm in the crowded way, Young sun-tanned peasants lithe and strong, Old men bowed down and grey, Hurrying, fleeing, panic-struck, In the mighty glare of day. And the hills look down upon them With a gorgeous, tearful gloom, And a shadow falls on the ancient fields And breaks through the summer bloom, The eclipse of a destiny The darkness of a doom. THE FLIGHT OF THE CELT. 179 The black ship in the harbour space Rocks with the moaning tide, Her sails against the rising blast Are spreading fair and wide, And out she sweeps across the tawn Atlantic surge to ride. Where do you sail, O Brothers, Across the howling main % Where do you flee, my Sisters, With faces pale from pain ? Why leave ye Ireland in your wake The holy cross and plain ? Our steps are on the ocean's face, Our ship bears to the west ; We are the fugitives of earth Of Providence the guest. We seek a little land to dig, A grave wherein to rest. We give our foe our heritage, And to him we bequeath, The people's curse, that yet shall blast His blood-empurpled wreath The hate that lives through centuries The wrath that breathes in death. There are our homes where yonder stars Are rising through the night, The valleys where we've toiled and sung 'Twixt morn and even light, Our shrines, our churches, and, O God, Our churchyards bleached and white, i8o POEMS. We go but to remember them By foreign hill or wood ; Our arms shall smite, our hearts shall pant For vengeance for that feud The vengeance that a people crave For persecuted blood. Wherever by our common toil The forest's heart is rent, And cities fair shall raise their heads And pierce the firmament, Of cherished hate each stone shall be A living monument. By Irish firesides far away, Amid the young and old, The story of our bitter grief At night time shall be told, And eyes shall overflow with tears, And cheeks grow moist and cold. Then when the conflicts of the climes Shall fall upon the earth, Another race an Irish race Shall spring to second birth, Shall catch the bolt within its palm And hurl its thunders forth. And Babylon shall quake to see The light within her ken, Her harbours fired, her cities sacked, Her legions in the pen, And ringing in her ears the tramp Of myriad hosts of men. THE FLIGHT OF THE CELT. 181 Laugh at it, scorn it, God above Has watched us countless years, We've held the faith through good and ill Our nationhood in tears. We wait till in the clouded heavens His naming hand appears. And shine it will when few expect Across the starry space, The tyrant and his victim then Shall stand up face to face The Lord shall aid when we avenge The wrongs that smite our race. A SPINNING SONG. |Y love to fight the Saxon goes And bravely shines his sword of steel, A heron's feather decks his brows, And a spur on either heel; His steed is blacker than the sloe, And fleeter than the falling star; Amid the surging ranks he'll go And shout for joy of war. Tinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle, let the white wool drift and dwindle, Oh ! we weave a damask doublet for my love's coat of steel. Hark ! the timid, turning treadle crooning soft, old- fashioned ditties To the low, slow murmur of the brown round wheel. My love is pledged to Ireland's fight ; My love would die for Ireland's weal, To win her back her ancient right, And make her foemen reel. A SPINNING SONG. 183 Oh, close I'll clasp him to my breast When homeward from the war he comes; The fires shall light the mountain's crest, The valley peal with drums. Tinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle, let the white wool drift and dwindle, Oh ! we weave a damask doublet for my love's coat of steel. Hark ! the timid, turning treadle crooning, soft, old- fashioned ditties To the low, slow murmur of the brown round wheel. LIMERICK TOWN. IRE I've got you, Philip Desmond, standing in the market-place, 'Mid the farmers and the corn sacks, and the hay in either space, Near the fruit stalls, and the women knitting socks and selling lace. There is High Street up the hillside, twenty shops on either side, Queer, old-fashioned, dusky High Street, here so narrow, there so wide, Whips and harness, saddles, signboards, hanging out in quiet pride. Up and down the noisy highway, how the market people go ! Country girls in Turkey kerchiefs poppies moving to and fro Frieze-clad fathers, great in buttons, brass and watch- seals all a-show. LIMERICK TOWN. 185 Merry, merry are their voices, Philip Desmond, unto me, Dear the mellow Munster accent, with its intermittent glee; Dear the blue cloaks, and the grey coats, things I long have longed to see. Even the curses, adjurations, in my senses sound like rhyme, And the great, rough-throated laughter of that peasant in his prime, Winking from the grassbound cart-shaft, brings me back the other time. Not a soul, observe you, knows me, not a friend a hand will yield, Would they know, if to the landmarks all around them I appealed? Know me ! If I died this minute, dig for me the Potter's field? Bricks wan grey, and memories greyer, and our faces somehow pass Like reflections from the surface of a sudden darkened glass. Live you do, but as a unit of the undistinguished mass. " Pshaw ! you're prosy." Am I prosy? Mark you then this sunward flight: I have seen this street and roof tops ambered in the morning's light, Golden in the deep of noonday, crimson on the marge of night. 1 86 POEMS. Continents of gorgeous cloudland, argosies of blue and flame, With the sea-wind's even pressure, o'er this roaring faubourg came. This is fine supernal nonsense. Look, it puts my cheek to shame. Come, I want a storm of gossip, pleasant jests and ancient chat; At that dusky doorway yonder my grandfather smoked and sat, Tendrils of the wind-blown clover sticking in his broad- leafed hat. There he sat and read the paper. Fancy I recall him now ! All the shadow of the house front slanting up from knee to brow; Critic he of far convulsions, keen-eyed judge of sheep and cow. Now he lives in GOD'S good judgments. . Ah, 'twas much he thought of me, Laughing gravely at my questions, as I sat upon his knee As I trifled with his watch seal, red carbuncle fair to see. Ancient house, that held my father, all are gone beyond recall. - There's where Uncle Michael painted flower-pots on the parlour wall, There's where Nannie, best of she-goats, munched her hay and had her stall. LIMERICK TOWN. 187 Many a night from race and market down this street six brothers strode, Finer, blither, truer fellows never barred a country road, Shouting, wheeling, fighting, scorning watchman's law and borough code. Hither, with my hand in her hand, came my mother many a day, She, the old man's pet and darling, at his side or far away, And her chair was near the window, half in square and half in bay. Oh, my mother, my pure-hearted, dear to me as child and wife, Ever earnest, ever toilsome in this quick, unresting strife, Ever working out the mission of a silent, noble life. Do I love you? Can you ask me? Do I love you, mother mine ? Love you ! yes, while GOD exists, and while His sun and moon shall shine. I was yours, O sweet, bright darling; in the heavens I shall be thine. If I write this rhyming gossip all about the ancient street, 'Tis because the very footpaths were made blessed by your feet. Dear, pale mother ! writing of you, how my heart and pulses beat ! 1 88 POEMS. Beat and beat with warm convulsions, and my eyes are thick with tears, And your low song by my cradle sounds again within my ears. Here's the highway, which you trod once, I thrice filled with childish fears. Rolled the waggons, swore the carters, outside in the crowded street, Horses reared, and cattle stumbled, dogs barked high from loads of wheat; But inside the room was pleasant, and the air with thyme was sweet. Others now are in their places, honest folk who know us not; Do I chafe at the transition 1 Philip, 'tis the common lot- Do your duty, live your lifetime, say your prayers, and be forgot. A TRAITOR, knew him well; keen witted, sly, Thin lipped, with an eternal sneer Wreathing his mouth; a lustrous eye, Deep, passionate, but insincere. Man of all moods; a misanthrope At least in brain if not in heart His sole ambition his one hope To hurl the lance or shoot the dart Of slaying satire ; for his eyes, Abhorring brightness, loved to dwell Where all the hues of Paradise Were blotted by the dusk of hell. He had kind moments, when some rays Of better nature shone, despite His frozen looks and guarded ways, And dazzled with their tender light. Woman he loved not ; so he said For her, within his soul inurned Contempt, by low experience bred, Volcanic like, upheaved and burned. 190 POEMS. Yet, sometimes he was known to waste An hour in flirting, exquisite With compliments demurely chaste And mellowed gleams of icy wit. Damascus steel was blunt beside His cold, sarcastic, cautious tongue, Which parried with a fencer's pride, With logic from perversion wrung. Yet he was "moral," honest, bold; Twice on a Sunday went to church ; And, though possessed of little gold, Would leave his offering in the porch. And hear the sermon wide-awake With solid stare ; whilst all the pews Around him, for devotion's sake, Were steeped in soporific dews. He had few friends. Well, I was one, And loved him first ; his trifling mood To me was genial, fully grown, And healthy with arterial blood. He took the world, its wants and cares, With unassumed indifference ; Mimicked its follies, mocked its airs With humour in its intense sense. Then love resolved itself to hate I could not trust in one who saw In gambling losses certain fate, But in God's works no perfect law. Who always laboured broad and deep, To turn the darkest side of life And shun the bright, that he might keep, With Providence unceasing strife. A TRAITOR. 191 Years grew on him ; and he was white ; I met him oft in lane and street Creeping through the imperfect light With bended head and failing feet. Age froze the sneer upon his lips To grinning marble ; bleared and dim His full orbed eyes, in foul eclipse, Grew heavy, melancholy, dim. At last, one day, lie caught my hand And said, " Do you forget me, friend ? We plough the earth, we sow the land, But God alone foresees the end. He who loves passion in his youth, Conserves no energy for age : God's laws are built on triple truth, And measured with unerring gauge. He thriveth best who humbly sees God's works with reverent gratitude ; He thriveth least whose faculties Find cracks and flaws in all that's good. Guess you the moral." So I did, And homeward as my steps I bent Hoped that some gracious thought lay hid Like diamond in the sediment Of his spent life some sunset wind Had from his mind a cloud unrolled Whose black skirts trailing far behind Turned to the heavens their fading gold. THE DANCING MASTER. |OU know me well, Tim Monoyhan And that's my proud, undoubted name ; I'm fond who's not ? of merry scenes ; And don't despise a taste of fame. For fame is sweet, and very dear, I'd sooner break a jig than lance, And what in heaven's name excels A free and merry Irish dance ? Now, as I've said, my name is Tim, The boys take liberties with me ; They like my steps, they praise my style, And love my fiddle's screaming glee. The girls as well admire my notes When fiddle tunes their heels entrance ; But through the world there's nothing like The Scotch reel and the Irish dance. Ah, the old days ! We then had wakes, Or marriages 'twas all the same, For whether death or life no power The spirit of our race could tame. Bad as the times, the boy Celt loved The forfeit and the maiden's glance ; Pha ! talk of all new-fangled treats, There's nothing like the Irish dance. THE DANCING MASTER. 193 There's Peggy Mead a year ago To see her walk and so misuse Her pretty ankles, faith you'd think She was first cousin to a goose. I neatly took her case in hand, Just as the masters do in Frarfce ; And, by my soul, she showed her friends There's nothing like the Irish dance. And look at Paddy Whelan there, He's just the boy to work by halves, Who ever looking at him thinks I'd put some genius in his calves 1 God bless you, but you see I did, He beats the ladies at the Manse, And, rising on his toes, declares, There's nothing like the Irish dance. 'Tis well I love in some old barn, Well, just as August tempers June, To stride a heap of reeds and play Some lively, gay old Irish tune, To see the boys and girls go round, Their stout brogues working dissonance, And shout up from my heart of hearts, There's nothing like the Irish dance. Well, here's to Ireland, this new year, God bless her, may she never die While the twig moults, while the bird sings, Or rain makes noise on grass or sky. Give me her manhood true and straight, Give me her maidens' smiling glance, Ay, faith, and give me after these The Muses' gift, our Irish dance. N ON THE RAMPART: LIMERICK. [HEERILY rings the boatman's song Across the dark-brown water : His mast is slant, his sail is strong, His hold is red with slaughter With beeves that cropped the fields of Glynn, And sheep that pricked their meadows, Until the sunset-cry trooped in The cattle from the shadows. He holds the foam-washed tiller loose, And hums a country ditty; For, under clouds of gold, turned puce, Gleam harbour, mole, and city. O town of manhood, maidenhood, By thee the Shannon flashes There Freedom's seed was sown in blood, To blossom into ashes. St Mary's, in the evening air, Springs up austere and olden; Two sides its steeple grey and bare. Two sides with sunset golden. ON THE RAMPART: LIMERICK. 195 The bells roll out, the bells roll back, For lusty knaves are ringing; Deep in the chancel, red and black, The white-robed boys are singing. The sexton loiters by the gate With eyes more blue than hyssop, A black-green skull-cap on his pate, And all his mouth a-gossip. This is the town beside the flood The walls the Shannon washes, Where Freedom's seed was sown in blood, To blossom into ashes. The streets are quaint, red-bricked, antique, The topmost storeys curving, With, here and there, a slated leak, Through which the light falls swerving. The angry sudden light falls down On path and middle parquet, On shapes, weird as the ancient town, And faces fresh for market, They shout, they chatter, disappear, Like imps that shake the valance At midnight, when the clock ticks queer, And time has lost its balance. This is the town beside the flood Which past its bastions dashes, Where Freedom's seed was sown in blood, To blossom into ashes. Oh, how they talk, brown country folk, Their chatter many-mooded, With eyes that laugh for equivoque, And heads in kerchiefs snooded ! 196 POEMS. Such jests, such jokes, whose plastic mirth But Heine could determine The portents of the latest birth, The point of Sunday's sermon ; The late rains, and the previous drouth, How oats were growing stunted, How keels fetched higher prices, south, And Captain Watson hunted. This is the town beside the flood Whose wave with memories flashes, Where Freedom's seed was sown in blood, To blossom into ashes. How thick with life the Irish town, Dear grey and battered portress That laid all save her honour down, To save the fire-ringed fortress. Here Sarsfield stood, here lowered the flag That symbolised the people A riddled rag, a bloody rag, Plucked from St Mary's steeple. Thick are the walls the women lined With courage worthy Roman, When armed with hate sublime, if blind, They scourged the headlong foeman. This is the town beside the flood That round its ramparts flashes, Where Freedom's seed was sown in blood, To blossom into ashes. This part is mine : to live divorced Where foul November gathers, With other sons of thine dispersed, Brave city of my fathers. ON THE RAMPART: LIMERICK. To gaze on rivers not mine own, And nurse a wasting longing, Where Babylon, with trumpets blown, South, north, east, west, comes thronging. To hear distinctly, if afar, The voices of thy people To hear through crepitating jar The sweet bells of thy steeple. To love the town, the hill, the wood, The Shannon's stormful flashes, Where Freedom's seed was sown in blood, To blossom into ashes. 197 THE FOUNDING OF THE MONASTERY OF DONEGAL. A.D. 1474. HEY chose the monastery's site Upon a bluff above the bay : Beside the Esk streamed blue and bright, By wooded deeps and castles grey, Into the tierce Atlantic spray. From the tall steep one saw the ships Far off and dim, like clouds in calm, When breathes the south with dew-blown lips From isles remote of spice and balm. Far inland stretched a land of rest, Of violet hills and yellow vales, Where yet the eagle held his nest, White-crusted by the western gales That chafed the wave and swelled the sails Of tall barks looming through the haze, And pressing harbourward, at night The lamp at masthead half-ablaze A sinking, rising, restless light. THE FOUNDING OF THE MONASTERY. 199 It was the climate of Tir-Hugh Land of a race that held its own, While Ireland, unto Ireland true, Refused, if beaten, to lie prone, Or see its manhood overthrown. There Irish law held sovereign force, There Celtic lore and minstrelsy; The people feared no foreign curse They loved their princes and were free. So on this bluff of Donegal The trench was dug with pick and spade, And true against the eastern wall The square foundation stone was laid, Enwreathed with flowers in curious braid. Its socket held the founder's name, The dear name of St Francis, too; No battle ever fetched thee fame As did that festival, Tir-Hugh. The brown Franciscans stood around, The breviary in each thin hand, Pealing above the holy ground That litany of martyrs grand Whose voice is heard in every land. And when the final prayer was said, And tears stood in the princes' eyes, They waved their sparths 'twixt heel and head, And shook the seaboard with their cries. Day after day it slowly rose, That monastery by the sea, Graceful and delicate as snows That drop from the bent hazel tree Whilst yet the winter is to be. 200 POEMS. A fairy charm possessed the stone, So perfect its fantastic mould; And ere the tower had fully grown The sea moss hid its base in gold. Through tangled columned groups the sun Poured east or west upon the pave, Red as a martyr's orison, Kneeling beside his open grave, And at his head the slaying glaive. The slender shafts that propped the roof In purple twilights sprang half -hid, To sun. and star, and planet proof, As is the core of pyramid. Last leaped the bell-tower square and grey- St Francis' finger pointing high To that fair world beyond the day, To God and His immensity, Type of the faith that cannot die ! Last came the bells, whose voices are Echoes of what the world must dree- - Reflections of another star Whose light is immortality. AN INTERVIEW. IND you've just come from Ireland ; that's your plea For all those sickening substances of thought, Steeped in your brain, a jelly-fish at sea Or with the limpets blue in rock-craft caught, You left us when your brain was overwrought By the slow processes of decimals, And piling on interminable nought, Soul rises, but sense wavers, staggers, falls, Down to a wholly terminable degree, Well, not of meanness; for, I like you yet, Spite of your office and its pageantry, And your poor goose-quill, never dry, nor wet. That quill which time, experience, will not whet, But go on jargoning from base to top, Letting who will be waiting on who'll let, With here and there the dumb official stop. 202 POEMS. You colour ! Oh, don't mind it; you've come back From Limerick, and watched the Shannon pour Its salmon-threaded waters, track on track Round many a bending pause of weir and shore, And trodden beach, that raves for evermore; By castled ruins, red with leaves, like wine, And lakes that simmer in the moonlight frore; And here you come and babble of the Rhine. You tell me, and I laugh, of Lurlie's rock That emerald mountain stooping to the wave What of Doonass the hurrying rush, the shock, Like hosts embattled tangled shield and glaive ? The tost plume sinking, and not one to save. All this is vulgar to your alien ears, You like a finer music something new A ghastly catalogue of precious tears, A moon half risiug, and a world of blue. Well, have it; and still curl your lip august At Dublin, Dublin people, Dublin ways; Of course you've worn off all the ancient rust Of poverty, and sad declining days, When first a shilling set your eyes ablaze. I love the Providence which keeping time Change after change, as waters keep their hue, And, meditating one Supreme Sublime, Consummated its final task in you. You don't love Ireland ; all the Race is coarse, You, with your toothpick, sitting where you are (From last night's orgie rather bleared and hoarse) Loom like a fog that clings to some still star Apparent ; when the fen and mist 's at war. AN INTER VIE W. 203 " And, oh ! she had such well-bred English ways ! " You idiot ! It does your sneak's heart good, Half sofa-wise to sit, and leer, and gaze, And dream comparisons of rival blood. And Limerick, and Dublin, as you think, Are vulgar, prejudiced you don't see there, Betwixt the social class the social link, The pure maids mixing with the syren's stare, Nor that astute development of hair Shorn off some convict. Ah, your taste is fine A rolling meteor tost by fouler wind, London, as you praise it, is divine, And the loved city of my heart behind. Well, go, and babble ; there are fools to hear ; But give me back that sweet, calm, Limerick maid, Who passed the phantom of a lovely fear, By our old casement, bright but still decayed, Whilst my pure mother knitted in the shade Of the bow-ivy. There is London town, Glutted with light and * * * but you know. Here, you purveyor of that King and Crown, Glasses for two a cab for Pimlico. JOHN MITCHEL. |0 fifty different idols set In ludicrous and grimmest pornp Within the blatant temple's womb, Each forehead with its backward plume, Gradating down from white to jet; Sounds the loud praise of harp and tromp. You like him of the barricade, Whose life above its worth is priced, The foulest creature in the sun, Whom no man thrusts a blow upon; I hate the hound whom chance has made To spit in the pale face of Christ. And hating him, and loving you, John Mitchel, far away from me, (Even as I love John Martin's self, Proud hater of the grasping Guelph,) My faith is : you are good and true, A light in our black history. JOHN MITCHEL. 205 But why to that heroic breast Should conscience-shamed Mazzini cling 1 A thousand great and wise as he, Pant for the dear intimacy; To share the storm of thy unrest, To hail thee, though uncrowned, a king. Your soul meant courage, and the fire Of all your longings, thoughts desired, Not Ireland begging in the dust With famished lips and pity's crust, But revolution, boy and sire, Through heaven, and earth, and sea suspired. I, toiling in these barren days Of fatal meanness, pit 'gainst truth, Think of the gallant master hand, That all but half redeemed the land. I see you through opposing haze Chief and ideal of my youth. The earnest look > the Cyclop brow, The iron meaning of the face; The tost locks crowning both emprise, The still calm passion of the eyes; The figure bent a little low, But with a strong imperious grace. 'Tis thus they tell me that you looked Imagination paints it all; Granted that we shall ne'er lock hands Across the sea-disparted lands. Howe'er decrees of Fate be booked, The visioned future will not pall 206 POEMS. It shall not when the curse and blame Were on your head, when fools and knaves Spoke of John Mitchel's treachery, And bit the lip and winked the eye ; My cheek flung out the banner shame, My tongue replied to half the slaves. Ah ! this was twenty years ago, And I had chestnuts in my hair, And in my heart a subtler thought Than that which fact and time have wrought Out of persistent action's glow But you, no Past has made unfair, But step by step has spiritualised, Above the howl of creed and sect, The petty slanderer of the shop, The hell where foul opinions drop, In their own foulness crystalised, To sprawl a-gloze on intellect ; To dash with elemental spume, The great heart, the pure character, Of one whose vigorous, true strife Has prematurely round his life Dipt the inevitable gloom, Which no wind of the earth can stir. Others have fallen, hoarded gold, Minted and trafficked treachery; And at thy feet, O thrice August, They grope for pardon in the dust ; They are too squalid, waxing old No such damnation waits on thee. JOHN MITCHEL. 207 For to the last, the very last, I hear that brave, uplifted voice, Crying in exile, smote, alone, Crying as cried the Baptist John, Beneath a heaven of exile vast, And my soul struggles to rejoice. 'Tis comforting when time is dark, And hours are racked with hopeless pain, That one survivor of the fight Should battle for the Nation's Right, Leaving his sovereign, radiant mark On tyranny's protracted reign. They bid you, Mitchel, shun the shore Within whose cirques of surge repose, Each in its shroud of green or red, The bones of 110 inglorious dead. Ah ! they call to you evermore, Great spirit blent of palm and rose. See Ireland through the hideous bars, The grates of fire that round her in ; Look at our Ireland, all but dead, Prostrate and disinherited : Was this below Antarctic stars The dream you dreamt, the end you'd win ? Lightning and thunder, and the gloom Of piling ages, wrongs of fate, Bellow about her as she sleeps, In troubled calms of middle deeps, The vestures of the tides her tomb Ay, she, like you, is desolate. 208 POEMS. Despair not ; would 'twere mine to give The chrism of patience, wove of faith, John Mitchel, you indeed would be Crowned chief of my idolatry; No truer man deserves to live, None other looked less blanched at Death AN A USTRALIAN MESSA GE. CHRISTMAS. |OOD friends, couched deep in summer shade, and longing for the breeze from sea, When, up the dark, the Southern Cross around the Pole shall circle free, With hanging pears our walls run red, our gables with the grape's black blue, The melons burst beneath our tread, the thirsty grasses yearn for dew; And yet there's snow, And fireside glow, Or drifting sleet rolled down the vale, In that far land Where bravely stand The glorious children of the Gael. We've fetched their faith across the waves a bright unyielding heritage; We've brought dear memories of home the legend and the teeming page; 210 POEMS. The dark hair and blue eyes are here the Irish jest, the Irish smile The woman's sanctity which makes a paradise of our green isle. The Austral sun Which blazes on . Our flag makes not its emerald pale; Here's, far and near, With prayer sincere, The glorious children of the Gael. In stormy days, in patient pain, and little heeding gain or loss, We've raised our Nation's ensign high beneath the shining Southern Cross. Our clustered spires to heaven aspire, our altars burn amid the wild, And, thanks unto the Lord above, we've kept our manhood undefiled. In God's good hour Our faith shall flower, And future bards recount the tale Of them who thought, And them who wrought The glorious children of the Gael. 'Tis noonday. Lo ! the burning sun along the dusty pastures shines The sheep are drowsy on the slope, the bees are silent near the vines; The far-off ocean gleams like steel, the foam lies cream- ing on the strand, And scarce a shadow floats across the white, abandoned leagues of sand. AN A USTRALIAN MESSAGE. 211 Here's to the sky That tenderly Bends over Irish hill and vale, And shields to-night With stormy light The glorious children of the Gael ! Ho ! 'tis a bark, with dusk sails furled, that forges towards the harbour's mouth ; She brings us shamrocks, bred afar, to blossom in the friendly south, And there are letters scented with the bog-oak and the turf of home, And bits of palm, and holly sprays, and ivy tendrils black with bloom. God bless the bark Which through the dark, And lightnings, intershot with hail, Brings gifts so dear To crown and cheer The glorious children of the Gael ! O darling Ireland ! from those wastes our hearts, our sighs, go back to thee ; We hear the wailing of thy harp thy coronach on land and sea. Despair not : never tribe or race, through all the empires vast and broad, Shall sing the requiem of one so perilously true to God. O bleeding, worn, O crushed and torn, O crownless lady, pure and pale ! 'Twixt wave and plain Thou yet shalt reign Above the children of the Gael. REMINISCENCES OF A DAY. WICKLOW. DIM delicious heaven of dreams The land of boyhood's dewy glow Again I hear your torrent streams Through purple gorge and valley flow, Whilst fresh the mountain breezes blow. Above the air smites sharp and clear The silent lucent spring it chills But underneath, moves warm amidst The bases of the hills. With scalps fire-charged, or violet, The grim peaks pierce the open sky; There may the storm at midnight fret Its strength in moans of agony, Whilst tempest-shaped the clouds roll by Pale lightnings leap from scar to scar, Between the hurtlings of the rains, And four-fold thunders peal throughout The loud rejoicing glens. REMINISCENCES OF A DAY. 213 But not to-night, O lovely land, Bear'st thou the colour of the storm ; The wind that fans my cheek is bland And delicate, and sweet, and warm. No wracks portending ill deform The starry azure of those skies, Where Dian flames a fiery crest, Bernice's hair across the north Orion down the west. The cloud that helms the mountain's brow, The cataract that leaps and cries, Have long-lost meanings voices now For manhood's wakened ears and eyes. Forbid it God I should despise The other meanings, long since lost 'Mid the thronged cities' smoking fold Vague intimations that made time A very time of Gold. Here, 'mid the mountains and the mists, I as a child, with hair grown grey, Tired of the ever widening lists Sick of unresting fray and fray, Yet without that obscure decay Which chills the sources of the heart, And blasts the flowers of simple joy, Come, in the rainbow lights to dance, And feel I'm still a boy. I know the years have wrought me wrong, And I have wronged myself beside ; Degenerate speech, degenerate song, Dinned in my ears from morningtide The shame I shun, yet must abide 2i 4 POEMS. Have smitten me ; yet here I am 'Midst mountains lately white with snows They nurse the storm upon their tops, And in their heart, the rose. The violet is at my feet The slender flower of glorious blue ; The daisy, parti-coloured, sweet, Gives the hill grass a richer hue, The rough furze lights its fires anew. Here hurled the rain, here rolled the storm ; Each did its worst each wrought its part- J Twas Nature's share shall I not have Also a fresh, new heart ? Far from the cities, far from streets Far from the cries of suffering wrongs, Away from scenes where Commerce beats Its praises upon iron gongs, How sweet to listen to the songs Which tell me, spite of all despairs, The Holy Land that gave me birth Shall yet rise up, and reign and rule O'er her own seas and earth. Shout out that hope, you mountain spires Shout it, deep gorge and lake profound; Shout it, you pine slopes, red with fires Return me no uncertain sound. Give were it my heart's latest bound That hope to breathe upon the wave Which soon shall carry me away, Far from the sharp-contrasted lights Of Irish night and day. REMINISCENCES OF A DAY. 215 friend of radiant, lucent mind, And boundless charity of heart, * As through the hills we climb and wind See the red deer leap up and start Out in the sun that we must part Flings sadness on this tender morn A lengthening shadow on the path, That flows in curious maze between The wild wood and the rath. 1 see the stars above the Alp Of Bendhu's mighty presence rise ; They scale his chest they crown his scalp- They clothe him with a pale sunrise : I gaze and tears are in my eyes. The morning flows across the wild, The free bird down the valley slips I listen to its shrill, sweet cry, And songs are on my lips. But lo, once more the evening comes, And shadows deepen down the wold, The distant peaks take purpler glooms, And through Imaile's entangled fold Blazes the sun a disk of gold. O God of Peace, the heavens are near The stars in shining millions brood ; Thy calm has fallen on my soul, And on this solitude ! * Rev. C. P. Meehan. THE FOUR-LEAVED SHAMROCK. |Y boy had dreamt, 'twixt day and night, When the woods make mournful rune, (The ash leaves changing green and white, Below the slowly waning moon ;) At first there came a triumph tune, Then shouts of hosts from fell and field, Next flashed the brows of warrior men, The Four-Leaved Shamrock on each shield. Swift from that deep, sweet sleep he sprung Day from the mighty east unrolled, The forest top, with cloud o'erhung, Had all its shafts transfixed with gold, And purple lightnings manifold ; " O Four-Leaved Shamrock, radiant prize, Ere darkness rounds the waking world Thy beauty shall delight these eyes. " Once thou art mine, a palace roof With battlement and swinging vane THE FOUR-LEAVED SHAMROCK. 217 From every vale shall gleam aloof ; Earth shall rejoice in plenteous rain ; The wastes shall burst their hearts for grain, The rose take root in marsh and fen, And through dear Ireland shall be heard The songs of happy husbandmen." All day the mountain's wasted side, Was trodden by his aching feet, The strong sun, in its midmost pride, On his fair head fierce splendours beat The toil was brave, the purpose sweet And so from hill to hill he passed, Till, 011 the empty shore of heaven, The moon again stood white and ghast. No Four-Leaved Shamrock on his way Not that great joy, but in his hand, Crusted with dew, and hacked from fray, An immemorial Irish Brand ! He found it where the level land Through pastures ran by many a path, Amid the clustering hazel trees, And in the mid grass of the rath. The poplars shook above his head, The sloe tree waved its blossomed crest ; Though hope was disinherited, And sorrow was his heart's sole guest, There was beatitude in rest. He laid the sword across his knees, And watched the great clouds sail along, Wind-piloted through darkening seas. " Despairest thou 1 " a clear voice said : " What thou desirest thou hast foimd." 2i 8 POEMS. He started from the green-mossed bed, As starts a steed at battle's sound ; The air grew luminous around The bright air dazed his wondering eyes, She stood before him, Beautiful, Of Fairy Land, or Paradise ! Oh, lovely vision ! the round throat, The cheek, a music in its bloom ! The sundered locks that tost afloat, As sways the autumn-goldened broom, And in her eyes such violet gloom ! 'Twas Erinn, Mother of our Race, 'Twas Ireland from the Land of Eld, The sweet wild sorrow in her face. And low he humbled him, whilst she : " The Four- Leaved Shamrock is thy blade- The crossguard points and hilt make three Of the brave leaves that never fade ; The sword's point is the fourth, when laid Straight at the vile oppressor's throat ; Take thou the symbol in thy grasp And smite as thy forefathers smote." And out he rushed that awful day, When Hugh O'Donnell crushed th Red; His hand flashed lightnings through the fray His arm to certain triumph led. He fell the topmost of the dead He fell our freedom to restore He fell, my boy, my life, my pride; O Christ, that I had twenty more ! OUR FAITHOUR FATHERLAND. |RELAND, that sittest by the shores of Time- Watching the Nation's sunrise on thy lips Hovers the gospel of a faith sublime, Conserved through blight and blast and foul eclipse. Great, glorious mother ! when the awful night Brooded o'er Europe with portentous ills, Thy brow was lifted to the morning light Thy lamp was shining on eternal hills. Forth rang the clarion voice, and at its call The blinded peoples gathered to thy feet ; From the remotest east to savage Gaul The tramp of pilgrims through the midnight beat, And they beheld thee crowned upon the sea A perfect Paradise of perfect bloom The Pharos of the west, whose brilliancy Blazed like a star amid the ocean gloom. Then close beside the spectral pillar-tower The holy shrines were builded unto God ; Thy soul expanded into fruit and flower, Inheritance of peace blessed each abode ; 220 POEMS. And from the morning watches till the sun Sank in Hy Brasil, firing the vast dome, Up swelled the myriad-voiced, sweet orison From the green altar burning on the foam. There was a clash of weapons in the air Ruin of peace and seasonable good ; And, flanked by gallant natures, everywhere The green flag staggered over fields of blood. The Norman steed was stabled in thy fanes, The Norman bugles rang upon the heath; Thy children bared their hearts and spurned their chains, And sealed their glorious constancy in death. Yes, Liberty was lost her cause betrayed Stabbed in Christ's presence by unholy hands ; Through the grey ages the remorseless blade Hewed down the bravest of thy valiant bands. But where the cross was lifted, at the sign The baffled multitudes resistless rose, Swept the long war-plains in unbroken line, And dealt the debt of vengeance on thy foes. O holy faith God's best inheritance ! Bulwarked by thee, our Mother need not fear; O'Donnell loved thee when his eagle glance Was muffled in death's blinding atmosphere; And the great chieftain of Blackwater heard Thy voice, when, broken with the ills of years, In mighty Rome he broke his conquered sword, And clasped thy Cross in penitence and tears. " Our Faith Our Fatherland ! " Our God Our Race ! If rise as rise we must erect and free, That battle cry must pierce the fighting space From shore to utmost shore from seta to sea. OUR FAITH OUR FATHERLAND. 221 When the vile power that grips us shall be smote, Wherever havoc rolls and blood is spilt, That cry must thunder from the cannon's throat The Cross must glitter on the falchion's hilt. Vain may the prophet be who, looking back Into the vanished years' chaotic gloom, Dreams that he sees upon their rearward track Signs, deep interpreters of days to come. But the world's story is a gangrened lie ; God's promises must falsify our trust If we shall fail to crush this tyranny And stamp its cancerous carcase in the dust. Ireland, bright Motherland, where'er the day Sinks or upsoars around this reeling earth, Thy children multiply, or, dying grey, Breathe thy dear name beside a foreign hearth. In Babylon no willow bears their lyres : 'Tis theirs to toil, to sweat, to civilise To guard the flames of consecrated fires, And wait the omens looming through the skies. And whereso'er the empire's morning drum Beats through the sunrise, million hearts awake To call thee Mother Inspiration Home All holy names that sanctity can take. Lean 'gainst the Cross, and keep thy torch alight ; The past behind is drear and desolate, Bub thine eyes keep a revelation bright The golden future destined for thy fate. TOMBS IN THE CHURCH OF M ONTO RIO, ON THE JANICULUM. [Heic Jacent O'Nealivs, Baro De Dvngannon, Magiii Hugonis Felivs, Et O'Donnel, Comes De Tyrconnel, qvi contra hsereticos in Hybernia raultos annos certervnt. MDCVIII.] |LL natural things in balance lie, Adjustment fair of earth and sky, And their belongings. Thunders bring The red life from the heart of spring; Thence summer, and the golden wane That comes with harvest when each field, Crimsoned with weeds, like fiery rain, Flames like a newly forged shield. All things come true, in some dim sense, Held good by absolute Providence. Inquire not: Here you sleep at last Sleeping, it may be face to face, Right glorious leaders of our race, Of faith profound, of purpose vast. Around, above, this glittering dome Soars the majestic bulk of Rome; This marble pave, this double cell Enshrines you, and contents you well. TOMBS IN THE CHURCH OF MONTORIO. 223 Better it were the twain should lie On some wild bluff of Donegal, The sea below in mutiny, The terrible heaven over all. God wills and willed it shall not be. Here is no rave of wind or sea. Peace, incense, and the vesper psalm ; The sob, the penitential groan ; The lurid light, the dripping stone The earth's eternity of calm. Sleep on, stern souls, 'twere wrong to shake Your ashes bid the dead awake, To bitter welcome. Ireland lies Under the heels of enemies. So has she lain since that curst day That saw your good ship fly the land; Since Ulster's proud and strong array Dwindled to fragments, band by band. And you two wept in leaving her (Chased through the seas by Chichester.) Still buoyed with hope to find abroad Aid to prostrate our ancient foe, And to lay wall and rampart low, And hear the saints in heaven applaud. It came not, and in regal Rome Died the O'Donnell, sick for home. Not all the pomp the city boasts Consoled him for his native coasts. Here Art's sublimed; but Nature there His heart, his passions satisfied ; The forest depth, the delicate air Were with his inmost soul allied. 224 POEMS. So hoping, doubting went the days, And tired at heart of time's delays, He closed his eyes in Christ our Lord. No truer man had nobler birth, No braver soldier trod the earth, With pitying or destroying sword. And thou, O'Neill, Lord of Revolt, Battle's impetuous thunderbolt. Cliff-flinger, at whose name of might The bronzed cheeks of the Pale turned white. Dost thou lie here ? And Ireland bleeds Her virgin life through every pore ! Great chief in unexampled deeds, We need thy smiting arm once more. Rest, rest ! the glory of thy life Shines like tradition on the strife Which Ireland wages hour by hour, Patient yet daring for the best, And growing up, as worlds attest, To freedom, majesty, and power. THE GREEN GIFT. UST twenty years through spring have blown Since, on one shining Patrick's Day, A dear, far comrade sent to me, Across the yeasty leagues of sea, Through surge and wind, to Canada, A letter rudely scribbled o'er "With little of the penman's art, Freighted with songs, and what is more An Irish shamrock in its heart. I kissed it twenty fifty times, The delicate and flowerless spray ; And Limerick and its castled skies Rose up distinct before my eyes, Under the heaven of Canada. I saw the Shannon westward run, The hills of Clare fade off in blue, The glamour of the autumn sun Across the woodlands of Tervoe. p 226 POEMS. That morn my soul, refreshed and light, Devised in summer-mooded way, In what thick nook of forest gloom My gift should take both root and bloom Below the clouds of Canada. Seeking, I found a pleasant spot, From pulses of the sea-breeze wet, And there in shadows, cedar-wrought, My precious plant I fondly set. Dear is that little haunt to me, Where sometimes Mary comes to pray, And hears the passing of her beads Timed by the crepitating reeds, Under the stars of Canada. There sleep my loved ones and my lost The shapes that vanished long ago Above them cedar boughs are crost, And round their graves the shamrocks blow. For, look you, ere the first year died, And on the pine's bark fell the grey, Which comes like winter to our trees, Ere yet the sap begins to freeze, Deep in the woods of Canada ; The shamrock's tendrils woke to flower, Rich as the cowslip's inmost page, And made a little golden bower Around my daily hermitage. Ireland is many a sail afar, Beyond the rising of the day, And many a long and weary year Has perished since I first stood here, Amid the wastes of Canada. THE GREEN GIFT. 227 Yet when I see these little flowers From emerald into orange run, My thoughts go racing with the hours, Behind the sea, behind the sun. Away to where my own land lies, Below the morning's rising ray Away to mountain peaks that hold The flying clouds in tangled fold Away, away from Canada. I see the Irish mouths and eyes, I leap through fields of long ago, And in my heart wells glad surprise, And at niy feet the shamrocks blow. Let me rest with them when the mist Of solid darkness fills my way, Still feel their roots about my heart, Of me and mine close-knitted part, Under the grass of Canada. And though around my headstone beat The whitening breezes of the foam, One thought will make the last hour sweet I shall not die so far from home. CHRISTMAS DREAMS IN CANADA. Ireland o'er the sea to-night The mellow bells ring through the land ; The cottage windows are alight, And on the hearthstone flames the brand. Full in the blaze a kindly band Sit the sweet friends we knew of old, Ere yet, below this alien sky, We learned that winter storm and cold Are far less keen than tyranny. God bless their hearts, across the main, Brave people, pure and generous ! Who knows but at this midnight hour Their knees are bent in prayer for us ! A kindly knock salutes the door, A genial welcome answers clear, And neighbours gather on the floor Hooded in seasonable gear With greeting cries, " God bless all here." Gay songs are sung, bright gossip passed, And laughters ring against the roof ; CHRISTMAS DREAMS IN CANADA, 229 Along the hillside shrieks the blast, But Munster thatch is tempest proof. So speed the pleasant hours along, Till through the lifted drifts of rain And over barricades of cloud The moon grows white upon the pane. Ah ! dead, departed, Christmas Eves ! Though rest and plenty be our lot, The Irish heart, unaltered, grieves For that which was, and now is not ; The happy farms the ivied cot The brook that ran outside the hedge The two-arched bridge, a mile away The snow upon the window ledge The robin's chirp at break of day. Canadian fields are green and fair, But not so fair as those at home The teeming meadows which make bright The pillared island in the foam. Round us the pines keep murmuring, Breathing like giants deep in dreams ; We hear their branches crash and swing, Or see them, in the lightning's gleams, Ablaze like huge cathedral beams. The headlong rivers chafe and roar Across their wedged and broken bars ; Far off the mountain tops loom hoar And stormy up amongst the stars ; But in the Holy Isle, this eve, The wind makes music in the wood, And only plashing gusts reveal The troubled swiftness of the flood. 230 POEMS. To-morrow morn the country ways, The furrowed by-paths in the grass, Will see, in snooded, kerchiefed maze, The pious people throng to Mass From level plain and upland pass. With palms the altars there will shine ; And white flow'rs, plucked by maiden hands, Will make more fair the blessed shrine Where Jesus' stainless Mother stands. Ah ! may we be remembered there ! They'll not forget us our own blood ! When heads and knees are bowed to Him Who died upon the bitter wood. Oh ! had I but the wings the dove Bears winnowing through crystal air, In one fleet ecstasy of love I'd fly, and dream out Christmas there Where grey Kilmallock's ruins bare Shelter my father's, mother's graves, And linnets in the ivy sing Where the long grass declines in waves, And daisies rarely come with spring: One hour to kiss the sacred turf, And pray my own to pray for me My people who went down in grief To shine as saints eternally. Still Patrick guards his ransomed isle, And God, if patient, still is just ; He will not let oppressors vile For ever strew her fields with dust, And sate with blood their fiery thirst. A day will come when in the skies The morning wind shall gather breath, CHRISTMAS DREAMS IN CANADA. 231 And saints shall bid our Ireland rise From out the trance of seeming death. For her, her myriad martyrs plead, Her banded confessors appeal ; And shall their cries for aye succumb To ruffian fraud and vengeful steel ? Forbid it, Lord ! Yet hasten still Redemption's morn as Thine now breaks The living splendour feared of hell, Which through its yelling caverns shakes. Oh ! speed it, for Thy saints' dear sakes ! And we, though sad and far away, Will gladly kiss our freezing shrouds, To see, from this dark Canada, That glory kindling in the clouds. Oh ! bid the promised star appear, And let the voices from above Bless with the tidings born of peace The holy island of our love. AN IRISH DEATHBED IN CANADA. THINK as I lie here, Mary, The length of the livelong day, Of the sunny woods of Kilsinari, The cliffs, the ships, and the bay. They seem to glimmer before me Like images in a stream ; Not quite as clear as the eyesight, But more distinct than a dream. There's a cottage hooded in ivy, A hundred steps from the mill ; The cross on the whitewashed chapel, The churchyard up on the hill. I see the funerals going, And hear the sorrowful keen Of the friends and the white-scarfed neighbours Who bear the coffin between. AN IRISH DEA THBED IN CANADA. 233 The tears are thick on my eyelids, For there, when the world was joy, One day, in the grass and daisies, I buried my little boy. Yet why should I weep to have lost him, Though he was so sweet to see ? For I know he's far up in heaven, And praying to God for me ! I weep, for I feel so lonely, And my home is far away, And the sky that is over the roof-top, Is the cold sky of Canada. The fields here never have shamrocks ; J Tis only at home they grow; I've gathered them far in winter, In the melted spots of the snow. And J tis good to have them about you When you're lying low in your grave, For they stand for the Three Blest Persons, And they have the power to save. 'Tis long since they wrote from Ireland, But we may have a letter yet, For, with all that the people say of them, The Irish never forget. And I know they won't overlook me, God help them ! Who knows how they Have struggled to save the postage This many a weary day ! 234 POEMS. You won't forget, Mary, darling, When Death here has took his stand, To give me the blessed candle And the bit o' palm in my hand ; Nor to say the prayers for the dying ; And then, when I am no more, To bury me near the chapel, With my feet to the Irish shore 1 I'm sure that I've prayed for patience, Whenever my hour was come, But 'tis very hard, Mary, darling, To die here so far from home. BACK TO THE GREEN SHORE. IELLOW and slow, the sunset dips Along the crimson rim of sea ; The gold light falls across the ships, And burns upon the waveless lee. One tender star shines out above, The slender moon stands in the east : Each shines upon the land we love, And this is good St Brandon's feast. Let the winds blow our sails of snow, And hurry us swiftly through the foam, Through night and day, away, away, To the consecrated shores of home. Many a year our ploughshares broke The stubborn tilth of Canada ; We scored the soil, and cheered the yoke, With songs of Ireland far away. We never saw the round sun rise Above the cedars fringed and hoar, 236 POEMS. But tears would rush into our eyes We knew he left the Irish shore. Let the winds blow our sails of snow, And hurry us swiftly through the foam ; Through night and day, away, away, To the long remembered coasts of home. Graves there be in the land we left ; Brother and sister calmly sleep, The cross above for a parting gift, In clustered shamrocks planted deep ; And every coffin holds a sod Dug from the turf of Innisfail, Ere, scorned by men, but saved by God, We trusted first to the westward gale. Let the winds blow our sails of snow, And hurry us swiftly through the foam, Through night and day, away, away, To the unforgotten fields of home. The magic mountains tower there still, The fairies dance in raths and dells ; At morn, the pious people kneel In prayer around the holy wells. The children play at eve among The yellow harvest of the year, Till from the belfry, like a song, The Angelus rings sweet and clear. Let the winds blow our sails of snow, And hurry as swiftly through the foam, Through night and day, away, away, To the dear the memoried shores of home. 'Tis dawn the night relaxes lo ! Out of the waves one island grows; BACK TO THE GREEN SHORE. 237 With mists the land is white below, But overhead is heaven's own rose. Mother of God ! 'tis Ireland look ! I'd know that grass in a thousand years, Watered never by cloud or brook, But by the priests' and people's tears. Move soft and slow you sails of snow, That hurried us swiftly through the foam Through night and day, away, away, To the blessed hills of our Irish home. THE TREATY STONE. i HERE Shannon's waters fresh and free, With mountain leaflets strown, Sweeps past the Bridge of History Stands Limerick's Treaty Stone. Its crest is dinted by the storm, Its base is green with rime, Yet worn and frail It tells the tale Of Ireland's fighting time ; Of Ireland's faithful fighting time When, under Sarsfield's guns, The tattered banner flew above Her proudly marshalled sons. Ah, beacon of that bloody past While yet the star of hope Shone through the hurrying cloud and blast In Freedom's horoscope ! Dumb witness if thou could'st be dumb Rememberest the day When ruffian fraud Appealed to God Appealing to betray ? THE TREATY STONE. 239 A perjurer's hand was laid on thee, A soldier's grasped the same Stand firm thou patient history Of English guilt and shame. What boots it if our sires, betrayed And robbed of life and home, Broke sunken heart and smiting blade In lands beyond the foam ? The blood they shed was Irish blood, But not for us it flowed ; We heard their fame, We prized their name, But writhed beneath the goad. All France's glory helped us not Whilst they, the wild and free, Bore through half Europe's hail of shot The Bourbon blazonry. And why did Ireland fall so low, And why despoil her might To shield by prayer, and curse, and blow The outcast Jacobite ? Oh ! Ireland rallied round her king ! Her English king forsooth ! She gave him dower, The glorious flower Of her unconquered youth. Grey prophet where the Shannon hastes ! One oath through Ireland rings She'll pause before again she wastes Her blood for English kings. 240 POEMS. For who recalls, his heart not pained, That gallant sacrifice A coward Stuart's cause maintained At no uncertain price ? On Aughrim's field on Boyne's declines We sowed our dead like grain; And yonder, where The street runs fair, The trench was choked with slain. For what, for whom, was such red cost ? What gain could it confer 1 This Ireland's cause two centuries lost Herself a sepulchre. O solemn wizard by the tide, O Thomond's Memnon, hear ! If broken be the Nation's pride, We've yet to learn to fear. The flag that dropped from Sarsfield's hands Has touched the stars again, Though round it lay In torn array No hosts of slaughtered men. Enough if hearts were there to lift Its tatters from the mould, In trust that heaven mayhap would drift A sunbeam on its fold. God guard thee well, thou peerless stone, Worn by adoring lips ! Thy dust is strewn from shore to shore Wherever sail the ships. THE TREATY STONE. 24I Old testament of hate and love, Rest mute a little while ! From skies of night The living light Is bursting on our isle. 'Twill come must come the shadows race, And ere the dawn is done, Thy lot shall be the proudest place Tn Ireland's Pantheon. IRELAND. JOT lost in the uproar and turmoil of Nations, Not merged in the darkness that billows thy skies, Not broken, Mother, though bowed with oppression, The soul of the Future looks out from thine eyes. The good sword is rusted, the banner is shattered, And low in the dust lies the chivalrous lance, But thy brow still uplifts to the blaze of the morning, Thy deathless ambition is still to advance. The suns wheel around thee in mystical orbits From highland to highland, from river to sea, They shine on a race that is tamed, but unconquered, On a race, thrice-determined and sworn to be free. 'Mid ruins that chronicle glories transcendent The vague twilight splendours of green Innisfail Rise up from the dawn to the limits of sunset The prayer and the hope of the long-smitten Gael. IRELAND. 243 The ages have withered apast the horizons They've withered like rain on a desolate land, The thick-thronging centuries waver and vanish, The past is no more ; but its monuments stand. In temple prophetic, in eloquent ruin, In pillar tower, pinnacling vapours and stars, Survive the memorials, the stern attestations Of our genius, our greatness, our glories, our wars. Have we lived for the Past? Do we live for no Future 1 Must the brain and the sinew, transforming the earth, Be denied in the land that still claims and still needs them, The guerdon bestowed at the foreigner's hearth ? Rough soldiers are we, and our might has supported The fortunes of many a tottering throne Is it manhood or greatness to strike for the stranger And once in a century strike for our own ? Not rush on the bayonets with fervour impatient, Not strike to be stricken, for that were a crime ; Not heedlessly plunge in the arms of disaster, Nor vainly prejudge the long issues of Time. Though sorrow be poignant, though wrongs spur our spirits, Though the hope of swift vengeance is fatally sweet, 'Twere better to rest (not despondent) for ages Than be rolled further back by the tides of defeat. We were beaten ; we suffer the sins of disaster ; But penance and wisdom are ever allied : The greatness of conscience, the prowess of reason, Are marshalled, like hosts of the field, on our side. 244 POEMS. By thinking, by toiling, the arms of redemption In the fires of affliction are fashioned and wrought, And next when our banner floats over the battle, So help us good heaven, 'twill float where it ought ! What, idle till then ? Let the pitiless slander Be found on the lips of the coward and knave"; Not idle, not tearful, but trustfully working To raise, to inspirit, to counsel, to save. To gather together the wrecks of our people, Now scattered o'er earth, like the desert-blown sand, To fill up the measure of manhood's ambition Labour and leisure, a home and a land. 'Tis worth all our seeking, worth all our endeavour, To wait in the darkness, with backs to Despair, Believing the nation, long clouded and sunless, In the purpose of heaven is Liberty's heir; Believing that he who sows thickly and fondly, The fruit of the harvest in gladness shall reap Believing, when Ireland shall rise from her ashes, To guard her and crown her our blood were too cheap. Were we born of the savage and trained in the forest, Our lives and our fates but an echoing curse; Did we worship the god of the tree-top and tempest, Could our fortunes be sadder our heritage worse ? " Be tranquil and rest," is the answer of Dives, But contempt whitely foams upon Lazarus' lips " Content, when our brethren, dispersed, find a shelter In sepulchres, prisons, in workhouses, ships ! " They should live, they should breathe let the plunder- ing tyrants The spoils of the merciless Conquest restore ; IRELAND. 245 Or keep them, and then let the flag of the Pirate Flash its last gleam of flame on our desolate shore. Let us be as we are, and the Island uprising Shall spring to the height of her slumbering powers, Her sighs become music, her tears bright traditions, Her fetters one vesture and garland of flowers. Ah ! shame on repining ; thrice shamed the despondent ; If God in His mercy but baffle our fears, Shall not hope have the right to fruition resplendent, And fulfilment remain through the centuried years ? By the altars we cherish, the shrines consecrated With the martyr's, the poet's, the warrior's dust, Let us swear to forget the dark pageant of ages, Or, remembering it still, to look forward and trust. For the skies are upheaving, and flickers of daylight Are visible deep in their panoplied gloom, And the winds burst their paths from their caverns of silence Like trumpet blasts sounding the warning of doom. Rest, beautiful Mother ; rest Heiress of Ages ; There's a beat in thy pulse, and a throb on thy bier; Rest calmly and sweet, for the Day is approaching O Lady of Sorrows, Redemption is near. MY FIDDLE. ROOM of silent glee or instant laugh, Where one pure woman at the hearth presides, O better than the Aldabraca staff Which Heine scorns and Goethe's wit derides, Thou, too, hast many sides : Knick-knacks and pictures quaint imaginings Of friends at home or friendships cast abroad ; Souls severed by the slow, reluctant wings, Which, somehow, turn and find their way to God. There in the firelight hangs my fiddle dear, Nut-brown and blazoned with innumerous stain. This blotch ! it cost me an absolving tear You kissed it, dear the kiss is in the grain. Kiss it, and kiss it, darling, thrice again. When a poor lad I roamed with this beside Through hungry pathways of the hungry earth, I dreamt of you by shore and isle and tide, And through my sadness rang the fiddle's mirth. MY FIDDLE. 247 little instrument, Blent cedar, tendon, bent In such strange counterpoise of sigh and sound, Have you been ever to my Ireland true 1 Has ever from this red, unribboned throat Sounded a slavish note ? Or helped to close the lethargy which lies On Ireland's holy eyes 1 No, in our Nation's most despiteful pang, And when the warning rang Through all the empire, with unbated breath, " With Ireland, Peace, or Death," You, gallant fiddle, sent the loudest cry Back to that scream of startled infamy, You did your work, serenely, calm, and sure ; Rest there, and be secure. Perhaps at no far day, Some lad of mine shall say, Handling my pet with sweetest reverence : " There was a time, and day, The Old Man used to play, From all profundities of heart immense. Even in our hourly walk, He, dreaming, loved to talk To us of that compassionated Isle Bathed in dark azure of melodious seas, And all his soul was in the west awhile, And I was on his knees." It may, or may not be Lo ! there's the heaving sea, The wave that breaks into exceeding spray, The sullen wave which quits and fills the bay, Making green riot of a holiday, 248 POEMS. Flows on to Ireland. O my fiddle dear, Could you and I, this hour, Strengthened with magic pow'r, Leap the long headlands and tumultuous main, In the spent shadow of that aching foam, How good for you and me To feel at last the blessedness of Home. O darling, must it come ! Must thou hang weird and dumb Palsied to silence, while the head which drew No coward's inspiration from thy strings, No longer blesses the auroral dew, Nor the lark's flight, nor thrush's poising wings ! Reft of its natural green, Thy master's soul is seen, Boiled white in double compounds of routine : And that means peace. For blessed are the chimes Which tell of labour done, and toil rewarded Forgetfulness of tantalising rhymes, And sensitiveness, feeble, though two-sworded. O friend, come down to-day, We shall have full heart's play It is St Patrick's morning. Round thy head This Tipperary shamrock wreath I spread ; Knitting it with a curl from the soft hair Of her my darling who below those skies Preserves my mother's hair my mother's eyes, And that most perfect grace Which seemed to make a sweet, unmeasured space Between her and all women. Lo ! the night Is mottled with sunrising. Darkness faints Along the ever-growing rim of light God bless St Patrick and the Isle of Saints ! NOT DEAD. SOT death, not sleep, not yet the hectic beauty Of one whose hours are closing with the day ; Not the cold pallor, the reluctant eyelids, The hair, once golden, dashed with ashen grey, Are thine dear Island ; but the calm suspension, From the deep, vital fount of suffering drawn, Of passion, progress, effort, and achievement, Through the night agony that moves towards dawn. Sad Mother sitting in the mists of ages By oceans spuming to the sun and moon Sad Mother, tranced in ungradating twilight That keeps no promise of an eve or noon, The sea wind freshens thy eternal garland, The salt ooze perfumes thy delicious hair, And on the cheek where death had set its signet The rose of immortality blows fair. Thou art in exile, yet art present with us, As in the moonlight on a far-off sea The pilgrim skiff puts out to catch the lustre, But on, and on, it moves incessantly. 2$o POEMS. It pales, it perishes ; the silver surges Melt slowly into blackness one by one ; The pilot turns his helm, dejected, baffled, And, in his front upsprings the blood-red sun. And so with thee, Invisible Existence, Dreamiest of Phantoms, yet most true, Shape divinest that eludes our searches Pure fire, and spirit, as ascending dew. We hear thy voice, in solitary pauses, We see thy face but dark, as in a glass ; The odour of thy presence fills the mountains, The traces of thy vestment sweep the grass. How have they painted thee 1 A haggard beauty, One pearly elbow o'er a rent harp cast, Eyes, tear diffused, with multitudes of sorrows, And hair blown backward by the shrieking blast. The hills encircle thee, the sea's before thee ; And on the yeasty billows' shaking rim, Sole hope of thine, and of thy generations, One melancholy star shines low and dim. 1 have beheld thee, O transcendent vision : A greater glory rounded thy estate, Thine were not then the weeds of woman's sorrow, Nor the quenched lamp outside the thrice-barred gate ; The summer kindled in thy radiant tresses, The passion-flowers were heaped upon thy lap, Thy left hand held the shield thy right the sabre, And on thy temples sat the Phrygian Cap. A lovely majesty, a form imperial ! Grace in thy silence, music in thy step ! The ever vernal youth beneath thine eyelids, Fresh blood and beauty on the high-curved lip. NOT DEAD. 251 The clear, chill air grew golden to thy movement, The columned aisles of oaks bowed to thine head, And, maiden as thou art, the flinten mountains Shook, as a god had moved them, to thy tread. Ah, the wild background ! for there loomed behind thee The spectral shadow of the land that was Heaped ruin, chaos piled on tumbled chaos, The giant fragments of a beaten cause ; But not thy cause the cause of thine oppressor His temples' depths lay baking in the sun, The owls were harvesting within his prisons ; For thou had'st conquered, and his race was run. The painful vigil, the sublime persistence Prayers, tears, and sufferings had wrought their end ' Thou stood'st a victor crowned among the Nations, Angel of Peace, but armed to defend. The banner of our Race flew on the oceans, No more the trampled ensign of the Past ; Dense legions poured along the swollen highways, Or where the cities rose erect and vast. And from the People's hearts one thunderous paean Gathered and rolled along the skirts of night : " Praise to our God whose arm hath slain oppression, And given the battle to dishonoured Right." O waiting Ireland, 'twas thy shining future ! What recks it that thy past was foul and red, When on the calm and fulness of fruition, Heaven shall proclaim to earth : Thou art not dead ? RESURRECTION. LOW stream the long processions of the ages, And slowly ripen circumstance and fate, But the great world still works its revolutions, Making the future in the present wait. Banners struck down in long-forgotten battles, Principles that perished in old strife, Truths that have, ship-like, sunk on the horizon, Touched by the common law, arise to life. In the broad plan of providential being, God has decided no thing shall be lost, From the thin mist that dances on the mountain, To the white breaker reeling on the coast. They vanish, they dislimn, we lose their outlines, For as they seem to shine and move no more, Yet doth the vapour clothe another hilltop, The billows welter on another shore. Thus it is willed : existences that perish, As stars are blotted in the harvest storm, Live in their essences, and then returning, Put on fresh semblances of light and form. RESURRECTION. 253 Land of our hearts, receive the revelation In the mid-winter of thy tearful grief, Land of our souls, behold thy lot prefigured In the quick bursting of the Paschal leaf. Only a moon ago, the earth lay sleeping, Stiff were the icicles on brooks and fords ; To-day she wakes in joyful resurrection Amid the crystal welcomings of birds. The trees have blossom, and the highland twilights Are pierced with summer splendours, though the wing Of the wild swallow is still palpitating, With hues that are the benisons of spring. For thee, our sainted queen, and Island-mother, Be there no heralds of advancing change, No breath upon the waters, and in heaven No fiery portent mystically strange 1 Low art thou lying in the solemn midnight ; O'er the rank verdure of thy nameless grave The lichens thicken into words fantastic, The immemorial willows sigh and wave. Sole sepulchre amid the throbbing Nations, Fading tradition of a day sublime, Whose far-off glories glimmer, indistinctly, From the remotest boundaries of time. Thine were the purple and the gold of Sidon, Thy ships went flashing along desert seas ; Came the barbarians from o'ershadowed Europe, And, thirsting after knowledge, clasped thy knees. 254 POEMS. Great were thy kings, and manifold thy masters, The royal dower was the scholar's lore ; The temple leaped to heaven with crown of lightning, The precious galley laboured by the shore. Prophet and monarch, master and disciple, Pillar and pillared shrine alike are fled, And thou, once radiant as the radiant morning, Hast lot and heritage beside the dead. And is it death 1 Has death and its corruption Destroyed the majesty of thy pure face Hast thou lain down in sorrowful abasement Glad that the earth afforded hiding-place ? Whisper it not ! Never hath God defeated The hope that blossoms into sacred trust; In that low cell wherein thy head reposes Let no man seek for perishable dust. Thou wert a spirit, visible, immortal, Clothed in human panoply and might A spirit fugitive, beheld by sages Between the growing day and fading night. With living memories thy shrines are haunted, There come thy worshippers with prayers and vows, Not as to a bier, but to a bridal, With roses wreathed round rejoicing brows. And as thy children, goaded by oppression, Toil painfully by alien woods and streams, Ever they turn with the heart's deep allegiance To thee, the clouded Eden of their dreams. RESURRECTION. 255 What of thy cause by martyrs consecrated Has that, too, vanished like thy primal fame, A fierce, weird legend sliding down the ages A thing of mingled glory and of shame ? What of thy cause 1 Ah ! though the world reject thee, Holy it is to thine, to us, to ours The passionate yearning for the fires of freedom Blazing upon hilltops, towns, and towers. Exile has not quenched the aspiration, Though he who loves it dares the scoffer's scorn, And wears enwreathed in his crown heroic The bloody, bitter, and abiding thorn. Terror has not dimmed its fixed brightness, Though it and hourly suffering interlace ; Wherever scattered through the tribes and nations It follows like the shadow of our race. And in the solemn time of good appointment, Either in tumult, anarchy, or peace, The heavens shall bloom with harbingers of spring time, The blinding darkness of the night shall cease. It is reserved perhaps for later seasons Than we in our impatience comprehend; But, late or soon, the victory is promised If we but struggle bravely to the end Struggle, with learning, brain, and quick endeavour, By manly counsel, and inspiring word ; Or, challenged by the bugle-blast of battle, Lay not the craven's hand upon the sword. 256 POEMS. But full of faith and generous reliance, Remembering that freedom has its price ; Fight, if we must, through rolling ranks and carnage, Either to Liberty or to Paradise. Land of our hearts, receive the revelation, In the mid-winter of thy tearful grief ; Land of our souls, behold thy lot prefigured In the quick bursting of the Paschal leaf. COLSTON AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH. 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