Part 1
Transcriber's Notes
1. Typographical Errors have been silently corrected.
2. Variations of spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.
3. In the following text, it is coded for italics thus _italic_ and small-caps as +CAPITALS+
4. Footnotes moved to the end of the book.
* * * * *
POEMS
BY
SPERANZA
(LADY WILDE)
_NEW EDITION._,
Dublin: M. H. GILL & SON, LTD.
_Printed and Bound_
_in Ireland_
CONTENTS.
DEDICATION,--TO IRELAND, iii
THE BROTHERS, 7
THE FAMINE YEAR, 10
THE ENIGMA, 12
THE VOICE OF THE POOR, 14
A SUPPLICATION, 15
FORESHADOWINGS, 17
TO A DESPONDENT NATIONALIST, 20
SIGNS OF THE TIMES, 21
THE OLD MAN'S BLESSING, 23
MAN'S MISSION, 25
A LAMENT, 27
THE YOUNG PATRIOT LEADER, 28
ATTENDITE POPULE, 30
FORWARD, 30
HAVE YE COUNTED THE COST, 33
THE YEAR OF REVOLUTIONS, 35
RUINS, 36
DISCIPLINE, 41
THE EXODUS, 43
THE FAITHLESS SHEPHERDS, 45
WORK WHILE IT IS CALLED TO-DAY, 47
TO-DAY, 50
A REMONSTRANCE, 52
FRANCE IN '93, 53
THE FALL OF THE TYRANTS, 55
WHO WILL SHOW US ANY GOOD? 59
A LAMENT FOR THE POTATO, 63
HAVE WE DONE WELL FOR IRELAND, 65
WILLIAM CARLETON, 66
THE NEW PATH, 68
O'CONNELL, 71
ASPIRATIONS, 72
THE PARABLE OF LIFE, 75
VANITAS, 80
FATALITY, 81
DESTINY, 82
MEMORY, 84
CORINNE'S LAST LOVE-SONG, 85
THE DYING CHRISTIAN, 85
SYMPATHIES WITH THE UNIVERSAL, 87
LA VIA DOLOROSA, 88
SHADOWS FROM LIFE, 89
Wanderings through European Literature:
LE REVEILLE, 97
OUR FATHERLAND, 98
THE KNIGHT'S PLEDGE, 100
OPPORTUNITY, 101
KING ERICK'S FAITH, 102
"FOR NORGE!" 103
THE FOUNTAIN IN THE FOREST, 105
SALVATION, 108
MISERY IS MYSTERY, 109
FAREWELL! 110
CATARINA, 110
THE POET AT COURT, 111
THE MYSTIC TREE, 112
'TIS NOT UPON EARTH, 113
THE ITINERANT SINGING GIRL, 114
IGNEZ DE CASTRO, 115
THE WAIWODE, 117
THE COMPARISON, 119
BUDRIS AND HIS SONS, 121
THE LADY BEATRIZ, 123
A SERVIAN SONG, 124
INSTABILITY, 125
A WARNING, 126
CASSANDRA, 128
UNDINE, 132
THE PAST, 136
THE FISHERMAN, 138
THE IDEAL, 139
THE EXILE, 142
DEATH WISHES, 143
HYMN TO THE CROSS, 144
JESUS TO THE SOUL, 145
TRISTAN AND ISOLDE, 146
THEKLA: A SWEDISH SAGA-- PART I.--THE TEMPTATION, 148 " II.--THE SIN, 150 " III.--THE BRIDAL, 153 " IV.--THE PUNISHMENT, 154 " V.--THE EXPIATION, 160 " VI.--GOD'S JUSTICE, 162 " VII.--GOD'S MERCY, 165
WHY WEEPEST THOU? 168
SULEIMA TO HER LOVER, 169
A LA SOMBRA DE MIS CABELLOS, 169
CONSTANCY, 170
THE FATE OF THE LYRIST, 171
THE POET'S DESTINY, 172
DESILLUSION, 172
THE PRISONERS, 173
THE DAWN, 176
AN APPEAL TO IRELAND, 178
DEDICATION.
To Ireland.
I.
My country, wounded to the heart, Could I but flash along thy soul Electric power to rive apart The thunder-clouds that round thee roll, And, by my burning words, uplift Thy life from out Death's icy drift, Till the full splendours of our age Shone round thee for thy heritage-- As Miriam's, by the Red Sea strand Clashing proud cymbals, so my hand Would strike thy harp, Loved Ireland!
II.
She flung her triumphs to the stars In glorious chants for freedom won, While over Pharaoh's gilded cars The fierce, death-bearing waves rolled on; I can but look in God's great face, And pray Him for our fated race, To come in Sinai thunders down, And, with His mystic radiance, crown Some Prophet-Leader, with command To break the strength of Egypt's band, And set thee free, Loved Ireland!
III.
New energies, from higher source, Must make the strong life-currents flow, As Alpine glaciers in their course Stir the deep torrents 'neath the snow. The woman's voice dies in the strife Of Liberty's awakening life; We wait the hero heart to lead, The hero, who can guide at need, And strike with bolder, stronger hand, Though towering hosts his path withstand Thy golden harp, Loved Ireland!
IV.
For I can breathe no trumpet call, To make the slumb'ring Soul arise; I only lift the funeral-pall, That so God's light might touch thine eyes, And ring the silver prayer-bell clear, To rouse thee from thy trance of fear; Yet, if thy mighty heart has stirred, Even with one pulse-throb at my word, Then not in vain my woman's hand Has struck thy gold harp while I stand, Waiting thy rise Loved Ireland!
POEMS.
THE BROTHERS.
A SCENE FROM '98.
"Oh! give me _truths_, For I am weary of the surfaces, And die of inanition."--+EMERSON.+
I.
'Tis midnight, falls the lamp-light dull and sickly, On a pale and anxious crowd, Through the court, and round the judges, thronging thickly, With prayers none dare to speak aloud. Two youths, two noble youths, stand prisoners at the bar-- You can see them through the gloom-- In pride of life and manhood's beauty, there they are Awaiting their death doom.
II.
All eyes an earnest watch on them are keeping, Some, sobbing, turn away, And the strongest men can hardly see for weeping, So noble and so loved were they. Their hands are locked together, those young brothers, As before the judge they stand-- They feel not the deep grief that moves the others, For they die for Fatherland.
III.
They are pale, but it is not fear that whitens On each proud, high brow, For the triumph of the martyr's glory brightens Around them even now. They sought to free their land from thrall of stranger; Was it treason? Let them die; But their blood will cry to Heaven--the Avenger Yet will hearken from on high.
IV.
Before them, shrinking, cowering, scarcely human, The base informer bends, Who, Judas-like, could sell the blood of true men, While he clasped their hands as friends. Aye, could fondle the young children of his victim, Break bread with his young wife, At the moment that for gold his perjured dictum Sold the husband and the father's life.
V.
There is silence in the midnight--eyes are keeping Troubled watch till forth the jury come; There is silence in the midnight--eyes are weeping-- "Guilty!"--is the fatal uttered doom. For a moment o'er the brothers' noble faces Came a shadow sad to see; Then silently they rose up in their places, And embraced each other fervently.
VI.
Oh! the rudest heart might tremble at such sorrow, The rudest cheek might blanch at such a scene: Twice the judge essayed to speak the word--to-morrow-- Twice faltered, as a woman he had been. To-morrow!--Fain the elder would have spoken, Prayed for respite, tho' it is not death he fears; But thoughts of home and wife his heart hath broken, And his words are stopped by tears.
VII.
But the youngest--oh, he spake out bold and clearly:-- "I have no ties of children or of wife; Let me die--but spare the brother who more dearly Is loved by me than life." Pale martyrs, ye may cease, your days are numbered; Next noon your sun of life goes down; One day between the sentence and the scaffold-- One day between the torture and the crown!
VIII.
A hymn of joy is rising from creation; Bright the azure of the glorious summer sky; But human hearts weep sore in lamentation, For the Brothers are led forth to die. Aye, guard them with your cannon and your lances-- So of old came martyrs to the stake; Aye, guard them--see the people's flashing glances, For those noble two are dying for their sake.
IX.
Yet none spring forth their bonds to sever Ah! methinks, had I been there, I'd have dared a thousand deaths ere ever The sword should touch their hair. It falls!--there is a shriek of lamentation From the weeping crowd around; They're stilled--the noblest hearts within the nation-- The noblest heads lie bleeding on the ground.
X.
Years have passed since that fatal scene of dying, Yet, lifelike to this day, In their coffins still those severed heads are lying, Kept by angels from decay. Oh! they preach to us, those still and pallid features-- Those pale lips yet implore us, from their graves, To strive for our birthright as God's creatures, Or die, if we can but live as slaves.
THE FAMINE YEAR.
I.
Weary men, what reap ye?--Golden corn for the stranger. What sow ye?--Human corses that wait for the avenger. Fainting forms, hunger-stricken, what see you in the offing? Stately ships to bear our food away, amid the stranger's scoffing. There's a proud array of soldiers--what do they round your door? They guard our masters' granaries from the thin hands of the poor. Pale mothers, wherefore weeping?--Would to God that we were dead-- Our children swoon before us, and we cannot give them bread.
II.
Little children, tears are strange upon your infant faces, God meant you but to smile within your mother's soft embraces. Oh! we know not what is smiling, and we know not what is dying; But we're hungry, very hungry, and we cannot stop our crying. And some of us grow cold and white--we know not what it means; But, as they lie beside us, we tremble in our dreams. There's a gaunt crowd on the highway--are ye come to pray to man, With hollow eyes that cannot weep, and for words your faces wan?
III.
No; the blood is dead within our veins--we care not now for life; Let us die hid in the ditches, far from children and from wife; We cannot stay and listen to their raving, famished cries-- Bread! Bread! Bread! and none to still their agonies. We left our infants playing with their dead mother's hand: We left our maidens maddened by the fever's scorching brand: Better, maiden, thou were strangled in thy own dark-twisted tresses-- Better, infant, thou wert smothered in thy mother's first caresses.
IV.
We are fainting in our misery, but God will hear our groan; Yet, if fellow-men desert us, will He hearken from His Throne? Accursed are we in our own land, yet toil we still and toil; But the stranger reaps our harvest--the alien owns our soil. O Christ! how have we sinned, that on our native plains We perish houseless, naked, starved, with branded brow, like Cain's? Dying, dying wearily, with a torture sure and slow-- Dying, as a dog would die, by the wayside as we go.
V.
One by one they're falling round us, their pale faces to the sky; We've no strength left to dig them graves--there let them lie. The wild bird, if he's stricken, is mourned by the others, But we--we die in Christian land--we die amid our brothers, In the land which God has given, like a wild beast in his cave, Without a tear, a prayer, a shroud, a coffin, or a grave. Ha! but think ye the contortions on each livid face ye see, Will not be read on judgment-day by eyes of Deity?
VI.
We are wretches, famished, scorned, human tools to build your pride, But God will yet take vengeance for the souls for whom Christ died. Now is your hour of pleasure--bask ye in the world's caress; But our whitening bones against ye will rise as witnesses, From the cabins and the ditches, in their charred, uncoffin'd masses, For the Angel of the Trumpet will know them as he passes. A ghastly, spectral army, before the great God we'll stand, And arraign ye as our murderers, the spoilers of our land.
THE ENIGMA.
Pale victims, where is your Fatherland? Where oppression is law from age to age, Where the death-plague, and hunger, and misery rage. And tyrants a godless warfare wage 'Gainst the holiest rights of an ancient land
Where the corn waves green on the fair hillside, But each sheaf by the serfs and slavelings tied Is taken to pamper a foreigner's pride-- There is our suffering Fatherland.
Where broad rivers flow 'neath a glorious sky, And the valleys like gems of emerald lie; Yet, the young men, and strong men, starve and die, For want of bread in their own rich land.
And we pile up their corpses, heap on heap, While the pale mothers faint, and the children weep; Yet, the living might envy the dead their sleep, So bitter is life in that mourning land.
Oh! Heaven ne'er looked on a sadder scene; Earth shuddered to hear that such woe had been; Then we prayed, in despair, to a foreign queen, For leave to live on our own fair land.
We have wept till our faces are pale and wan; We have knelt to a throne till our strength is gone; We prayed to our masters, but, one by one, They laughed to scorn our suffering land;
And sent forth their minions, with cannon and steel, Swearing with fierce, unholy zeal, To trample us down with an iron heel, If we dared but to murmur our just demand.-- Know ye not now our Fatherland?
What! are there no +MEN+ in your Fatherland, To confront the tyrant's stormy glare, With a scorn as deep as the wrongs ye bear, With defiance as fierce as the oaths they sware, With vengeance as wild as the cries of despair, That rise from your suffering Fatherland?
Are there no +SWORDS+ in your Fatherland, To smite down the proud, insulting foe, With the strength of dispair give blow for blow Till the blood of the baffled murderers flow On the trampled soil of your outraged land?
Are your right arms weak in that land of slaves, That ye stand by your murdered brothers' graves, Yet tremble like coward and crouching knaves, To strike for freedom and Fatherland?
Oh! had ye faith in your Fatherland, In God, your Cause, and your own right hand, Ye would go forth as saints to the holy fight, Go in the strength of eternal right, Go in the conquering Godhead's might-- And save or +AVENGE+ your Fatherland!
THE VOICE OF THE POOR.
I.
Was sorrow ever like to our sorrow? Oh, God above! Will our night never change into a morrow Of joy and love? A deadly gloom is on us waking, sleeping, Like the darkness at noontide, That fell upon the pallid mother, weeping By the Crucified.
II.
Before us die our brothers of starvation: Around are cries of famine and despair Where is hope for us, or comfort, or salvation-- Where--oh! where? If the angels ever hearken, downward bending They are weeping, we are sure, At the litanies of human groans ascending From the crushed hearts of the poor.
III.
When the human rests in love upon the human, All grief is light; But who bends one kind glance to illumine Our life-long night? The air around is ringing with their laughter-- God has only made the rich to smile; But we--in our rags, and want, and woe--we follow after, Weeping the while.
IV.
And the laughter seems but uttered to deride us. When--oh! when Will fall the frozen barriers that divide us From other men? Will ignorance for ever thus enslave us? Will misery for ever lay us low? All are eager with their insults, but to save us, None, none, we know
V.
We never knew a childhood's mirth and gladness, Nor the proud heart of youth, free and brave; Oh! a deathlike dream of wretchedness and sadness, Is life's weary journey to the grave. Day by day we lower sink and lower, Till the Godlike soul within, Falls crushed, beneath the fearful demon power Of poverty and sin.
VI.
So we toil on, on with fever burning In heart and brain; So we toil on, on through bitter scorning, Want, woe, and pain: We dare not raise our eyes to the blue heaven, Or the toil must cease-- We date not breathe the fresh air God has given One hour in peace.
VII.
We must toil, though the light of life is burning, Oh, how dim! We must toil on our sick bed, feebly turning Our eyes to Him, Who alone can hear the pale lip faintly saying, With scarce moved breath While the paler hands, uplifted, aid the praying-- "Lord, grant us _Death_!"
A SUPPLICATION.
"DE PROFUNDIS CLAMAVI AD TE DOMINE."
By our looks of mute despair, By the sighs that rend the air, From lips too faint to utter prayer, Kyrie Eleison.
By the last groans of our dying, Echoed by the cold wind's sighing On the wayside as they're lying, Kyrie Eleison.
By our fever-stricken bands Lifting up their wasted hands For bread throughout the far-off lands, Kyrie Eleison
Miserable outcasts we, Pariahs of humanity, Shunned by all where'er we flee, Kyrie Eleison.
For our dead no bell is ringing, Round their forms no shroud is clinging, Save the rank grass newly springing, Kyrie Eleison.
Golden harvests we are reaping, With golden grain our barns heaping, But for us our bread is weeping, Kyrie Eleison.
Death-devoted in our home, Sad we cross the salt sea's foam, But death we bring where'er we roam, Kyrie Eleison.
Whereso'er our steps are led, They can track us by our dead, Lying on their cold earth bed, Kyrie Eleison.
We have sinned--in vain each warning-- Brother lived his brother scorning, Now in ashes see us mourning, Kyrie Eleison.
Heeding not our country's state, Trodden down and desolate, While we strove in senseless hate, Kyrie Eleison.
We have sinned, but holier zeal May we Christian patriots feel, Oh! for our dear country's weal, Kyrie Eleison.
Let us lift our streaming eyes To God's throne above the skies, He will hear our anguish cries, Kyrie Eleison.
Kneel beside me, oh! my brother, Let us pray each with the other, For Ireland, our mourning mother, Kyrie Eleison.
FORESHADOWINGS.
I.
Oremus! Oremus! Look down on us, Father! Like visions of Patmos Thy last judgments gather The angels of doom, in bright, terrible beauty, Rise up from their thrones to fulfil their stern duty. Woe to us, woe! the thunders have spoken, The first of the mystical seals hath been broken.
II.
Through the cleft thunder-cloud the weird coursers are rushing-- Their hoofs will strike deep in the hearts they are crushing; And the crown'd and the proud of the old kingly races Fall down at the vision, like stars from their places: _Oremus! Oremus!_ The pale earth is heark'ning; Already the spirit-steeds round us are dark'ning.
III.
With crown and with bow, on his white steed immortal, The Angel of Wrath passes first through the portal; But faces grow paler, and hush'd is earth's laughter, When on his pale steed comes the Plague Spirit after. _Oremus! Oremus!_ His poison-breath slayeth; The red will soon fade from each bright lip that prayeth.
IV.
Now, with nostrils dilated and thunder hoofs crashing, On rushes the war-steed, his lurid eyes flashing; There is blood on the track where his long mane is streaming, There is death where the sword of his rider is gleaming. Woe to the lands where that red steed is flying! There tyrants are warring, and heroes are dying.
V.
Oh! the golden-hair'd children reck nought but their playing, Thro' the rich fields of corn with their young mothers straying; And the strong-hearted men, with their muscles of iron, What reck they of ills that their pathway environ? There's a tramp like a knell--a cold shadow gloometh-- Woe! 'tis the black steed of Famine that cometh.
VI.