Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy (great novels txt) π
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moss and heath-flowers dress'd, When now I hear the breeze that stirs The golden bells that deck the furze, Alas! unprized they pass away- 'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!
But when thou comest back once more, Though dark clouds hang and loud winds roar, And mists obscure the nearest hills, And dark and turbid roll the rills, Such pleasures then my breast shall know, That summer's sun shall round me glow; Then through the gloom shall gleam the May- 'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!
KATE OF KENMARE.
Oh! many bright eyes full of goodness and gladness,
Where the pure soul looks out, and the heart loves to shine, And many cheeks pale with the soft hue of sadness,
Have I worshipped in silence and felt them divine! But Hope in its gleamings, or Love in its dreamings,
Ne'er fashioned a being so faultless and fair As the lily-cheeked beauty, the rose of the Roughty,[12]
The fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare!
It was all but a moment, her radiant existence,
Her presence, her absence, all crowded on me; But time has not ages and earth has not distance
To sever, sweet vision, my spirit from thee! Again am I straying where children are playing,
Bright is the sunshine and balmy the air, Mountains are heathy, and there do I see thee,
Sweet fawn of the valley, young Kate of Kenmare!
Thine arbutus beareth full many a cluster
Of white waxen blossoms like lilies in air; But, oh! thy pale cheek hath a delicate lustre
No blossoms can rival, no lily doth wear; To that cheek softly flushing, thy lip brightly blushing,
Oh! what are the berries that bright tree doth bear? Peerless in beauty, that rose of the Roughty,
That fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare!
O Beauty! some spell from kind Nature thou bearest,
Some magic of tone or enchantment of eye, That hearts that are hardest, from forms that are fairest,
Receive such impressions as never can die! The foot of the fairy, though lightsome and airy,[13]
Can stamp on the hard rock the shapes it doth wear; Art cannot trace it, nor ages efface it:
And such are thy glances, sweet Kate of Kenmare!
To him who far travels how sad is the feeling,
How the light of his mind is o'ershadowed and dim, When the scenes he most loves, like a river's soft stealing,
All fade as a vision and vanish from him! Yet he bears from each far land a flower for that garland
That memory weaves of the bright and the fair; While this sigh I am breathing my garland is wreathing,
And the rose of that garland is Kate of Kenmare!
In lonely Lough Quinlan in summer's soft hours,
Fair islands are floating that move with the tide, Which, sterile at first, are soon covered with flowers,
And thus o'er the bright waters fairy-like glide. Thus the mind the most vacant is quickly awakened,
And the heart bears a harvest that late was so bare, Of him who in roving finds objects of loving,
Like the fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare!
Sweet Kate of Kenmare! though I ne'er may behold thee,
Though the pride and the joy of another thou be, Though strange lips may praise thee, and strange arms enfold thee,
A blessing, dear Kate, be on them and on thee! One feeling I cherish that never can perish-
One talisman proof to the dark wizard care- The fervent and dutiful love of the Beautiful,
Of which thou art a type, gentle Kate of Kenmare!
12. The river of Kenmare.
13. Near the town is the "Fairy Rock," on which the marks of several feet are deeply impressed. It derives its name from the popular belief that these are the work of fairies.
A LAMENT.
The dream is over, The vision has flown; Dead leaves are lying Where roses have blown; Wither'd and strown Are the hopes I cherished,- All hath perished But grief alone.
My heart was a garden Where fresh leaves grew Flowers there were many, And weeds a few; Cold winds blew, And the frosts came thither, For flowers will wither, And weeds renew!
Youth's bright palace Is overthrown, With its diamond sceptre And golden throne; As a time-worn stone Its turrets are humbled,- All hath crumbled But grief alone!
Wither, oh, whither, Have fled away The dreams and hopes Of my early day? Ruined and gray Are the towers I builded; And the beams that gilded- Ah! where are they?
Once this world Was fresh and bright, With its golden noon And its starry night; Glad and light, By mountain and river, Have I bless'd the Giver With hushed delight.
These were the days Of story and song, When Hope had a meaning And Faith was strong. "Life will be long, And lit with Love's gleamings;" Such were my dreamings, But, ah, how wrong!
Youth's illusions, One by one, Have passed like clouds That the sun looked on. While morning shone, How purple their fringes! How ashy their tinges When that was gone!
Darkness that cometh Ere morn has fled- Boughs that wither Ere fruits are shed- Death bells instead Of a bridal's pealings- Such are my feelings, Since Hope is dead!
Sad is the knowledge That cometh with years- Bitter the tree That is watered with tears; Truth appears, With his wise predictions, Then vanish the fictions Of boyhood's years.
As fire-flies fade When the nights are damp- As meteors are quenched In a stagnant swamp- Thus Charlemagne's camp, Where the Paladins rally, And the Diamond Valley, And Wonderful Lamp,
And all the wonders Of Ganges and Nile, And Haroun's rambles, And Crusoe's isle, And Princes who smile On the Genii's daughters 'Neath the Orient waters Full many a mile,
And all that the pen Of Fancy can write Must vanish In manhood's misty light- Squire and knight, And damosels' glances, Sunny romances So pure and bright!
These have vanished, And what remains?- Life's budding garlands Have turned to chains; Its beams and rains Feed but docks and thistles, And sorrow whistles O'er desert plains!
The dove will fly From a ruined nest, Love will not dwell In a troubled breast; The heart has no zest To sweeten life's dolour- If Love, the Consoler, Be not its guest!
The dream is over, The vision has flown; Dead leaves are lying Where roses have blown; Wither'd and strown Are the hopes I cherished,- All hath perished But grief alone!
THE BRIDAL OF THE YEAR.
Yes! the Summer is returning,
Warmer, brighter beams are burning
Golden mornings, purple evenings,
Come to glad the world once more.
Nature from her long sojourning
In the Winter-House of Mourning,
With the light of hope outpeeping,
From those eyes that late were weeping,
Cometh dancing o'er the waters
To our distant shore.
On the boughs the birds are singing,
Never idle,
For the bridal
Goes the frolic breeze a-ringing
All the green bells on the branches,
Which the soul of man doth hear;
Music-shaken,
It doth waken,
Half in hope, and half in fear, And dons its festal garments for the Bridal of the Year!
For the Year is sempiternal,
Never wintry, never vernal,
Still the same through all the changes
That our wondering eyes behold.
Spring is but his time of wooing-
Summer but the sweet renewing
Of the vows he utters yearly,
Ever fondly and sincerely,
To the young bride that he weddeth,
When to heaven departs the old,
For it is her fate to perish,
Having brought him,
In the Autumn,
Children for his heart to cherish.
Summer, like a human mother,
Dies in bringing forth her young;
Sorrow blinds him,
Winter finds him
Childless, too, their graves among, Till May returns once more, and the bridal hymns are sung.
Thrice the great Betroth'ed naming,
Thrice the mystic banns proclaiming,
February, March, and April,
Spread the tidings far and wide;
Thrice they questioned each new-comer,
"Know ye, why the sweet-faced Summer,
With her rich imperial dower,
Golden fruit and diamond flower,
And her pearly raindrop trinkets,
Should not be the green Earth's Bride?"
All things vocal spoke elated
(Nor the voiceless
Did rejoice less)-
"Be the heavenly lovers mated!"
All the many murmuring voices
Of the music-breathing Spring,
Young birds twittering,
Streamlets glittering,
Insects on transparent wing- All hailed the Summer nuptials of their King!
Now the rosy East gives warning,
'Tis the wished-for nuptial morning.
Sweetest truant from Elysium,
Golden morning of the May!
All the guests are in their places-
Lilies with pale, high-bred faces-
But when thou comest back once more, Though dark clouds hang and loud winds roar, And mists obscure the nearest hills, And dark and turbid roll the rills, Such pleasures then my breast shall know, That summer's sun shall round me glow; Then through the gloom shall gleam the May- 'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!
KATE OF KENMARE.
Oh! many bright eyes full of goodness and gladness,
Where the pure soul looks out, and the heart loves to shine, And many cheeks pale with the soft hue of sadness,
Have I worshipped in silence and felt them divine! But Hope in its gleamings, or Love in its dreamings,
Ne'er fashioned a being so faultless and fair As the lily-cheeked beauty, the rose of the Roughty,[12]
The fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare!
It was all but a moment, her radiant existence,
Her presence, her absence, all crowded on me; But time has not ages and earth has not distance
To sever, sweet vision, my spirit from thee! Again am I straying where children are playing,
Bright is the sunshine and balmy the air, Mountains are heathy, and there do I see thee,
Sweet fawn of the valley, young Kate of Kenmare!
Thine arbutus beareth full many a cluster
Of white waxen blossoms like lilies in air; But, oh! thy pale cheek hath a delicate lustre
No blossoms can rival, no lily doth wear; To that cheek softly flushing, thy lip brightly blushing,
Oh! what are the berries that bright tree doth bear? Peerless in beauty, that rose of the Roughty,
That fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare!
O Beauty! some spell from kind Nature thou bearest,
Some magic of tone or enchantment of eye, That hearts that are hardest, from forms that are fairest,
Receive such impressions as never can die! The foot of the fairy, though lightsome and airy,[13]
Can stamp on the hard rock the shapes it doth wear; Art cannot trace it, nor ages efface it:
And such are thy glances, sweet Kate of Kenmare!
To him who far travels how sad is the feeling,
How the light of his mind is o'ershadowed and dim, When the scenes he most loves, like a river's soft stealing,
All fade as a vision and vanish from him! Yet he bears from each far land a flower for that garland
That memory weaves of the bright and the fair; While this sigh I am breathing my garland is wreathing,
And the rose of that garland is Kate of Kenmare!
In lonely Lough Quinlan in summer's soft hours,
Fair islands are floating that move with the tide, Which, sterile at first, are soon covered with flowers,
And thus o'er the bright waters fairy-like glide. Thus the mind the most vacant is quickly awakened,
And the heart bears a harvest that late was so bare, Of him who in roving finds objects of loving,
Like the fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare!
Sweet Kate of Kenmare! though I ne'er may behold thee,
Though the pride and the joy of another thou be, Though strange lips may praise thee, and strange arms enfold thee,
A blessing, dear Kate, be on them and on thee! One feeling I cherish that never can perish-
One talisman proof to the dark wizard care- The fervent and dutiful love of the Beautiful,
Of which thou art a type, gentle Kate of Kenmare!
12. The river of Kenmare.
13. Near the town is the "Fairy Rock," on which the marks of several feet are deeply impressed. It derives its name from the popular belief that these are the work of fairies.
A LAMENT.
The dream is over, The vision has flown; Dead leaves are lying Where roses have blown; Wither'd and strown Are the hopes I cherished,- All hath perished But grief alone.
My heart was a garden Where fresh leaves grew Flowers there were many, And weeds a few; Cold winds blew, And the frosts came thither, For flowers will wither, And weeds renew!
Youth's bright palace Is overthrown, With its diamond sceptre And golden throne; As a time-worn stone Its turrets are humbled,- All hath crumbled But grief alone!
Wither, oh, whither, Have fled away The dreams and hopes Of my early day? Ruined and gray Are the towers I builded; And the beams that gilded- Ah! where are they?
Once this world Was fresh and bright, With its golden noon And its starry night; Glad and light, By mountain and river, Have I bless'd the Giver With hushed delight.
These were the days Of story and song, When Hope had a meaning And Faith was strong. "Life will be long, And lit with Love's gleamings;" Such were my dreamings, But, ah, how wrong!
Youth's illusions, One by one, Have passed like clouds That the sun looked on. While morning shone, How purple their fringes! How ashy their tinges When that was gone!
Darkness that cometh Ere morn has fled- Boughs that wither Ere fruits are shed- Death bells instead Of a bridal's pealings- Such are my feelings, Since Hope is dead!
Sad is the knowledge That cometh with years- Bitter the tree That is watered with tears; Truth appears, With his wise predictions, Then vanish the fictions Of boyhood's years.
As fire-flies fade When the nights are damp- As meteors are quenched In a stagnant swamp- Thus Charlemagne's camp, Where the Paladins rally, And the Diamond Valley, And Wonderful Lamp,
And all the wonders Of Ganges and Nile, And Haroun's rambles, And Crusoe's isle, And Princes who smile On the Genii's daughters 'Neath the Orient waters Full many a mile,
And all that the pen Of Fancy can write Must vanish In manhood's misty light- Squire and knight, And damosels' glances, Sunny romances So pure and bright!
These have vanished, And what remains?- Life's budding garlands Have turned to chains; Its beams and rains Feed but docks and thistles, And sorrow whistles O'er desert plains!
The dove will fly From a ruined nest, Love will not dwell In a troubled breast; The heart has no zest To sweeten life's dolour- If Love, the Consoler, Be not its guest!
The dream is over, The vision has flown; Dead leaves are lying Where roses have blown; Wither'd and strown Are the hopes I cherished,- All hath perished But grief alone!
THE BRIDAL OF THE YEAR.
Yes! the Summer is returning,
Warmer, brighter beams are burning
Golden mornings, purple evenings,
Come to glad the world once more.
Nature from her long sojourning
In the Winter-House of Mourning,
With the light of hope outpeeping,
From those eyes that late were weeping,
Cometh dancing o'er the waters
To our distant shore.
On the boughs the birds are singing,
Never idle,
For the bridal
Goes the frolic breeze a-ringing
All the green bells on the branches,
Which the soul of man doth hear;
Music-shaken,
It doth waken,
Half in hope, and half in fear, And dons its festal garments for the Bridal of the Year!
For the Year is sempiternal,
Never wintry, never vernal,
Still the same through all the changes
That our wondering eyes behold.
Spring is but his time of wooing-
Summer but the sweet renewing
Of the vows he utters yearly,
Ever fondly and sincerely,
To the young bride that he weddeth,
When to heaven departs the old,
For it is her fate to perish,
Having brought him,
In the Autumn,
Children for his heart to cherish.
Summer, like a human mother,
Dies in bringing forth her young;
Sorrow blinds him,
Winter finds him
Childless, too, their graves among, Till May returns once more, and the bridal hymns are sung.
Thrice the great Betroth'ed naming,
Thrice the mystic banns proclaiming,
February, March, and April,
Spread the tidings far and wide;
Thrice they questioned each new-comer,
"Know ye, why the sweet-faced Summer,
With her rich imperial dower,
Golden fruit and diamond flower,
And her pearly raindrop trinkets,
Should not be the green Earth's Bride?"
All things vocal spoke elated
(Nor the voiceless
Did rejoice less)-
"Be the heavenly lovers mated!"
All the many murmuring voices
Of the music-breathing Spring,
Young birds twittering,
Streamlets glittering,
Insects on transparent wing- All hailed the Summer nuptials of their King!
Now the rosy East gives warning,
'Tis the wished-for nuptial morning.
Sweetest truant from Elysium,
Golden morning of the May!
All the guests are in their places-
Lilies with pale, high-bred faces-
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