Part 9

Rose o’ the world, they have words galore, For wide’s the swing of my mother’s door: And soft they speak of my darkened brain, But what do they know of my heart’s dear pain?

Rose o’ the world, the grief you give Is worth all days that a man may live: Is worth all prayers that the colleens say On the night that darkens the wedding-day.

Rose o’ the world, what man would wed When he might remember 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, But dreams are good, and my life stands still While the neighbours talk by their fires astir: But my fiddle knows: and _I_ talk to her.

April in Ireland.

She hath a woven garland all of the sighing sedge, And all her flowers are snowdrops grown on the winter’s edge: The golden looms of Tir na n’ Og wove all the winter through Her gown of mist and raindrops shot with a cloudy blue.

Sunlight she holds in one hand, and rain she scatters after, And through the rainy twilight we hear her fitful laughter. She shakes down on her flowers the snows less white than they, Then quicken with her kisses the folded “knots o’ May.”

She seeks the summer-lover that never shall be hers, Fain for gold leaves of autumn she passes by the furze, Though buried gold it hideth: she scorns her sedgy crown, And pressing blindly sunwards she treads her snowdrops down.

Her gifts are all a fardel of wayward smiles and tears, Yet hope she also holdeth, this daughter of the years-- A hope that blossoms faintly set upon sorrow’s edge: She hath a woven garland of all the sighing sedge.

The Wind Among the Reeds.

[Sidenote: NORA HOPPER]

Mavrone, Mavrone! the wind among the reeds. It calls and cries, and will not let me be; And all its cry is of forgotten deeds When men were loved of all the Daoine-Sidhe.

O Shee that have forgotten how to love, And Shee that have forgotten how to hate, Asleep ’neath quicken boughs that no winds move, Come back to us ere yet it be too late.

Pipe to us once again, lest we forget What piping means, till all the Silver Spears Be wild with gusty music, such as met Carolan once, amid the dusty years.

Dance in your rings again: the yellow weeds You used to ride so far, mount as of old-- Play hide-and-seek with wind among the reeds, And pay your scores again with fairy gold.

My Grief on the Sea.

[Sidenote: DOUGLAS HYDE]

My grief on the sea, How the waves of it roll! For they heave between me And the love of my soul!

Abandoned, forsaken, To grief and to care, Will the sea ever waken Relief from despair?

My grief, and my trouble! Would he and I wear, In the province of Leinster, Or County of Clare.

Were I and my darling-- O, heart-bitter wound!-- On the board of the ship For America bound.

On a green bed of rushes All last night I lay, And I flung it abroad With the heat of the day.

And my love came behind me-- He came from the South; His breast to my bosom His mouth to my mouth.

The Cooleen.

[Sidenote: DOUGLAS HYDE]

A honey mist on a day of frost, in a dark oak wood, And love for thee in my heart in me, thou bright, white, and good; Thy slender form, soft and warm, thy red lips apart, Thou hast found me, and hast bound me, and put grief in my heart.

In fair-green and market, men mark thee, bright, young, and merry, Though thou hurt them like foes with the rose of thy blush of the berry: Her cheeks are a poppy, her eye it is Cupid’s helper, But each foolish man dreams that its beams for himself are.

Whoe’er saw the Cooleen in a cool, dewy meadow On a morning in summer in sunshine and shadow; All the young men go wild for her, my childeen, my treasure, But now let them go mope, they’ve no hope to possess her.

Let us roam, O my darling, afar through the mountains, Drink milk of the goat, wine and bulcaun in fountains; With music and play every day from my lyre, And leave to come rest on my breast when you tire.

The Breedyeen.

’Tis the Breedyeen I love, All dear ones above, Like a star from the start Round my heart she did move. Her breast like a dove, Or the foam in the cove, With her gold locks apart, In my heart she put love.

’Tis not Venus, I say, Who grieved me this day, But the white one, the bright one, Who slighted my stay. For her I shall pray-- I confess it--for aye, She’s my sister, I missed her, When all men were gay.

To the hills let us go, Where the raven and crow In dark dismal valleys Croak death-like and low; By this volume I swear, O bright Cool of fair hair, That though solitude shrieked I should seek for thee there.

To the hills let us go, Where the raven and crow In the dark dismal valleys Wing silent and slow. There’s no Joy in men’s fate But Grief grins in the gate; There’s no Fair without Foul, Without Crooked no Straight.

[Sidenote: DOUGLAS HYDE]

Her neck like the lime And her breath like the thyme, And her bosom untroubled By care or by time. Like a bird in the night, At a great blaze of light, Astounded and wounded I swoon at her sight.

Since I gave thee my love, I gave thee my love, I gave thee my love, O thou berry so bright; The sun in her height Looked on with delight, And between thy two arms, may I die on the night.

And I would that I were In the glens of the air, Or in dark dismal valleys Where the wildwood is bare, What a kiss from her there I should coax without care, From my star of the morning, My fairer than fair!

Like a Phœnix of flame, Or like Helen of fame, Is the pearl of all pearls Of girls who came, And who kindled a flame, In my bosom. Thy name I shall rhyme thee in Irish And heighten thy fame.

Nelly of the Top-Knots.

Dear God! were I fisher and Back in Binédar, And Nelly a fish who Would swim in the bay there, I would privately set there My net there to catch her, In Erin no maiden Is able to match her.

And Nelly, dear God! Why! you should not thus flee me, I long to be near thee And hear thee and see thee, My hand on the Bible And I swearing and kneeling And giving thee part Of the heart you are stealing.

I’ve a fair yellow casket And it fastened with crystal, And the lock opens not To the shot of a pistol. To Jesus I pray And to Columbkill’s Master, That Mary may guide thee Aside from disaster.

We may be, O maiden Whom none may disparage, Some morning a-hearing The sweet mass of marriage, But if fate be against us, To rend us and push us, I shall mourn as the blackbird At eve in the bushes.

[Sidenote: DOUGLAS HYDE]

O God, were she with me Where the gull flits and tern, Or in Paris the smiling, Or an Isle in Loch Erne, I would coax her so well, I would tell her my story, And talk till I won her, My sunshine of glory.

I shall not Die for Thee.

[Sidenote: DOUGLAS HYDE]

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 o’ the 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.

The Red Wind.

[Sidenote: LIONEL JOHNSON]

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 Innisfail rejoice In her Hesperian peace.

To Morfydd.

[Sidenote: LIONEL JOHNSON]

A voice on the winds, A voice on the waters, Wanders and cries: _O what are the winds? And what are the waters? Mine are your eyes._

Western the winds are, And western the waters, Where the light lies: _O what are the winds? And what are the waters? Mine are your eyes._

Cold, cold grow the winds, And dark grow the waters, Where the sun dies: _O what are the winds? And what are the waters? Mine are your eyes._

And down the night winds, And down the night waters The music flies: _O what are the winds? And what are the waters? Cold be the winds, And wild be the waters, So mine be your eyes._

A Lament.

[Sidenote: DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY]

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!

Whither, oh! whither Have fled away The dreams and hopes Of my early day? Ruined and grey 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 blessed the Giver With hushed delight.

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!

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 the 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 Fair Hills of Eiré, O!

(After the Irish of DONOGH MAC CON-MARA.)

[Sidenote: JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN]

Take a blessing from my heart to the land of my birth, And the fair Hills of Eiré, O! And to all that yet survive of Eibhear’s tribe on earth, On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! In that land so delightful the wild thrush’s lay-- Seems to pour a lament forth for Eiré’s delay-- Alas! alas! why pine I a thousand miles away From the fair Hills of Eiré, O!

The soil is rich and soft--the air is mild and bland, Of the fair Hills of Eiré, O! Her barest rock is greener to me than this rude land-- O! the fair Hills of Eiré, O! Her woods are tall and straight, grove rising over grove; Trees flourish in her glens below, and on her heights above; O, in heart and in soul, I shall ever, ever love The fair Hills of Eiré, O!

A noble tribe, moreover, are the now hapless Gael, On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! A tribe in Battle’s hour unused to shrink or fail On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! For this is my lament in bitterness outpoured, To see them slain or scattered by the Saxon sword. Oh, woe of woes, to see a foreign spoiler horde On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!

Broad and tall rise the =cruachs= in the golden morning’s glow On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! O’er her smooth grass for ever sweet cream and honey flow On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! O, I long, I am pining, again to behold The land that belongs to the brave Gael of old; Far dearer to my heart than a gift of gems or gold Are the fair Hills of Eiré, O!

The dewdrops lie bright ’mid the grass and yellow corn On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! And the sweet-scented apples blush redly in the morn On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! The water-cress and sorrel fill the vales below; The streamlets are hushed, till the evening breezes blow; While the waves of the Suir, noble river! ever flow Near the fair Hills of Eiré, O!

A fruitful clime is Eiré’s, through valley, meadow, plain, And the fair land of Eiré, O! The very “Bread of Life” is in the yellow grain On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! Far dearer unto me than the tones music yields, Is the lowing of her kine and the calves in her fields, And the sunlight that shone long ago on the shields Of the Gaels, on the fair Hills of Eiré, O!

Dark Rosaleen.

[Sidenote: JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN]

O my dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep! The priests are on the ocean green, They march along the Deep. There’s wine ... from the royal Pope, Upon the ocean green; And Spanish ale shall give you hope, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, Shall give you health, and help, and hope, My dark Rosaleen.

Over hills, and through dales, Have I roamed for your sake; All yesterday I sailed with sails On river and on lake. The Erne ... at its highest flood, I dashed across unseen, For there was lightning in my blood, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! Oh! there was lightning in my blood, Red lightning lightened through my blood, My dark Rosaleen!

All day long in unrest, To and fro do I move, The very soul within my breast Is wasted for you, love! The heart ... in my bosom faints To think of you my Queen, My life of life, my saint of saints, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! To hear your sweet and sad complaints, My life, my love, my saint of saints, My dark Rosaleen!

Woe and pain, pain and woe, Are my lot, night and noon, To see your bright face clouded so, Like to the mournful moon. But yet ... will I rear your throne Again in golden sheen; ’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! ’Tis you shall have the golden throne, ’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, My dark Rosaleen!

Over dews, over sands, Will I fly, for your weal: Your holy delicate white hands Shall girdle me with steel. At home ... in your emerald bowers, From morning’s dawn till e’en, You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers, My dark Rosaleen! My fond Rosaleen! You’ll think of me through Daylight’s hours, My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, My dark Rosaleen!

I could scale the blue air, I could plough the high hills, Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer, To heal your many ills! And one ... beamy smile from you Would float the light between My toils and me, my own, my true, My dark Rosaleen! My fond Rosaleen! Would give me life and soul anew, A second life, a soul anew, My dark Rosaleen!

O! the Erne shall run red With redundance of blood, The earth shall rock beneath our tread, And flames wrap hill and wood, And gun-peal, and slogan cry, Wake many a glen serene, Ere you shall fade, ere you can die, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! The Judgment Hour must first be nigh Ere you can fade, ere you can die, My dark Rosaleen!

The One Mystery.

’Tis idle! we exhaust and squander The glittering mine of thought in vain All-baffled reason cannot wander, Beyond her chain. The flood of life runs dark--dark clouds Make lampless night around its shore: The dead, where are they? In their shrouds-- Man knows no more.

Evoke the ancient and the past, Will one illumining star arise? Or must the film, from first to last, O’erspread thine eyes? When life, love, glory, beauty, wither, Will wisdom’s page, or science chart, Map out for thee the region whither Their shades depart?

Supposest thou the wondrous powers, To high imagination given, Pale types of what shall yet be ours, When earth is heaven? When this decaying shell is cold, Oh! sayest thou the soul shall climb What magic mount she trod of old, Ere childhood’s time?

And shall the sacred pulse that thrilled, Thrill once again to glory’s name? And shall the conquering love that filled All earth with flame, Re-born, revived, renewed, immortal, Resume his reign in prouder might, A sun beyond the ebon portal, Of death and night?

[Sidenote: JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN]

No more, no more--with aching brow, And restless heart, and burning brain, We ask the When, the Where, the How, And ask in vain. And all philosophy, all faith, All earthly--all celestial lore, Have but one voice, which only saith Endure--adore!

The Wild Geese.

[Sidenote: ROSA MULHOLLAND]

I had no sail to cross the sea, A brave white bird went forth from me, My heart was hid beneath his wing: O strong white bird, come back in spring!

I watched the Wild Geese rise and cry Across the flaring western sky; Their winnowing pinions clove the light, Then vanished, and came down the night.

I laid me low, my day was done, I longed not for the morrow’s sun, But closely swathed in swoon of sleep, Forgot to hope, forgot to weep.

The moon, through veils of gloomy red, A warm yet dusky radiance shed All down our valley’s golden stream And flushed my slumber with a dream.

Her mystic torch lit up my brain; My spirit rose and lived amain, And follow through the windy spray That bird upon its watery way.

“O wild white bird, O wail for me! My soul hath wings to fly with thee: On foam waves, lengthening out afar, We’ll ride toward the western star.

“O’er glimmering plains, through forest gloom, To track a wanderer’s feet I come; ’Mid lonely swamp, by haunted brake, I’ll pass unfrighted for his sake.

“Alone, afar, his footsteps roam, The stars his roof, the tent his home. Saw’st thou what way the Wild Geese flew To sunward through the thick night dew?

[Sidenote: ROSA MULHOLLAND]

“Carry my soul where he abides, And pierce the mystery that hides His presence, and through time and space Look with mine eyes upon his face.”

“Beside his prairie fire he rests, All feathered things are in their nests: ‘What strange wild bird is this,’ he saith, ‘Still fragrant with the ocean’s breath?

“‘Perch on my hand, thou briny thing, And let me stroke thy shy wet wing; What message in thy soft eye thrills? I see again my native hills

“‘And vale, the river’s silver streak, The mist upon the blue, blue peak, The shadows grey, the golden sheaves, The mossy walls, the russet eaves.

“‘I greet the friends I’ve loved and lost, Do all forget? No, tempest-tost, That braved for me the ocean’s foam, Some heart remembers me at home.

“‘Ere spring’s return I will be there, Thou strange sea-fragrant messenger! I wake and weep; the moon shines sweet, O dream too short! O bird too fleet!’”

Lament for a Little Child.

[Sidenote: RODEN NOEL]

I am lying in the tomb, love, Lying in the tomb, Tho’ I move within the gloom, love, Breathe within the gloom! Men deem life not fled, dear, Deem my life not fled, Tho’ I with thee am dead, dear, I with thee am dead, O my little child!

What is the grey world, darling, What is the grey world, Where the worm lies curled, darling, The death-worm lies curled? They tell me of the spring, dear! Do I want the spring? Will she waft upon her wing, dear, The joy-pulse of her wing, Thy songs, thy blossoming, O my little child!

For the hallowing of thy smile, love, The rainbow of thy smile, Gleaming for a while, love, Gleaming to beguile, Re-plunged me in the cold, dear, Leaves me in the cold, And I feel so very old, dear, Very, very old!

Would they put me out of pain, dear, Out of all my pain, Since I may not live again, dear, Never live again!

I am lying in the grave, love, In thy little grave, Yet I hear the wind rave, love, And the wild wave! I would lie asleep, darling, With thee lie asleep, Unhearing the world weep, darling, Little children weep! O my little child!

The Swimmer.

Yonder, lo! the tide is flowing; Clamber, while the breeze is blowing, Down to where a soft foam flusters Dulse and fairy feathery clusters! While it fills the shelly hollows, A swift sister-billow follows, Leaps in hurrying with the tide, Seems the lingering wave to chide; Both push on with eager life, And a gurgling show of strife. O the salt, refreshing air Shrilly blowing in the hair! A keen, healthful savour haunts Sea-shell, sea-flower, and sea-plants. Innocent billows on the strand Leave a crystal over sand, Whose thin ebbing soon is crossed By a crystal foam-enmossed, Variegating silver-grey Shell-empetalled sand in play: When from sand dries off the brine, Vanishes swift shadow fine; But a wet sand is a glass Where the plumy cloudlets pass, Floating islands of the blue, Tender, shining, fair, and true.