Part 9

Great is my grief, O, great my grief, Neglected, scorned beyond belief, By her who looks at me askance, By her who grants me no relief.

She's my desire, O, my desire, More glorious than the bright sun's fire; Who more than wind--blown ice more cold, Had I the boldness to sit by her.

She it is who stole my heart, But left a void and aching smart, But if she soften not her eye, Then life and I shall surely part.

_Douglas Hyde_

I SHALL NOT DIE FOR THEE

_From the Irish_

For thee I shall not die, Woman high of fame and name; Foolish men thou mayest slay, I and they are not the same.

Why should I expire For the fire of any eye, Slender waist, or swan-like limb, Is't for them that I should die?

The round breasts, the fresh skin, Cheeks crimson, hair so long and rich; Indeed, indeed, I shall not die, Please God, not I, for any such.

The golden hair, the forehead thin, The chaste mien, the gracious ease, The rounded heel, the languid tone, Fools alone find death from these.

Thy sharp wit, thy perfect calm, Thy thin palm like foam of sea; Thy white neck, thy blue eye, I shall not die for thee.

Woman, graceful as the swan, A wise man did nurture me, Little palm, white neck, bright eye, I shall not die for ye.

_Douglas Hyde_

RIDDLES

_From the Irish_

A great, great house it is, A golden candlestick it is, Guess it rightly, Let it not go by thee. _Heaven_.

There's a garden that I ken, Full of little gentlemen, Little caps of blue they wear, And green ribbons very fair. _Flax_.

He comes to ye amidst the brine The butterfly of the sun, The man of the coat so blue and fine, With red thread his shirt is done. _A Lobster_.

You see it come in on the shoulders of men, Like a thread of the silk it will leave us again. _Turf_.

_Douglas Hyde_

LOUGH BRAY

A little lonely moorland lake, Its waters brown and cool and deep-- The cliff, the hills behind it make A picture for my heart to keep.

For rock and heather, wave and strand, Wore tints I never saw them wear; The June sunshine was o'er the land, Before, 'twas never half so fair!

The amber ripples sang all day, And singing spilled their crowns of white Upon the beach, in thin pale spray That streaked the sober sand with light.

The amber ripples sang their song, When suddenly from far o'erhead A lark's pure voice mixed with the throng Of lovely things about us spread.

Some flowers were there, so near the brink Their shadows in the waves were thrown; While mosses, green and gray and pink, Grew thickly round each smooth dark stone.

And, over all, the summer sky, Shut out the town we left behind; 'Twas joy to stand in silence by, One bright chain linking mind to mind.

O, little lonely mountain spot! Your place within my heart will be Apart from all Life's busy lot A true, sweet, solemn memory.

_Rose Kavanagh_

THE CHILDREN OF LIR

Out upon the sand-dunes thrive the coarse long grasses, Herons standing knee-deep in the brackish pool, Overhead the sunset fire and flame amasses, And the moon to Eastward rises pale and cool: Rose and green around her, silver-grey and pearly, Chequered with the black rooks flying home to bed; For, to wake at daybreak birds must couch them early, And the day's a long one since the dawn was red.

On the chilly lakelet, in that pleasant gloaming, See the sad swans sailing: they shall have no rest: Never a voice to greet them save the bittern's booming Where the ghostly sallows sway against the West. 'Sister,' saith the grey swan, 'Sister, I am weary,' Turning to the white swan wet, despairing eyes; 'O,' she saith, 'my young one.' 'O,' she saith, 'my dearie,' Casts her wings about him with a storm of cries.

Woe for Lir's sweet children whom their vile step-mother Glamoured with her witch-spells for a thousand years; Died their father raving--on his throne another-- Blind before the end came from his burning tears. She--the fiends possess her, torture her for ever, Gone is all the glory of the race of Lir; Gone and long-forgotten like a dream of fever: But the swans remember all the days that were.

Hugh, the black and white swan with the beauteous feathers; Fiachra, the black swan with the emerald breast; Conn, the youngest, dearest, sheltered in all weathers, Him his snow-white sister loves the tenderest. These her mother gave her as she lay a-dying, To her faithful keeping, faithful hath she been, With her wings spread o'er them when the tempest's crying, And her songs so hopeful when the sky's serene.

Other swans have nests made 'mid the reeds and rushes, Lined with downy feathers where the cygnets sleep Dreaming, if a bird dreams, till the daylight blushes, Then they sail out swiftly on the current deep, With the proud swan-father, tall, and strong, and stately, And the mild swan-mother, grave with household cares, All well-born and comely, all rejoicing greatly: Full of honest pleasure is a life like theirs.

But alas! for my swans, with the human nature, Sick with human longings, starved with human ties, With their hearts all human, cramped in a bird's stature, And the human weeping in the bird's soft eyes. Never shall my swans build nests in some green river, Never fly to southward in the autumn grey, Rear no tender children, love no mates for ever, Robbed alike of bird's joys and of man's are they.

Babbled Conn the youngest, 'Sister, I remember At my father's palace how I went in silk, Ate the juicy deer-flesh roasted from the ember, Drank from golden goblets my child's draught of milk. Once I rode a-hunting, laughed to see the hurly, Shouted at the ball-play, on the lake did row; You had for your beauty gauds that shone so rarely': 'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.'

'Sister,' saith Fiachra, 'well do I remember How the flaming torches lit the banquet hall, And the fire leaped skyward in the mid-December, And amid the rushes slept our staghounds tall. By our father's right hand you sat shyly gazing, Smiling half and sighing, with your eyes aglow, As the bards sang loudly, all your beauty praising'; 'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.'

'Sister,' then saith Hugh, 'most do I remember One I called my brother, you, earth's goodliest man, Strong as forest oaks are where the wild vines clamber, First at feast or hunting, in the battle's van. Angus, you were handsome, wise and true and tender, Loved by every comrade, feared by every foe: Low, low lies your beauty, all forgot your splendour': 'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.'

Dews are in the clear air, and the roselight paling, Over sands and sedges shines the evening star, And the moon's disk high in heaven is sailing, Silvered all the spear-heads of the rushes are-- Housed warm are all things as the night grows colder, Water-fowl and sky-fowl dreamless in the nest, But the swans go drifting, drooping wings and shoulder, Cleaving the still waters where the fishes rest.

_Katharine Tynan Hinkson_

ST. FRANCIS TO THE BIRDS

Little sisters, the birds, We must praise God, you and I-- You with songs that fill the sky; I, with halting words.

All things tell His praise, Woods and waters thereof sing, Summer, winter, autumn, spring, And the nights and days.

Yea, and cold and heat, And the sun, and stars, and moon, Sea with her monotonous tune, Rain and hail and sleet.

And the winds of heaven, And the solemn hills of blue, And the brown earth and the dew, And the thunder even,

And the flowers' sweet breath,-- All things make one glorious voice; Life with fleeting pains and joys And our brother--Death.

Little flowers of air, With your feathers soft and sleek And your bright brown eyes and meek, He hath made you fair.

He hath taught to you Skill to weave on tree and thatch Nests where happy mothers hatch Speckled eggs of blue.

And hath children given: When the soft heads overbrim The brown nests; then thank ye Him In the clouds of heaven.

Also in your lives, Live His laws who loveth you. Husbands, be ye kind and true; Be homekeeping wives.

Love not gossiping; Stay at home and keep the nest; Fly not here and there in quest Of the newest thing.

Live as brethren live; Love be in each heart and mouth; Be not envious, be not wroth, Be not slow to give.

When ye build the nest Quarrel not o'er straw or wool; He who hath, be bountiful To the neediest.

Be not puffed or vain Of your beauty or your worth, Of your children or your birth, Or the praise you gain.

Eat not greedily: Sometimes, for sweet mercy's sake, Worm or insect spare to take; Let it crawl or fly.

See ye sing not near To our church on holy day, Lest the human-folk should stray From their prayer to hear.

Now depart in peace, In God's name I bless each one; May your days be long i' the sun And your joys increase.

And remember me, Your poor brother Francis, who Loveth you, and thanketh you For this courtesy.

Sometimes when ye sing, Name my name, that He may take Pity for the dear song's sake On my shortcoming.

_Katharine Tynan Hinkson_

SHEEP AND LAMBS

All in the April morning, April airs were abroad; The sheep with their little lambs Passed me by on the road.

The sheep with their little lambs Passed me by on the road; All in the April evening, I thought on the Lamb of God.

The lambs were weary, and crying With a weak human cry, I thought on the Lamb of God Going meekly to die.

Up in the blue, blue mountains Dewy pastures are sweet: Rest for the little bodies, Rest for the little feet.

Rest for the Lamb of God Up on the hill-top green, Only a cross of shame Two stark crosses between.

All in the April evening, April airs were abroad; I saw the sheep with their lambs, And thought on the Lamb of God.

_Katharine Tynan Hinkson_

THE GARDENER SAGE

Here in the garden-bed, Hoeing the celery, Wonders the Lord has made Pass ever before me. I saw the young birds build, And swallows come and go, And summer grow and gild, And winter die in snow.

Many a thing I note, And store it in my mind; For all my ragged coat, That scarce will stop the wind. I light my pipe and draw, And, leaning on my spade, I marvel with much awe O'er all the Lord hath made.

Now, here's a curious thing: Upon the first of March, The crow goes house-building, In the elms and in the larch. And be it shine or snow, Though many winds carouse, That day the artful crow Begins to build his house.

But then--the wonder's big!-- _If Sunday fall that day_ _Nor straw, nor scraw, nor twig, Till Monday will he lay._ His black wings to his side, He'll drone upon his perch, Subdued and holy-eyed, As though he were at church.

The crow's a gentleman Not greatly to my mind, He'll steal what seeds he can, And all you hide he'll find. Yet though he's bully and sneak, To small birds bird of prey-- He counts the days of the week, And keeps the Sabbath day.

_Katharine Tynan Hinkson_

THE DARK MAN

Rose o' the world, she came to my bed And changed the dreams of my heart and head: For joy of mine she left grief of hers And garlanded me with a crown of furze.

Rose o' the world, they go out and in, And watch me dream and my mother spin: And they pity the tears on my sleeping face While my soul's away in a fairy place.

Rose o' the world, they have words galore, And wide's the swing of my mother's door: But soft they speak of my darkened eyes, But what do they know, who are all so wise?

Rose o' the world, the pain you give Is worth all days that a man may live: Worth all shy prayers that the colleens say On the night that darkens the wedding day.

Rose o' the world, what man would wed When he might dream of your face instead? Might go to his grave with the blessed pain Of hungering after your face again?

Rose o' the world, they may talk their fill, For dreams are good, and my life stands still While their lives' red ashes the gossips stir, But my fiddle knows: and I talk to her.

_Nora Hopper_

THE FAIRY FIDDLER

'Tis I go fiddling, fiddling, By weedy ways forlorn: I make the blackbird's music Ere in his breast 'tis born: The sleeping larks I waken Twixt the midnight and the morn.

No man alive has seen me, But women hear me play Sometimes at door or window, Fiddling the souls away,-- The child's soul and the colleen's Out of the covering clay.

None of my fairy kinsmen Make music with me now: Alone the raths I wander Or ride the whitethorn bough; But the wild swans they know me, And the horse that draws the plough.

_Nora Hopper_

OUR THRONES DECAY

I said, my pleasure shall not move; It is not fixed in things apart: Seeking not love--but yet to love-- I put my trust in mine own heart.

I knew the fountain of the deep Wells up with living joy, unfed; Such joys the lonely heart may keep, And love grow rich with love unwed.

Still flows the ancient fount sublime; But, ah, for my heart shed tears, shed tears; Not it, but love, has scorn of time; It turns to dust beneath the years.

_A.E._

IMMORTALITY

We must pass like smoke or live within the spirit's fire; For we can no more than smoke unto the flame return If our thought has changed to dream, our will unto desire, As smoke we vanish though the fire may burn.

Lights of infinite pity star the grey dusk of our days: Surely here is soul: with it we have eternal breath: In the fire of love we live, or pass by many ways, By unnumbered ways of dream to death.

_A.E._

THE GREAT BREATH

Its edges foamed with amethyst and rose, Withers once more the old blue flower of day: There where the ether like a diamond glows Its petals fade away.

A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air; Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows; The great deep thrills for through it everywhere The breath of Beauty blows.

I saw how all the trembling ages past, Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath, Neared to the hour when Beauty breathes her last And knows herself in death.

_A.E._

SUNG ON A BY-WAY

What of all the will to do? It has vanished long ago, For a dream-shaft pierced it through From the Unknown Archer's bow.

What of all the soul to think? Some one offered it a cup Filled with a diviner drink, And the flame has burned it up.

What of all the hope to climb? Only in the self we grope To the misty end of time: Truth has put an end to hope.

What of all the heart to love? Sadder than for will or soul, No light lured it on above; Love has found itself the whole.

_A.E._

DREAM LOVE

I did not deem it half so sweet To feel thy gentle hand, As in a dream thy soul to greet Across wide leagues of land.

Untouched more near to draw to you Where, amid radiant skies, Glimmered thy plumes of iris hue, My Bird of Paradise.

Let me dream only with my heart, Love first, and after see: Know thy diviner counterpart Before I kneel to thee.

So in thy motions all expressed Thy angel I may view: I shall not in thy beauty rest, But Beauty's ray on you.

_A.E._

ILLUSION

What is the love of shadowy lips That know not what they seek or press, From whom the lure for ever slips And fails their phantom tenderness?

The mystery and light of eyes That near to mine grow dim and cold; They move afar in ancient skies Mid flame and mystic darkness rolled.

O beauty, as thy heart o'erflows In tender yielding unto me, A vast desire awakes and grows Unto forgetfulness of thee.

_A.E._

JANUS

Image of beauty, when I gaze on thee, Trembling I waken to a mystery, How through one door we go to life or death By spirit kindled or the sensual breath.

Image of beauty, when my way I go; No single joy or sorrow do I know: Elate for freedom leaps the starry power, The life which passes mourns its wasted hour.

And, ah, to think how thin the veil that lies Between the pain of hell and paradise! Where the cool grass my aching head embowers God sings the lovely carol of the flowers.

_A.E._

CONNLA'S WELL

A cabin on the mountain side hid in a grassy nook, With door and windows open wide where friendly stars may look; The rabbit shy can patter in; the winds may enter free Who throng around the mountain throne in living ecstasy.

And when the sun sets dimmed in eve and purple fills the air, I think the sacred hazel tree is dropping berries there From starry fruitage waved aloft where Connla's well o'erflows; For sure the immortal waters run through every wind that blows.

I think when night towers up aloft and shakes the trembling dew, How every high and lonely thought that thrills my spirit through Is but a shining berry dropped down through the purple air, And from the magic tree of life the fruit falls everywhere.

_A.E._

NAMES

No temple crowned the shaggy capes, No safety soothed the kind, The clouds unfabled shifted shapes, And nameless roamed the wind.

The stars, the circling heights of heaven, The mountains bright with snows Looked down, and sadly man at even Lay down and sad he rose.

Till ages brought the hour again, When fell a windless morn, And, child of agonistic pain And bliss, the Word was born.

Which grew from all it gazed upon, And spread thro' soil and sphere, And shrunk the whole into the one, And fetched the farthest here.

High is the summer's night, but deep The hidden mind unfolds: Within it does an image sleep Of all that it beholds.

Alas! when man with busy brow, His conquering names hath set To planet, plant, and worm, who now Will teach us to forget?

What poet now, when wisdoms fail, Another theme shall dare-- The Nameless, and remove the veil Which hides it everywhere?

_John Eglinton_

THAT

What is that beyond thy life, And beyond all life around, Which, when thy quick brain is still, Nods to thee from the stars? Lo, it says, thou hast found Me, the lonely, lonely one.

_Charles Weekes_

THINK

Think, the ragged turf-boy urges O'er the dusty road his asses; Think, on sea-shore far the lonely Heron wings along the sand;

Think, in woodland under oak-boughs Now the streaming sunbeam passes; And bethink thee thou art servant To the same all-moving hand.

_Charles Weekes_

TE MARTYRUM CANDIDATUS

Ah, see the fair chivalry come, the companions of Christ! White Horsemen, who ride on white horses, the Knights of God! They, for their Lord and their Lover who sacrificed All, save the sweetness of treading, where he first trod!

These through the darkness of death, the dominion of night, Swept, and they woke in white places at morning tide: They saw with their eyes, and sang for joy of the sight, They saw with their eyes the Eyes of the Crucified.

Now, whithersoever He goeth, with Him they go: White Horsemen, who ride on white horses, oh fair to see! They ride, where the Rivers of Paradise flash and flow, White Horsemen, with Christ their Captain: for ever He!

_Lionel Johnson_

THE CHURCH OF A DREAM

Sadly the dead leaves rustle in the whistling wind, Around the weather-worn gray church, low down the vale: The Saints in golden vesture shake before the gale; The glorious windows shake, where still they dwell enshrined; Old Saints, by long dead, shrivelled hands, long since designed: There still, although the world autumnal be, and pale, Still in their golden vesture the old saints prevail; Alone with Christ, desolate else, left by mankind. Only one ancient Priest offers the sacrifice, Murmuring holy Latin immemorial: Swaying with tremulous hands the old censer full of spice, In gray, sweet incense clouds; blue, sweet clouds mystical: To him, in place of men, for he is old, suffice Melancholy remembrances and vesperal.

_Lionel Johnson_

WAYS OF WAR

A terrible and splendid trust Heartens the host of Inisfail: Their dream is of the swift sword-thrust, A lightning glory of the Gael.

Croagh Patrick is the place of prayers, And Tara the assembling place: But each sweet wind of Ireland bears The trump of battle on its race.

From Dursey Isle to Donegal, From Howth to Achill, the glad noise Rings: and the heirs of glory fall, Or victory crowns their fighting joys.

A dream! a dream! an ancient dream! Yet, ere peace come to Inisfail, Some weapons on some field must gleam, Some burning glory fire the Gael.

That field may lie beneath the sun, Fair for the treading of an host: That field in realms of thought be won, And armed minds do their uttermost:

Some way, to faithful Inisfail, Shall come the majesty and awe Of martial truth, that must prevail, To lay on all the eternal law.

_Lionel Johnson_

THE RED WIND

Red Wind from out the East: Red wind of blight and blood! Ah, when wilt thou have ceased Thy bitter, stormy flood?

Red Wind from over sea, Scourging our holy land! What angel loosened thee Out of his iron hand?

Red Wind! whose word of might Winged thee with wings of flame? O fire of mournful night! What is thy Master's name?

Red Wind! who bade thee burn, Branding our hearts? Who bade Thee on and never turn, Till waste our souls were laid?

Red Wind! from out the West Pour Winds of Paradise: Winds of eternal rest, That weary souls entice.

Wind of the East! Red Wind! Thou scorchest the soft breath Of Paradise the kind: Red Wind of burning death!

O Red Wind! hear God's voice: Hear thou, and fall, and cease. Let Inisfail rejoice In her Hesperian peace.

_Lionel Johnson_

CELTIC SPEECH

Never forgetful silence fall on thee, Nor younger voices overtake thee, Nor echoes from thine ancient hills forsake thee, Old music heard by Mona of the sea: And where with moving melodies there break thee, Pastoral Conway, venerable Dee.

Like music lives, nor may that music die, Still in the far, fair Gaelic places: The speech, so wistful with its kindly graces, Holy Croagh Patrick knows, and holy Hy: The speech, that wakes the soul in withered faces, And wakes remembrance of great things gone by.