Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy Part 25

TO KENELM HENRY DIGBY, AUTHOR OF "MORES CATHOLICI," "THE BROADSTONE OF HONOUR,"

"COMPITUM," ETC.

(On being presented by him with a copy, painted by himself, of a rare Portrait of Calderon.)

How can I thank thee for this gift of thine, Digby, the dawn and day-star of our age, Forerunner thou of many a saint and sage Who since have fought and conquer'd 'neath the Sign?

Thou hast left, as in a sacred shrine-- What shrine more pure than thy unspotted page?-- The priceless relics, as a heritage, Of loftiest thoughts and lessons most divine.

Poet and teacher of sublimest lore, Thou scornest not the painter's mimic skill, And thus hath come, obedient to thy will The outward form that Calderon's spirit wore.

Ah! happy canvas that two glories fill, Where Calderon lives 'neath Digby's hand once more.

October 15th, 1878.

TO ETHNA.[108]

Ethna, to cull sweet flowers divinely fair, To seek for gems of such transparent light As would not be unworthy to unite Round thy fair brow, and through thy dark-brown hair, I would that I had wings to cleave the air, In search of some far region of delight, That back to thee from that adventurous flight, A glorious wreath my happy hands might bear; Soon would the sweetest Persian rose be thine-- Soon would the glory of Golconda's mine Flash on thy forehead, like a star--ah! me, In place of these, I bring, with trembling hand, These fading wild flowers from our native land-- These simple pebbles from the Irish Sea!

108. This sonnet to the poet's wife was prefixed as a dedication to his first volume of poems.

Underglimpses.

THE ARRAYING.

The blue-eyed maidens of the sea With trembling haste approach the lee, So small and smooth, they seem to be Not waves, but children of the waves, And as each link'ed circle laves The crescent marge of creek and bay, Their mingled voices all repeat-- O lovely May! O long'd-for May!

We come to bathe thy snow-white feet.

We bring thee treasures rich and rare, White pearl to deck thy golden hair, And coral beads, so smoothly fair And free from every flaw or speck; That they may lie upon thy neck, This sweetest day--this brightest day That ever on the green world shone-- O lovely May, O long'd-for May!

As if thy neck and thee were one.

We bring thee from our distant home Robes of the pure white-woven foam, And many a pure, transparent comb, Formed of the sh.e.l.ls the tortoise plaits, By Babelmandeb's coral-straits; And amber vases, with inlay Of roseate pearl time never dims-- O lovely May! O longed-for May!

Wherein to lave thine ivory limbs.

We bring, as sandals for thy feet, Beam-broidered waves, like those that greet, With green and golden chrysolite, The setting sun's departing beams, When all the western water seems Like emeralds melted by his ray, So softly bright, so gently warm-- O lovely May! O long'd-for May!

That thou canst trust thy tender form.

And lo! the ladies of the hill, The rippling stream, and sparkling rill, With rival speed, and like good will, Come, bearing down the mountain's side The liquid crystals of the tide, In vitreous vessels clear as they, And cry, from each worn, winding path: O lovely May! O long'd-for May!

We come to lead thee to the bath.

And we have fas.h.i.+oned, for thy sake, Mirrors more bright than art could make-- The silvery-sheeted mountain lake Hangs in its carv'ed frame of rocks, Wherein to dress thy dripping locks, Or bind the dewy curls that stray Thy trembling breast meandering down-- O lovely May! O long'd-for May!

Within their self-woven crown.

Arise, O May! arise and see Thine emerald robes are held for thee By many a hundred-handed tree, Who lift from all the fields around The verdurous velvet from the ground, And then the spotless vestments lay, Smooth-folded o'er their outstretch'd arms-- O lovely May! O long'd-for May!

Wherein to fold thy virgin charms.

Thy robes are stiff with golden bees, Dotted with gems more bright than these, And scented by each perfumed breeze That, blown from heaven's re-open'd bowers, Become the souls of new-born flowers, Who thus their sacred birth betray; Heavenly thou art, nor less should be-- O lovely May! O long'd-for May!

The favour'd forms that wait on thee.

The moss to guard thy feet is spread, The wreaths are woven for thy head, The rosy curtains of thy bed Become transparent in the blaze Of the strong sun's resistless gaze: Then lady, make no more delay, The world still lives, though spring be dead-- O lovely May! O long'd-for May!

And thou must rule and reign instead.

The lady from her bed arose, Her bed the leaves the moss-bud blows Herself a lily in that rose; The maidens of the streams and sands Bathe some her feet and some her hands: And some the emerald robes display; Her dewy locks were then upcurled, And lovely May--the long'd-for May-- Was crown'd the Queen of all the World!

THE SEARCH.

Let us seek the modest May, She is down in the glen, Hiding and abiding From the common gaze of men, Where the silver streamlet crosses O'er the smooth stones green with mosses, And glancing and dancing, Goes singing on its way-- We shall find the modest maiden there to-day.

Let us seek the merry May, She is up on the hill, Laughing and quaffing From the fountain and the rill.

Where the southern zephyr sprinkles, Like bright smiles on age's wrinkles, O'er the edges and ledges Of the rocks, the wild flowers gay-- We shall find the merry maiden there to-day.

Let us seek the musing May, She is deep in the wood, Viewing and pursuing The beautiful and good.

Where the gra.s.sy bank receding, Spreads its quiet couch for reading The pages of the sages, And the poet's lyric lay-- We shall find the musing maiden there to-day.

Let us seek the mirthful May, She is out on the strand Racing and chasing The ripples o'er the sand.

Where the warming waves discover All the treasures that they cover, Whitening and brightening The pebbles for her play-- We shall find the mirthful maiden there to-day.

Let us seek the wandering May, She is off to the plain, Finding the winding Of the labyrinthine lane.

She is pa.s.sing through its mazes While the hawthorn, as it gazes With grief, lets its leaflets Whiten all the way-- We shall find the wandering maiden there to-day.

Let us seek her in the ray-- Let us track her by the rill-- Wending ascending The slopings of the hill.

Where the robin from the copses Breathes a love-note, and then drops his Trilling, till, willing, His mate responds his lay-- We shall find the listening maiden there to-day.

But why seek her far away?

Like a young bird in its nest, She is warming and forming Her dwelling in her breast.

While the heart she doth repose on, Like the down the sunwind blows on, Gloweth, yet showeth The trembling of the ray-- We shall find the happy maiden there to-day.

THE TIDINGS.

A bright beam came to my window frame, This sweet May morn, And it said to the cold, hard gla.s.s: Oh! let me pa.s.s, For I have good news to tell, The queen of the dewy dell, The beautiful May is born!

Warm with the race, through the open s.p.a.ce, This sweet May morn, Came a soft wind out of the skies: And it said to my heart--Arise!

Go forth from the winter's fire, For the child of thy long desire, The beautiful May is born!

The bright beam glanced and the soft wind danced, This sweet May morn, Over my cheek and over my eyes; And I said with a glad surprise: Oh! lead me forth, ye blessed twain, Over the hill and over the plain, Where the beautiful May is born.

Through the open door leaped the beam before This sweet May morn, And the soft wind floated along, Like a poet's song, Warm from his heart and fresh from his brain; And they led me over the mount and plain, To the beautiful May new-born.

My guide so bright and my guide so light, This sweet May morn, Led me along o'er the gra.s.sy ground, And I knew by each joyous sight and sound, The fields so green and the skies so gay, That heaven and earth kept holiday, That the beautiful May was born.