Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy (great novels txt) π
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should fly when I would fain have clung.
Yet so it is,-our radiant course is run;-
Here we must part, the deathless lay unsung, And, more than all, the deathless deed undone.
RECOLLECTIONS.
Ah! summer time, sweet summer scene,
When all the golden days,
Linked hand-in-hand, like moonlit fays, Danced o'er the deepening green.
When, from the top of Pelier[111] down
We saw the sun descend,
With smiles that blessings seemed to send To our near native town.
And when we saw him rise again
High o'er the hills at morn-
God's glorious prophet daily born To preach good will to men-
Good-will and peace to all between
The gates of night and day-
Join with me, love, and with me say- Sweet summer time and scene.
Sweet summer time, true age of gold,
When hand-in-hand we went
Slow by the quickening shrubs, intent To see the buds unfold:
To trace new wild flowers in the grass,
New blossoms on the bough,
And see the water-lilies now Rise o'er the liquid glass.
When from the fond and folding gale
The scented briar I pulled,
Or for thy kindred bosom culled The lily of the vale;-
Thou without whom were dark the green,
The golden turned to gray,
Join with me, love, and with me say- Sweet summer time and scene.
Sweet summer time, delight's brief reign,
Thou hast one memory still,
Dearer than ever tree or hill Yet stretched along life's plain.
Stranger than all the wond'rous whole,
Flowers, fields, and sunset skies-
To see within our infant's eyes The awakening of the soul.
To see their dear bright depths first stirred
By the far breath of thought,
To feel our trembling hearts o'erfraught With rapture when we heard
Her first clear laugh, which might have been
A cherub's laugh at play-
Ah! love, thou canst but join and say- Sweet summer time and scene.
Sweet summer time, sweet summer days,
One day I must recall;
One day the brightest of them all, Must mark with special praise.
'Twas when at length in genial showers
The spring attained its close;
And June with many a myriad rose Incarnadined the bowers:
Led by the bright and sun-warm air,
We left our indoor nooks;
Thou with my paper and my books, And I thy garden chair;
Crossed the broad, level garden-walks,
With countless roses lined;
And where the apple still inclined Its blossoms o'er the box,
Near to the lilacs round the pond,
In its stone ring hard by
We took our seats, where save the sky, And the few forest trees beyond
The garden wall, we nothing saw,
But flowers and blossoms, and we heard
Nought but the whirring of some bird, Or the rooks' distant, clamorous caw.
And in the shade we saw the face
Of our dear infant sleeping near,
And thou wert by to smile and hear, And speak with innate truth and grace.
There through the pleasant noontide hours
My task of echoed song I sung;
Turning the golden southern tongue Into the iron ore of ours!
'Twas the great Spanish master's pride,
The story of the hero proved;
'Twas how the Moorish princess loved, And how the firm Fernando died.[112]
O happiest season ever seen,
O day, indeed the happiest day;
Join with me, love, and with me say- Sweet summer time and scene.
One picture more before I close
Fond Memory's fast dissolving views;
One picture more before I lose The radiant outlines as they rose.
'Tis evening, and we leave the porch,
And for the hundredth time admire
The rhododendron's cones of fire Rise round the tree, like torch o'er torch.
And for the hundredth time point out
Each favourite blossom and perfume-
If the white lilac still doth bloom, Or the pink hawthorn fadeth out:
And by the laurell'd wall, and o'er
The fields of young green corn we've gone;
And by the outer gate, and on To our dear friend's oft-trodden door.
And there in cheerful talk we stay,
Till deepening twilight warns us home;
Then once again we backward roam Calmly and slow the well-known way-
And linger for the expected view-
Day's dying gleam upon the hill;
Or listen for the whip-poor-will,[113] Or the too seldom shy cuckoo.
At home the historic page we glean,
And muse, and hope, and praise, and pray-
Join with me, love, as then, and say- Sweet summer time and scene!
111. Mount Pelier, in the county of Dublin, overlooking Rathfarnham, and more remotely Dundrum. To a brief residence near the latter village the "Recollections" rendered in this poem are to be referred.
112. Calderon's "El Principe Constante," translated in the earlier volumes of the author's Calderon. London, 1853.
113. I do not know the bird to which I have given this Indian name. It, however, imitated its note quite distinctly.
DOLORES.
The moon of my soul is dark, Dolores,
Dead and dark in my breast it lies, For I miss the heaven of thy smile, Dolores,
And the light of thy brown bright eyes.
The rose of my heart is gone, Dolores,
Bud or blossom in vain I seek; For I miss the breath of thy lip, Dolores,
And the blush of thy pearl-pale cheek.
The pulse of my heart is still, Dolores,
Still and chill is its glowing tide; For I miss the beating of thine, Dolores,
In the vacant space by my side.
But the moon shall revisit my soul, Dolores,
And the rose shall refresh my heart, When I meet thee again in heaven, Dolores,
Never again to part.
LOST AND FOUND.
"Whither art thou gone, fair Una?
Una fair, the moon is gleaming; Fear no mortal eye, fair Una,
For the very flowers are dreaming. And the twinkling stars are closing
Up their weary watching glances, Warders on heaven's walls reposing,
While the glittering foe advances.
"Una dear, my heart is throbbing,
Full of throbbings without number; Come! the tired-out streams are sobbing
Like to children ere they slumber; And the longing trees inclining,
Seek the earth's too distant bosom; Sad fate! that keeps from intertwining
The earthly and the aerial blossom.
"Una dear, I've roamed the mountain,
Round the furze and o'er the heather; Una, dear, I've sought the fountain
Where we rested oft together; Ah! the mountain now looks dreary,
Dead and dark where no life liveth; Ah! the fountain, to the weary,
Now, no more refreshment giveth.
"Una, darling, dearest daughter
Beauty ever gave to Fancy, Spirit of the silver water,
Nymph of Nature's necromancy! Fair enchantress, fond magician,
Is thine every spell-word spoken? Hast thou closed thy fairy mission?
Is thy potent wand then broken?
"Una dearest, deign to hear me,
Fly no more my prayer resisting!" Then a trembling voice came near me,
Like a maiden to the trysting, Like a maiden's feet approaching
Where the lover doth attend her; Half-forgiving, half-reproaching,
Came that voice so shy and tender.
"Must I blame thee, must I chide thee,
Change to scorn the love I bore thee? And the fondest heart beside thee,
And the truest eyes before thee. And the kindest hands to press thee,
And the instinctive sense to guide thee, And the purest lips to bless thee,
What, O dreamer! is denied thee?
"Hast thou not the full fruition,
Hast thou not the full enjoyance Of thy young heart's fond ambition,
Free from every feared annoyance Thou hast sighed for truth and beauty,
Hast thou failed, then, in thy wooing? Dreamed of some ideal duty,
Is there nought that waits thy doing?-
"Is the world less bright or beauteous,
That dear eyes behold it with thee? Is the work of life less duteous,
That thou art helped to do it, prithee? Is the near rapture non-existent,
Because thou dreamest an ideal? And canst thou for a glimmering distant
Forget the blessings of the real?
"Down on thy knees, O doubting dreamer!
Down! and repent thy heart's misprision." Scarce had I knelt in tears and tremor,
When the scales fell from off my vision. There stood my human guardian angel,
Given me by God's benign foreseeing, While from her lips came life's evangel,
"Live! that each day complete thy being!"
SPRING FLOWERS FROM IRELAND.
On receiving an early crocus and some violets in a letter from Ireland.
Within the letter's rustling fold
I find once more a glad surprise- A little tiny cup of gold-
Two little lovely violet eyes; A cup of gold with emeralds set,
Once filled with wine from happier spheres; Two little eyes so lately wet
With spring's delicious dewy tears.
Oh! little eyes that wept and laughed,
Now bright with smiles, with tears now dim, Oh! little cup that once was quaffed
By fay-queens fluttering round thy rim. I press each silken fringe's fold,
Sweet little eyes once more ye shine; I kiss thy lip, oh, cup of gold,
And find thee full of Memory's wine.
Within their violet depths I gaze,
And see as in the camera's gloom, The island with its belt of bays,
Its chieftained heights all capped with broom, Which as the living lens it fills,
Now seems a giant charmed to sleep- Now a broad shield embossed with hills
Upon the bosom of the deep.
When will the slumbering giant wake?
When will the shield defend and guard? Ah, me! prophetic gleams forsake
The once rapt eyes of seer or bard. Enough, if shunning Samson's fate,
It doth not all its vigour yield; Enough, if plenteous peace, though
Yet so it is,-our radiant course is run;-
Here we must part, the deathless lay unsung, And, more than all, the deathless deed undone.
RECOLLECTIONS.
Ah! summer time, sweet summer scene,
When all the golden days,
Linked hand-in-hand, like moonlit fays, Danced o'er the deepening green.
When, from the top of Pelier[111] down
We saw the sun descend,
With smiles that blessings seemed to send To our near native town.
And when we saw him rise again
High o'er the hills at morn-
God's glorious prophet daily born To preach good will to men-
Good-will and peace to all between
The gates of night and day-
Join with me, love, and with me say- Sweet summer time and scene.
Sweet summer time, true age of gold,
When hand-in-hand we went
Slow by the quickening shrubs, intent To see the buds unfold:
To trace new wild flowers in the grass,
New blossoms on the bough,
And see the water-lilies now Rise o'er the liquid glass.
When from the fond and folding gale
The scented briar I pulled,
Or for thy kindred bosom culled The lily of the vale;-
Thou without whom were dark the green,
The golden turned to gray,
Join with me, love, and with me say- Sweet summer time and scene.
Sweet summer time, delight's brief reign,
Thou hast one memory still,
Dearer than ever tree or hill Yet stretched along life's plain.
Stranger than all the wond'rous whole,
Flowers, fields, and sunset skies-
To see within our infant's eyes The awakening of the soul.
To see their dear bright depths first stirred
By the far breath of thought,
To feel our trembling hearts o'erfraught With rapture when we heard
Her first clear laugh, which might have been
A cherub's laugh at play-
Ah! love, thou canst but join and say- Sweet summer time and scene.
Sweet summer time, sweet summer days,
One day I must recall;
One day the brightest of them all, Must mark with special praise.
'Twas when at length in genial showers
The spring attained its close;
And June with many a myriad rose Incarnadined the bowers:
Led by the bright and sun-warm air,
We left our indoor nooks;
Thou with my paper and my books, And I thy garden chair;
Crossed the broad, level garden-walks,
With countless roses lined;
And where the apple still inclined Its blossoms o'er the box,
Near to the lilacs round the pond,
In its stone ring hard by
We took our seats, where save the sky, And the few forest trees beyond
The garden wall, we nothing saw,
But flowers and blossoms, and we heard
Nought but the whirring of some bird, Or the rooks' distant, clamorous caw.
And in the shade we saw the face
Of our dear infant sleeping near,
And thou wert by to smile and hear, And speak with innate truth and grace.
There through the pleasant noontide hours
My task of echoed song I sung;
Turning the golden southern tongue Into the iron ore of ours!
'Twas the great Spanish master's pride,
The story of the hero proved;
'Twas how the Moorish princess loved, And how the firm Fernando died.[112]
O happiest season ever seen,
O day, indeed the happiest day;
Join with me, love, and with me say- Sweet summer time and scene.
One picture more before I close
Fond Memory's fast dissolving views;
One picture more before I lose The radiant outlines as they rose.
'Tis evening, and we leave the porch,
And for the hundredth time admire
The rhododendron's cones of fire Rise round the tree, like torch o'er torch.
And for the hundredth time point out
Each favourite blossom and perfume-
If the white lilac still doth bloom, Or the pink hawthorn fadeth out:
And by the laurell'd wall, and o'er
The fields of young green corn we've gone;
And by the outer gate, and on To our dear friend's oft-trodden door.
And there in cheerful talk we stay,
Till deepening twilight warns us home;
Then once again we backward roam Calmly and slow the well-known way-
And linger for the expected view-
Day's dying gleam upon the hill;
Or listen for the whip-poor-will,[113] Or the too seldom shy cuckoo.
At home the historic page we glean,
And muse, and hope, and praise, and pray-
Join with me, love, as then, and say- Sweet summer time and scene!
111. Mount Pelier, in the county of Dublin, overlooking Rathfarnham, and more remotely Dundrum. To a brief residence near the latter village the "Recollections" rendered in this poem are to be referred.
112. Calderon's "El Principe Constante," translated in the earlier volumes of the author's Calderon. London, 1853.
113. I do not know the bird to which I have given this Indian name. It, however, imitated its note quite distinctly.
DOLORES.
The moon of my soul is dark, Dolores,
Dead and dark in my breast it lies, For I miss the heaven of thy smile, Dolores,
And the light of thy brown bright eyes.
The rose of my heart is gone, Dolores,
Bud or blossom in vain I seek; For I miss the breath of thy lip, Dolores,
And the blush of thy pearl-pale cheek.
The pulse of my heart is still, Dolores,
Still and chill is its glowing tide; For I miss the beating of thine, Dolores,
In the vacant space by my side.
But the moon shall revisit my soul, Dolores,
And the rose shall refresh my heart, When I meet thee again in heaven, Dolores,
Never again to part.
LOST AND FOUND.
"Whither art thou gone, fair Una?
Una fair, the moon is gleaming; Fear no mortal eye, fair Una,
For the very flowers are dreaming. And the twinkling stars are closing
Up their weary watching glances, Warders on heaven's walls reposing,
While the glittering foe advances.
"Una dear, my heart is throbbing,
Full of throbbings without number; Come! the tired-out streams are sobbing
Like to children ere they slumber; And the longing trees inclining,
Seek the earth's too distant bosom; Sad fate! that keeps from intertwining
The earthly and the aerial blossom.
"Una dear, I've roamed the mountain,
Round the furze and o'er the heather; Una, dear, I've sought the fountain
Where we rested oft together; Ah! the mountain now looks dreary,
Dead and dark where no life liveth; Ah! the fountain, to the weary,
Now, no more refreshment giveth.
"Una, darling, dearest daughter
Beauty ever gave to Fancy, Spirit of the silver water,
Nymph of Nature's necromancy! Fair enchantress, fond magician,
Is thine every spell-word spoken? Hast thou closed thy fairy mission?
Is thy potent wand then broken?
"Una dearest, deign to hear me,
Fly no more my prayer resisting!" Then a trembling voice came near me,
Like a maiden to the trysting, Like a maiden's feet approaching
Where the lover doth attend her; Half-forgiving, half-reproaching,
Came that voice so shy and tender.
"Must I blame thee, must I chide thee,
Change to scorn the love I bore thee? And the fondest heart beside thee,
And the truest eyes before thee. And the kindest hands to press thee,
And the instinctive sense to guide thee, And the purest lips to bless thee,
What, O dreamer! is denied thee?
"Hast thou not the full fruition,
Hast thou not the full enjoyance Of thy young heart's fond ambition,
Free from every feared annoyance Thou hast sighed for truth and beauty,
Hast thou failed, then, in thy wooing? Dreamed of some ideal duty,
Is there nought that waits thy doing?-
"Is the world less bright or beauteous,
That dear eyes behold it with thee? Is the work of life less duteous,
That thou art helped to do it, prithee? Is the near rapture non-existent,
Because thou dreamest an ideal? And canst thou for a glimmering distant
Forget the blessings of the real?
"Down on thy knees, O doubting dreamer!
Down! and repent thy heart's misprision." Scarce had I knelt in tears and tremor,
When the scales fell from off my vision. There stood my human guardian angel,
Given me by God's benign foreseeing, While from her lips came life's evangel,
"Live! that each day complete thy being!"
SPRING FLOWERS FROM IRELAND.
On receiving an early crocus and some violets in a letter from Ireland.
Within the letter's rustling fold
I find once more a glad surprise- A little tiny cup of gold-
Two little lovely violet eyes; A cup of gold with emeralds set,
Once filled with wine from happier spheres; Two little eyes so lately wet
With spring's delicious dewy tears.
Oh! little eyes that wept and laughed,
Now bright with smiles, with tears now dim, Oh! little cup that once was quaffed
By fay-queens fluttering round thy rim. I press each silken fringe's fold,
Sweet little eyes once more ye shine; I kiss thy lip, oh, cup of gold,
And find thee full of Memory's wine.
Within their violet depths I gaze,
And see as in the camera's gloom, The island with its belt of bays,
Its chieftained heights all capped with broom, Which as the living lens it fills,
Now seems a giant charmed to sleep- Now a broad shield embossed with hills
Upon the bosom of the deep.
When will the slumbering giant wake?
When will the shield defend and guard? Ah, me! prophetic gleams forsake
The once rapt eyes of seer or bard. Enough, if shunning Samson's fate,
It doth not all its vigour yield; Enough, if plenteous peace, though
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