Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy (great novels txt) 📕

soaring gannet, perched upon my mast,
And the proud bird, that flies but o'er the sea, Wheeled o'er my head: and the girrinna passed
Upon the branch of some life-giving tree.[56]

Leaving the awful cliffs of Corcomroe,
I sought the rocky eastern isle, that bears The name of blessed Coemhan, who doth show
Pity unto the storm-tossed seaman's prayers; Then crossing Bealach-na-fearbach's treacherous sound,
I reached the middle isle, whose citadel Looks like a monarch from its throne around;
And there I rested by St. Kennerg's well.

Again I sailed, and crossed the stormy sound
That lies beneath Binn-Aite's rocky height- And there, upon the shore, the Saint I found
Waiting my coming though the tardy night. He led me to his home beside the wave,
Where, with his monks, the pious father dwelled, And to my listening ear he freely gave
The sacred knowledge that his bosom held.

When I proclaimed the project that I nursed,
How 'twas for this that I his blessing sought, An irrepressible cry of joy outburst
From his pure lips, that blessed me for the thought. He said that he, too, had in visions strayed
Over the untracked ocean's billowy foam; Bid me have hope, that God would give me aid,
And bring me safe back to my native home.

Oft, as we paced that marble-covered land,
Would blessed Enda tell me wondrous tales- How, for the children of his love, the hand
Of the Omnipotent Father never fails- How his own sister,[57] standing by the side
Of the great sea, which bore no human bark, Spread her light cloak upon the conscious tide,
And sailed thereon securely as an ark.

And how the winds become the willing slaves
Of those who labour in the work of God; And how Scothinus walked upon the waves,
Which seemed to him the meadow's verdant sod. How he himself came hither with his flock,
To teach the infidels from Corcomroe, Upon the floating breast of the hard rock,
Which lay upon the glistening sands below.

But not alone of miracles and joys
Would Enda speak-he told me of his dream; When blessed Kieran went to Clonmacnois,
To found the sacred churches by the stream- How he did weep to see the angels flee
Away from Arran as a place accursed; And men tear up the island-shading tree,
Out of the soil from which it sprung at first.

At length I tore me from the good man's sight,
And o'er Loch Lurgan's mouth[58] took my lone way, Which, in the sunny morning's golden light,
Shone like the burning lake of Lassarae; Now 'neath heaven's frown-and now, beneath its smile-
Borne on the tide, or driven before the gale; And, as I passed MacDara's sacred Isle,
Thrice bowed my mast, and thrice let down my sail.

Westward of Arran as I sailed away;
I saw the fairest sight eye can behold- Rocks which, illumined by the morning's ray,
Seemed like a glorious city built of gold. Men moved along each sunny shining street,
Fires seemed to blaze, and curling smoke to rise, When lo! the city vanished, and a fleet,
With snowy sails, rose on my ravished eyes.

Thus having sought for knowledge and for strength,
For the unheard-of voyage that I planned, I left these myriad isles, and turned at length
Southward my bark, and sought my native land. There made I all things ready, day by day,
The wicker-boat, with ox-skins covered o'er- Chose the good monks companions of my way,
And waited for the wind to leave the shore.


THE VOYAGE.

At length the long-expected morning came,
When from the opening arms of that wild bay, Beneath the hill that bears my humble name,
Over the waves we took our untracked way; Sweetly the morning lay on tarn and rill,
Gladly the waves played in its golden light, And the proud top of the majestic hill
Shone in the azure air, serene and bright.

Over the sea we flew that sunny morn,
Not without natural tears and human sighs: For who can leave the land where he was born,
And where, perchance, a buried mother lies; Where all the friends of riper manhood dwell,
And where the playmates of his childhood sleep: Who can depart, and breathe a cold farewell,
Nor let his eyes their honest tribute weep?

Our little bark, kissing the dimpled smiles
On ocean's cheek, flew like a wanton bird, And then the land, with all its hundred isles,
Faded away, and yet we spoke no word. Each silent tongue held converse with the past,
Each moistened eye looked round the circling wave, And, save the spot where stood our trembling mast,
Saw all things hid within one mighty grave.

We were alone, on the wide watery waste-
Nought broke its bright monotony of blue, Save where the breeze the flying billows chased,
Or where the clouds their purple shadows threw. We were alone-the pilgrims of the sea-
One boundless azure desert round us spread; No hope, no trust, no strength, except in THEE,
Father, who once the pilgrim-people led.

And when the bright-faced sun resigned his throne
Unto the Ethiop queen, who rules the night, Who with her pearly crown and starry zone,
Fills the dark dome of heaven with silvery light;- As on we sailed, beneath her milder sway,
And felt within our hearts her holier power, We ceased from toil, and humbly knelt to pray,
And hailed with vesper hymns the tranquil hour!

For then, indeed, the vaulted heavens appeared
A fitting shrine to hear their Maker's praise, Such as no human architect has reared,
Where gems, and gold, and precious marbles blaze. What earthly temple such a roof can boast?-
What flickering lamp with the rich starlight vies, When the round moon rests, like the sacred Host,
Upon the azure altar of the skies?

We breathed aloud the Christian's filial prayer,
Which makes us brothers even with the Lord; Our Father, cried we, in the midnight air,
In heaven and earth be thy great name adored; May thy bright kingdom, where the angels are,
Replace this fleeting world, so dark and dim. And then, with eyes fixed on some glorious star,
We sang the Virgin-Mother's vesper hymn!

Hail, brightest star! that o'er life's troubled sea
Shines pitying down from heaven's elysian blue! Mother and Maid, we fondly look to thee,
Fair gate of bliss, where heaven beams brightly through. Star of the morning! guide our youthful days,
Shine on our infant steps in life's long race, Star of the evening! with thy tranquil rays,
Gladden the aged eyes that seek thy face.

Hail, sacred Maid! thou brighter, better Eve,
Take from our eyes the blinding scales of sin; Within our hearts no selfish poison leave,
For thou the heavenly antidote canst win. O sacred Mother! 'tis to thee we run-
Poor children, from this world's oppressive strife; Ask all we need from thy immortal Son,
Who drank of death, that we might taste of life.

Hail, spotless Virgin! mildest, meekest maid-
Hail! purest Pearl that time's great sea hath borne- May our white souls, in purity arrayed,
Shine, as if they thy vestal robes had worn; Make our hearts pure, as thou thyself art pure,
Make safe the rugged pathway of our lives, And make us pass to joys that will endure
When the dark term of mortal life arrives.[59]

'Twas thus, in hymns, and prayers, and holy psalms,
Day tracking day, and night succeeding night, Now driven by tempests, now delayed by calms,
Along the sea we winged our varied flight. Oh! how we longed and pined for sight of land!
Oh! how we sighed for the green pleasant fields! Compared with the cold waves, the barest strand-
The bleakest rock-a crop of comfort yields.

Sometimes, indeed, when the exhausted gale,
In search of rest, beneath the waves would flee, Like some poor wretch who, when his strength doth fail,
Sinks in the smooth and unsupporting sea: Then would the Brothers draw from memory's store
Some chapter of life's misery or bliss, Some trial that some saintly spirit bore,
Or else some tale of passion, such as this:


THE BURIED CITY.

[The peasants who live near the mouth of the Shannon point to a part of the river within the headlands over which the tides rush with extraordinary rapidity and violence. They say it is the site of a lost city, long buried beneath the waves.-See Hall's "Ireland," vol. iii. p. 436.]

Beside that giant stream that foams and swells
Betwixt Hy-Conaill and Moyarta's shore, And guards the isle where good Senanus dwells,
A gentle maiden dwelt in days of yore. She long has passed out of Time's aching womb,
And breathes Eternity's favonian air; Yet fond Tradition lingers o'er her tomb,
And paints her glorious features as they were:-

Her smile was Eden's pure and stainless light,
Which never cloud nor earthly vapour mars; Her lustrous eyes were like the noon of night-
Black, but yet brightened by a thousand stars; Her tender form, moulded in modest grace,
Shrank from the gazer's eye, and moved apart; Heaven shone reflected in her angel face,
And God reposed within her virgin heart.

She dwelt in green Moyarta's pleasant land,
Beneath the graceful hills of Clonderlaw,- Sweet sunny hills, whose triple summits stand,
One vast tiara over stream and shaw. Almost in solitude the maiden grew,
And reached her early budding woman's prime; And all so noiselessly the swift time flew,
She knew not of the name or flight of Time.

And thus, within her modest mountain nest,
This gentle maiden nestled like a dove, Offering to God from her pure innocent breast
The sweet and silent incense of her love. No selfish feeling nor presumptuous pride
In her calm bosom waged unnatural strife; Saint of her home and hearth, she sanctified
The thousand trivial common cares of life.

Upon the opposite shore there dwelt a youth,
Whose nature's woof was woven of good and ill- Whose stream of life flowed to the sea of truth,
But in a devious course, round many a hill- Now lingering through a valley of delight,
Where sweet flowers bloomed, and summer songbirds sung, Now hurled along the dark, tempestuous night,
With gloomy, treeless mountains overhung.

He sought the soul of Beauty throughout space,
Knowledge he tracked through many a vanished age: For one he scanned fair Nature's radiant face,
And for the other, Learning's shrivelled page. If Beauty sent some fair apostle down,