Part 10

Who would linger idle, Dallying would lie, When wind and wave, a bridal Celebrating, fly? Let him plunge among them, Who hath wooed enough, Flirted with them, sung them, In the salt sea-trough He may win them, onward On a buoyant crest, Far to seaward, sunward, Ocean-borne to rest! Wild wind will sing over him, And the free foam cover him, Swimming seaward, sunward, On a blithe sea-breast! On a blithe sea-bosom Swims another too, Swims a live sea-blossom, A grey-winged sea-mew! Grape-green all the waves are, By whose hurrying line Half of ships and caves are Buried under brine; Supple, shifting ranges Lucent at the crest, With pearly surface-changes Never laid to rest: Now a dipping gunwale Momently he sees, Now a fuming funnel, Or red flag in the breeze; Arms flung open wide, Lip the laughing sea; For playfellow, for bride, Claim her impetuously! Triumphantly exult with all the free, Buoyant, bounding splendour of the sea! And if while on the billow Wearily he lay, His awful wild playfellow Filled his mouth with spray, Reft him of his breath, To some far realms away He would float with Death; Wild wind would sing over him, And the free foam cover him, Waft him sleeping onward, Floating seaward, sunward, All alone with Death; In a realm of wondrous dreams, And shadow-haunted ocean gleams!

The Dance.

[Sidenote: RODEN NOEL]

The dance! the dance! Maidens advance Your undulating charm! A line deploys Of gentle boys, Waving the light arm, Bronze, alive and warm; Reed flute and drum Sound as they come, Under your eyelight warm!

Many a boy, A dancing joy, Many a mellow maid, With fireflies in the shade, Mingle and glide, Appear and hide, Here in a fairy glade: Ebb and flow To a music low, Viol, and flute and lyre, As melody mounts higher: With a merry will, They touch and thrill, Beautiful limbs of fire!

Red berries, shells, Over bosom-dells, And girdles of light grass, May never hide The youthful pride Of beauty, ere it pass: Yet, ah! sweet boy and lass, Refrain, retire! Love is a fire! Night will pass!

From “The Water-Nymph and the Boy.”

I flung me round him, I drew him under; I clung, I drowned him, My own white wonder....

Father and mother, Weeping and wild, Came to the forest, Calling the child, Came from the palace, Down to the pool, Calling my darling, My beautiful!

Under the water, Cold and so pale! Could it be love made Beauty to fail?

Ah me! for mortals: In a few moons, If I had left him, After some Junes He would have faded, Faded away, He, the young monarch, whom All would obey, Fairer than day; Alien to springtime, Joyless and grey, He would have faded, Faded away, Moving a mockery, Scorned of the day!

Now I have taken him All in his prime, Saved from slow poisoning Pitiless Time, Filled with his happiness, One with the prime, Saved from the cruel Dishonour of Time, Laid him, my beautiful, Laid him to rest, Loving, adorable, Softly to rest, Here in my crystalline, Here in my breast!

A Casual Song.

She sang of lovers met to play “Under the may bloom, under the may,” But when I sought her face so fair, I found the set face of Despair.

She sang of woodland leaves in spring, And joy of young love dallying; But her young eyes were all one moan, And Death weighed on her heart like stone.

I could not ask, I know not now, The story of that mournful brow; It haunts me as it haunted then, A flash from fire of hell-bound men.

“The Pity of it.”

[Sidenote: RODEN NOEL]

If our love may fail, Lily, If our love may fail, What will mere life avail, Lily, Mere life avail?

Seed that promised blossom, Withered in the mould, Pale petals overblowing, Failing from the gold!

When the fervent fingers Listlessly unclose, May the life that lingers Find repose, Lily, Find repose!

Who may dream of all the music Only a lover hears, Hearkening to hearts triumphant Bearing down the years? Ah! may eternal anthems dwindle To a low sound of tears?

Room in all the ages For our love to grow, Prayers of both demanded A little while ago:

And now a few poor moments, Between life and death, May be proven all too ample For love’s breath!

Seed that promised blossom, Withered in the mould! Pale petals overblowing, Failing from the gold!

I well believe the fault lay More with me than you, But I feel the shadow closing Cold about us two.

An hour may yet be yielded us, Or a very little more-- Then a few tears, and silence For evermore, Lily, For evermore!

The Old.

[Sidenote: RODEN NOEL]

They are waiting on the shore For the bark to take them home; They will toil and grieve no more; The hour for release hath come.

All their long life lies behind, Like a dimly blending dream; There is nothing left to bind To the realms that only seem.

They are waiting for the boat, There is nothing left to do; What was near them grows remote, Happy silence falls like dew; Now the shadowy bark is come, And the weary may go home.

By still water they would rest, In the shadow of the tree; After battle sleep is best, After noise tranquillity.

Maura Du of Ballyshannon.

[Sidenote: CHARLES P. O’CONOR]

I.

=Maura du=[21] of Ballyshannon! =Maura du=, my flower of flowers! Can you hear me there out seaward, Calling back the bygone hours? =Maura du=, my own, my honey! With wild passion still aglow, I am singing you the old songs That I sung you long ago. And you mind, love, how it ran on-- “In your eyes =asthore machree=![22] All my Heaven there I see, And that’s true! =Maura du=! =Maura du= of Ballyshannon!”

II.

=Maura du= of Ballyshannon! =Maura du=, my soul’s one queen! Big with love my heart is flying, Where the grass is growing green. =Maura du=, my own, my honey! That I love you, well you know, And still sing for you the old song, That I sung you long ago. And you mind, love, how it ran on-- “In your eyes =asthore machree=! All my Heaven there I see, And that’s true! =Maura du=! =Maura du= of Ballyshannon!”

[Sidenote: CHARLES P. O’CONOR]

III.

=Maura du= of Ballyshannon, =Maura du=, the day is drear! Ah, the night is long and weary, Far away from you, my dear! =Maura du=, my own, my honey! Still let winds blow high or low, I must sing to you the old song, That I sung you long ago, And you mind, love, how it ran on-- “In your eyes =asthore machree=! All my Heaven there I see, And that’s true! =Maura du=! =Maura du= of Ballyshannon!”

IV.

=Maura du= of Ballyshannon! =Maura du=, when winds blow south, I will with the birds fly homeward, There to kiss your Irish mouth. =Maura du=, my own, my honey! When time is no longer foe, By your side I’ll sing the old song, That I sung you long ago, And you mind, love, how it ran on-- “In your eyes =asthore machree=! All my Heaven there I see, And that’s true! =Maura du=! =Maura du= of Ballyshannon!”

A Spinning Song.

[Sidenote: JOHN FRANCIS O’DONNELL]

My love to fight the Saxon goes, And bravely shines his sword of steel, A heron’s feather decks his brows, And a spur on either heel; His steed is blacker than a sloe, And fleeter than the falling star; Amid the surging ranks he’ll go And shout for joy of war.

Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle, let the white wool drift and dwindle, Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love’s coat of steel. Hark! the timid, turning treadle, crooning soft old-fashioned ditties To the low, slow murmur of the brown, round wheel.

My love is pledged to Ireland’s fight; My love would die for Ireland’s weal, To win her back her ancient right, And make her foemen reel. Oh, close I’ll clasp him to my breast When homeward from the war he comes; The fires shall light the mountain’s crest, The valley peal with drums.

Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle, let the white wool drift and dwindle, Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love’s coat of steel. Hark! the timid, turning treadle, crooning soft old-fashioned ditties To the low, slow murmur of the brown, round wheel.

A White Rose.

[Sidenote: JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY]

The red rose whispers of passion, And the white rose breathes of love; Oh, the red rose is a falcon, And the white rose is a dove.

But I send you a cream-white rosebud With a flush on its petal tips; For the love that is purest and sweetest Has a kiss of desire on the lips.

The Fountain of Tears.

[Sidenote: ARTHUR O’SHAUGHNESSY]

If you go over desert and mountain, Far into the country of Sorrow, To-day and to-night and to-morrow, And maybe for months and for years; You shall come with a heart that is bursting For trouble and toiling and thirsting, You shall certainly come to the fountain At length,--to the Fountain of Tears.

Very peaceful the place is, and solely For piteous lamenting and sighing, And those who come living or dying Alike from their hopes and their fears; Full of Cyprus-like shadows the place is, And statues that cover their faces: But out of the gloom springs the holy And beautiful Fountain of Tears.

And it flows and it flows with a motion, So gentle and lovely and listless, And murmurs a tune so resistless To him who hath suffered and hears-- You shall surely--without a word spoken, Kneel down there and know your heart broken, And yield to the long-curb’d emotion That day by the Fountain of Tears.

For it grows and it grows, as though leaping Up higher the more one is thinking; And even its tunes go on sinking More poignantly into the ears: Yea, so blessèd and good seems that fountain, Reached after dry desert and mountain, You shall fall down at length in your weeping And bathe your sad face in the tears.

[Sidenote: ARTHUR O’SHAUGHNESSY]

Then, alas! while you lie there a season, And sob between living and dying, And give up the land you were trying To find ’mid your hopes and your fears; --O the world shall come up and pass o’er you, Strong men shall not stay to care for you, Nor wonder indeed for what reason Your way should seem harder than theirs.

But perhaps, while you lie, never lifting Your cheek from the wet leaves it presses, Nor caring to raise your wet tresses And look how the cold world appears,-- O perhaps the mere silences round you All things in that place grief hath found you, Yea, e’en to the clouds o’er you drifting May soothe you somewhat through your tears.

You may feel, when a falling leaf brushes Your face, as though someone had kissed you; Or think at least some one who missed you Hath sent you a thought,--if that cheers; Or a bird’s little song faint and broken, May pass for a tender word spoken: --Enough, while around you there rushes That life-drowning torrent of tears.

And the tears shall flow faster and faster, Brim over, and baffle resistance, And roll down bleared roads to each distance Of past desolation and years; Till they cover the place of each sorrow, And leave you no Past and no Morrow: For what man is able to master And stem the great Fountain of Tears?

But the floods of the tears meet and gather; The sound of them all grows like thunder: --O into what bosom, I wonder, Is poured the whole sorrow of years? For Eternity only seems keeping Account of the great human weeping: May God then, the Maker and Father-- May he find a place for the tears!

After Death.

[Sidenote: FANNY PARNELL]

Shall mine eyes behold thy glory, O my country? Shall mine eyes behold thy glory? Or shall the darkness close around them, ere the sun-blaze break at last upon thy story?

When the nations ope for thee their queenly circle, as a sweet new sister hail thee, Shall these lips be sealed in callous death and silence, that have known but to bewail thee?

Shall the ear be deaf that only loved thy praises, when all men their tribute bring thee? Shall the mouth be clay that sang thee in thy squalor, when all poets’ mouths shall sing thee?

Ah! the harpings and the salvos and the shouting of thy exiled sons returning! I should hear, tho’ dead and mouldered, and the grave-damps should not chill my bosom’s burning.

Ah! the tramp of feet victorious! I should hear them ’mid the shamrocks and the mosses, And my heart should toss within the shroud and quiver as a captive dreamer tosses.

I should turn and rend the cere-clothes round me, giant sinews I should borrow-- Crying, “O my brothers, I have also loved her in her loneliness and sorrow.

“Let me join with you the jubilant procession: let me chant with you her story; Then contented I shall go back to the shamrocks, now mine eyes have seen her glory!”

The Dead at Clonmacnois.

(From the Irish of Enoch o’ Gillan.)

[Sidenote: T. W. ROLLESTON]

In a quiet watered land, a land of roses, Stands Saint Kieran’s City fair; And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations Slumber there.

There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblest of the Clan of Conn, Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham And the sacred knot thereon.

There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara, There the sons of Cairbrè sleep-- Battle banners of the Gael, that in Kieran’s plain of crosses Now their final posting keep.

And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia, And right many a lord of Breagh; Deep the sod above Clan Creidè and Clan Conaill, Kind in hall and fierce in fray.

Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter In the red earth lies at rest; Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers, Many a swan-white breast.

Unknown Ideal.

[Sidenote: DORA SIGERSON]

Whose is the voice that will not let me rest? I hear it speak. Where is the shore will gratify my quest, Show what I seek? Not yours, weak Muse, to mimic that far voice, With halting tongue; No peace, sweet land, to bid my heart rejoice Your groves among.

Whose is the loveliness I know is by, Yet cannot place? Is it perfection of the sea or sky, Or human face? Not yours, my pencil, to delineate The splendid smile! Blind in the sun, we struggle on with Fate That glows the while.

Whose are the feet that pass me, echoing On unknown ways? Whose are the lips that only part to sing Through all my days? Not yours, fond youth, to fill mine eager eyes That still adore Beauty that tarries not, nor satisfies For evermore.

Mo Cáilin Donn.

[Sidenote: GEORGE SIGERSON]

The blush is on the flower, and the bloom is on the tree, And the bonnie, bonnie sweet birds are carolling their glee; And the dews upon the grass are made diamonds by the sun, All to deck a path of glory for my own =Cáilin Donn=![23]

O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me! More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree, More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee, Is the coming of my true love--my own =Cáilin Donn=!

O Sycamore! O Sycamore! wave, wave your banners green-- Let all your pennons flutter, O Beech! before my queen! Ye fleet and honied breezes, to kiss her hand ye run; But my heart has passed before ye to my own =Cáilin Donn=!

O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me!

Ring out, ring out, O Linden! your merry leafy bells! Unveil your brilliant torches, O Chestnut! to the dells; Strew, strew the glade with splendour, for morn it cometh on! Oh, the morn of all delight to me--my own =Cáilin Donn=!

O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me!

[Sidenote: GEORGE SIGERSON]

She is coming, where we parted, where she wanders every day; There’s a gay surprise before her who thinks me far away; O, like hearing bugles triumph when the fight of Freedom’s won, Is the joy around your footsteps, my own =Cáilin Donn=!

O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me! More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree, More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee, Is your coming, O my true love--my own =Cáilin Donn=!

An Irish Love Song.

[Sidenote: JOHN TODHUNTER]

O, you plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes, Girl of my choice, Maureen! Will you drive me mad for the kisses your shy sweet mouth denies, Maureen!

Like a walking ghost I am, and no words to woo, White rose of the West, Maureen; For it’s pale you are, and the fear that’s on you is over me too, Maureen!

Sure it’s our complaint that’s on us, =asthore=, this day, Bride of my dreams, Maureen; The smart of the bee that stung us, his honey must cure, they say, Maureen!

I’ll coax the light to your eyes, and the rose to your face, =Mavourneen=, my own Maureen, When I feel the warmth of your breast, and your nest is my arms’ embrace, Maureen!

O where was the King o’ the World that day--only me, My one true love, Maureen, And you the Queen with me there, and your throne in my heart, =machree=, Maureen!

The Sunburst.

[Sidenote: JOHN TODHUNTER]

Through the midnight of despair, I heard one making moan For her dead, her victors fall’n to gain all battles but her own; I heard the voice of Ireland, wailing for her dead With wailing unavailing, and sobbing as she said: “In vain in many a battle have my heroes fought and bled, Like water, in vain slaughter, my sons’ best blood been shed, For my house is desolate, discrowned my head!

“In vain my daughters bear their babes--babes with the mournful eyes Of children without father that hear strange lullabies, Rocked in their lonely cradles by mothers crooning low, And weeping o’er their sleeping, sad songs of long ago; Whose eyes, as they remember, while the wailing night-winds blow, Their nation’s desolation, in their singing overflow With the overflowing of an ancient woe!”

O Mother, mournful Mother, turn from wailing for thy dead, Grey Sibyl, still unvanquished, lift up thy dauntless head, O thou Swan among the nations, enchanted long, so long That the story of thy glory is a half-forgotten song, Lift thy voice and bless the living, thy sons who round thee throng! In the hour of their power they shall right thine ancient wrong; In thyself is thy salvation, let thy heart be strong!

The Leaf of many Sorrows, wet with thy tears for dew, Emblem of thy long patience; that hearts, as brave and true As those united hearts of green, through infamy and scorn, Through the nation’s tribulations, like Saints the cross, have worn, We’ll blazon with the Sunburst, star of thy destined morn, Set in hope’s hue, our ancient blue on royal banners borne; And green the Shamrock long shall shine, no more forlorn!

Song.

[Sidenote: JOHN TODHUNTER]

Bring from the craggy haunts of birch and pine. Thou wild wind, bring Keen forest odours from that realm of thine, Upon thy wing!

O wind, O mighty, melancholy wind, Blow through me, blow! Thou blowest forgotten things into my mind, From long ago.

Winter Sunset.

[Sidenote: KATHERINE TYNAN]

Roses in the sky, Roses in the sea; Bowers of scarlet sky-roses; Take my heart and me.

God was good to make, This December weather, All this sky a rose-garden, Rose and fire together.

To the East are burning Roses in a garden, Roses in a rosy field, Hesper for their warden.

Yonder to the West Roses all afire, Mirror now some rare splendid Rose of their desire.

Pulsing deeper, deeper, Waves of fire throb on, Never were such red roses At sunset or dawn.

Roses on the hills, Roses in the hollow, Roses on the wet hedges, In the shining fallow.

West wind, blow and blow! That has blown ajar Gates of God’s great rose-garden, Where His Angels are,

Gathering up the rose-leaves For a shower of roses On the night the Lord Babe His sweet eye uncloses.

[Sidenote: KATHERINE TYNAN]

All the sky is scarlet Flaming on the azure. O, there’s fire in Heaven! My heart aches with pleasure.

Leagues of rose and scarlet, Roses red as blood: All the world’s a rose-garden. God is good, is good.

Shamrock Song.

O, the red rose may be fair, And the lily statelier; But my shamrock, one in three, Takes the very heart of me!

Many a lover hath the rose When June’s musk-wind breathes and blows: And in many a bower is heard Her sweet praise from bee and bird.

Through the gold hours dreameth she, In her warm heart passionately, Her fair face hung languid-wise: O, her breath of honey and spice!

Like a fair saint virginal Stands your lily, silver and tall; Over all the flowers that be Is my shamrock dear to me.

Shines the lily like the sun, Crystal-pure, a cold, sweet nun; With her austere lip she sings To her heart of heavenly things.

Gazeth through a night of June To her sister-saint, the moon; With the stars communeth long Of the angels and their song.

But when summer died last year Rose and lily died with her; Shamrock stayeth every day, Be the winds or gold or grey.

Irish hills, as grey as the dove, Know the little plant I love; Warm and fair it mantles them Stretching down from throat to hem.

[Sidenote: KATHERINE TYNAN]

And it laughs o’er many a vale, Sheltered safe from storm and gale; Sky and sun and stars thereof Love the gentle plant I love.

Soft it clothes the ruined floor Of many an abbey, grey and hoar, And the still home of the dead With its green is carpeted.

Roses for an hour of love, With the joy and pain thereof: Stand my lilies white to see All for prayer and purity.

These are white as the harvest moon, Roses flush like the heart of June; But my shamrock, brave and gay, Glads the tired eyes every day.

O, the red rose shineth rare, And the lily saintly fair; But my shamrock, one in three, Takes the inmost heart of me!

Wild Geese.

(A Lament for the Irish Jacobites.)

[Sidenote: KATHERINE TYNAN]