Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy (great novels txt) 📕

the dark, sullen smithy, striketh quick on the anvil
below, Thus Fate on the heart of the old man struck rapidly blow after blow: Wife, children, and hope passed away from the heart once so burning and
bold, As the bright shining sparks disappear when the red glowing metal grows
cold. He missed not the sound of his bells while those death-sounds struck
loud in the ears, He missed not the church where they rang while his old eyes were blinded
with tears; But the calmness of grief coming soon, in its sadness and silence
profound, He listened once more as of old, but in vain, for the joy-bearing sound.

When he felt indeed they had vanished, one fancy then flashed on his
brain, One wish made his heart beat anew with a throbbing it could not
restrain- 'Twas to wander away from fair Florence, its memory and dream-haunted
dells, And to seek up and down through the earth for the sound of its magical
bells. They will speak of the hopes that have perished, and the joys that have
faded so fast With the music of memory wing`ed, they will seem but the voice of the
past; As, when the bright morning has vanished, and evening grows starless and
dark, The nightingale song of remembrance recalls the sweet strain of the
lark.

Thus restlessly wandering through Italy, now by the Adrian sea, In the shrine of Loreto, he bendeth his travel-tired suppliant knee; And now by the brown troubled Tiber he taketh his desolate way, And in many a shady basilica lingers to listen and pray. He prays for the dear ones snatched from him, nor vainly nor hopelessly
prays, For the strong faith in union hereafter like a beam o'er his cold bosom
plays; He listens at morning and evening, when matin and vesper bells toll, But their sweetest sounds grate on his ear, and their music is harsh to
his soul.

For though sweet are the bells that ring out from the tall campanili of
Rome, Ah! they are not the dearer and sweeter ones, tuned with the memory of
home. So leaving proud Rome and fair Tivoli, southward the old man must stray, 'Till he reaches the Eden of waters that sparkle in Napoli's bay: He sees not the blue waves of Baiae, nor Ischia's summits of brown, He sees but the high campanili that rise o'er each far-gleaming town. Driven restlessly onward, he saileth away to the bright land of Spain, And seeketh thy shrine, Santiago, and stands by the western main.

A bark bound for Erin lay waiting, he entered like one in a dream; Fair winds in the full purple sails led him soon to the Shannon's broad
stream. 'Twas an evening that Florence might envy, so rich was the lemon-hued
air, As it lay on lone Scattery's island, or lit the green mountains of
Clare; The wide-spreading old giant river rolled his waters as smooth and as
still As if Oonagh, with all her bright nymphs, had come down from the far
fairy hill,[98] To fling her enchantments around on the mountains, the air, and the
tide, And to soothe the worn heart of the old man who looked from the dark
vessel's side.

Borne on the current the vessel glides smoothly but swiftly away, By Carrigaholt, and by many a green sloping headland and bay, 'Twixt Cratloe's blue hills and green woods, and the soft sunny shores
of Tervoe, And now the fair city of Limerick spreads out on the broad bank below; Still nearer and nearer approaching, the mariners look o'er the town, The old man sees nought but St. Mary's square tower, with its
battlements brown. He listens-as yet all is silent, but now, with a sudden surprise, A rich peal of melody rings from that tower through the clear evening
skies!

One note is enough-his eye moistens, his heart, long so wither'd,
outswells, He has found them-the sons of his labours-his musical, magical bells! At each stroke all the bright past returneth, around him the sweet Arno
shines, His children-his darling Francesca-his purple-clad trellis of vines! Leaning forward, he listens, he gazes, he hears in that wonderful strain The long-silent voices that murmur, "Oh, leave us not, father again!" 'Tis granted-he smiles-his eye closes-the breath from his white lips
hath fled- The father has gone to his children-the old Campanaro is dead!


94. The hills of Else. See Appendix to O'Daly's "History of the Geraldines," translated by the Rev. C. P. Meehan, p. 130.

95. Bell-founder.

96. The country of youth; the Elysium of the Pagan Irish.

97. Camden seems to credit a tradition commonly believed in his time, of a gradual increase in the number and size of the lakes and rivers of Ireland.

98. The beautiful hill in Lower Ormond called "Knockshegowna," i.e., Oonagh's Hill, so called from being the fabled residence of Oonagh (or Una), the Fairy Queen of Spenser. One of the finest views of the Shannon is to be seen from this hill.


ALICE AND UNA. A TALE OF CEIM-AN-EICH.[99]

Ah! the pleasant time hath vanished, ere our wretched doubtings
banished, All the graceful spirit-people, children of the earth and sea, Whom in days now dim and olden, when the world was fresh and golden, Every mortal could behold in haunted rath, and tower, and tree- They have vanished, they are banished-ah! how sad the loss for thee,
Lonely Ceim-an-eich!

Still some scenes are yet enchanted by the charms that Nature granted, Still are peopled, still are haunted, by a graceful spirit band. Peace and beauty have their dwelling where the infant streams are
welling, Where the mournful waves are knelling on Glengariff's coral strand; Or where, on Killarney's mountains, Grace and Terror smiling stand,
Like sisters, hand in hand!

Still we have a new romance in fire-ships through the tamed sea
glancing, And the snorting and the prancing of the mighty engine steed; Still, Astolpho-like, we wander through the boundless azure yonder, Realizing what seemed fonder than the magic tales we read: Tales of wild Arabian wonder, where the fancy all is freed-
Wilder far indeed!

Now that Earth once more hath woken, and the trance of Time is broken, And the sweet word-Hope-is spoken, soft and sure, though none know
how, Could we, could we only see all these, the glories of the Real, Blended with the lost Ideal, happy were the old world now- Woman in its fond believing-man with iron arm and brow-
Faith and work its vow!

Yes! the Past shines clear and pleasant, and there's glory in the
Present; And the Future, like a crescent, lights the deepening sky of Time; And that sky will yet grow brighter, if the Worker and the Writer- If the Sceptre and the Mitre join in sacred bonds sublime. With two glories shining o'er them, up the coming years they'll climb,
Earth's great evening as its prime!

With a sigh for what is fading, but, O Earth! with no upbraiding, For we feel that time is braiding newer, fresher flowers for thee, We will speak, despite our grieving, words of loving and believing, Tales we vowed when we were leaving awful Ceim-an-eich, Where the sever'd rocks resemble fragments of a frozen sea,
And the wild deer flee!

'Tis the hour when flowers are shrinking, when the weary sun is sinking, And his thirsty steeds are drinking in the cooling western sea; When young Maurice lightly goeth, where the tiny streamlet floweth And the struggling moonlight showeth where his path must be- Path whereon the wild goats wander fearlessly and free
Through dark Ceim-an-eich.

As a hunter, danger daring, with his dogs the brown moss sharing, Little thinking, little caring, long a wayward youth lived he; But his bounding heart was regal, and he looked as looks the eagle, And he flew as flies the beagle, who the panting stag doth see: Love, who spares a fellow-archer, long had let him wander free
Through wild Ceim-an-eich!

But at length the hour drew nigher when his heart should feel that fire; Up the mountain high and higher had he hunted from the dawn; Till the weeping fawn descended, where the earth and ocean blended, And with hope its slow way wended to a little grassy lawn; It is safe, for gentle Alice to her saving breast hath drawn
Her almost sister fawn.

Alice was a chieftain's daughter, and, though many suitors sought her, She so loved Glengariff's water that she let her lovers pine; Her eye was beauty's palace, and her cheek an ivory chalice, Through which the blood of Alice gleamed soft as rosiest wine, And her lips like lusmore blossoms which the fairies intertwine,[100]
And her heart a golden mine.

She was gentler and shyer than the light fawn that stood by her, And her eyes emit a fire soft and tender as her soul; Love's dewy light doth drown her, and the braided locks that crown her Than autumn's trees are browner, when the golden shadows roll Through the forests in the evening, when cathedral turrets toll,
And the purple sun advanceth to its goal.

Her cottage was a dwelling all regal homes excelling, But, ah! beyond the telling was the beauty round it spread: The wave and sunshine playing, like sisters each arraying, Far down the sea-plants swaying upon their coral bed, As languid as the tresses on a sleeping maiden's head,
When the summer breeze is dead.

Need we say that Maurice loved her, and that no blush reproved her When her throbbing bosom moved her to give the heart she gave; That by dawnlight and by twilight, and, O blessed moon! by thy light, When the twinkling stars on high light the wanderer o'er the wave, His steps unconscious led him where Glengariff's waters lave
Each mossy bank and cave.

He thitherward is wending, o'er the vale is night descending, Quick his step, but quicker sending his herald thoughts before; By rocks and streams before him, proud and hopeful on he bore him; One star was shining o'er him-in his heart of hearts two more- And two other eyes, far brighter than a human head e'er wore,
Unseen were shining o'er.

These eyes are not of woman, no brightness merely human Could, planet-like, illumine the place in which they shone; But Nature's bright works vary-there are beings light and airy, Whom mortal lips call fairy, and Una she is one- Sweet sisters of the moonbeams and daughters of the sun,
Who along the curling cool waves run.

As summer lightning dances amid the heavens' expanses, Thus