Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy Part 3

Fair is this isle--this dear child of the ocean-- Nurtured with more than a mother's devotion; For see! in what rich robes has nature arrayed her, From the waves of the west to the cliffs of Ben Hader,[17]

By Glengariff's lone islets--Lough Lene's fairy water,[18]

So lovely was each, that then matchless I thought her; But I feel, as I stray through each sweet-scented alley, Less wild but more fair is this soft verdant valley!

Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah!

Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah!

No wide-spreading prairie, no Indian savannah, So dear to the eye as the Vale of Shanganah!

How pleased, how delighted, the rapt eye reposes On the picture of beauty this valley discloses, From the margin of silver, whereon the blue water Doth glance like the eyes of the ocean foam's daughter!

To where, with the red clouds of morning combining, The tall "Golden Spears"[19] o'er the mountains are s.h.i.+ning, With the hue of their heather, as sunlight advances, Like purple flags furled round the staffs of the lances!

Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah!

Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah!

No lands far away by the swift Susquehannah, So tranquil and fair as the Vale of Shanganah!

But here, even here, the lone heart were benighted, No beauty could reach it, if love did not light it; 'Tis this makes the earth, oh! what mortal could doubt it?

A garden with it, but a desert without it!

With the lov'd one, whose feelings instinctively teach her That goodness of heart makes the beauty of feature.

How glad, through this vale, would I float down life's river, Enjoying G.o.d's bounty, and blessing the Giver!

Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah!

Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah!

May the accents of love, like the droppings of manna, Fall sweet on my heart in the Vale of Shanganah!

16. Lying to the south of Killiney-hill, near Dublin.

17. Hill of Howth.

18. Killarney.

19. The Sugarloaf Mountains, county Wicklow, were called in Irish, "The Spears of Gold."

THE PILLAR TOWERS OF IRELAND.

The pillar towers of Ireland, how wondrously they stand By the lakes and rus.h.i.+ng rivers through the valleys of our land; In mystic file, through the isle, they lift their heads sublime, These gray old pillar temples, these conquerors of time!

Beside these gray old pillars, how peris.h.i.+ng and weak The Roman's arch of triumph, and the temple of the Greek, And the gold domes of Byzantium, and the pointed Gothic spires, All are gone, one by one, but the temples of our sires!

The column, with its capital, is level with the dust, And the proud halls of the mighty and the calm homes of the just; For the proudest works of man, as certainly, but slower, Pa.s.s like the gra.s.s at the sharp scythe of the mower!

But the gra.s.s grows again when in majesty and mirth, On the wing of the spring, comes the G.o.ddess of the Earth; But for man in this world no springtide e'er returns To the labours of his hands or the ashes of his urns!

Two favourites hath Time--the pyramids of Nile, And the old mystic temples of our own dear isle; As the breeze o'er the seas, where the halcyon has its nest, Thus Time o'er Egypt's tombs and the temples of the West!

The names of their founders have vanished in the gloom, Like the dry branch in the fire or the body in the tomb; But to-day, in the ray, their shadows still they cast-- These temples of forgotten G.o.ds--these relics of the past!

Around these walls have wandered the Briton and the Dane-- The captives of Armorica, the cavaliers of Spain-- Phoenician and Milesian, and the plundering Norman Peers-- And the swordsmen of brave Brian, and the chiefs of later years!

How many different rites have these gray old temples known!

To the mind what dreams are written in these chronicles of stone!

What terror and what error, what gleams of love and truth, Have flashed from these walls since the world was in its youth?

Here blazed the sacred fire, and, when the sun was gone, As a star from afar to the traveller it shone; And the warm blood of the victim have these gray old temples drunk, And the death-song of the druid and the matin of the monk.

Here was placed the holy chalice that held the sacred wine, And the gold cross from the altar, and the relics from the shrine, And the mitre s.h.i.+ning brighter with its diamonds than the East, And the crosier of the pontiff and the vestments of the priest.

Where blazed the sacred fire, rung out the vesper bell, Where the fugitive found shelter, became the hermit's cell; And hope hung out its symbol to the innocent and good, For the cross o'er the moss of the pointed summit stood.

There may it stand for ever, while that symbol doth impart To the mind one glorious vision, or one proud throb to the heart; While the breast needeth rest may these gray old temples last, Bright prophets of the future, as preachers of the past!

OVER THE SEA.

Sad eyes! why are ye steadfastly gazing Over the sea?

Is it the flock of the ocean-shepherd grazing Like lambs on the lea?-- Is it the dawn on the orient billows blazing Allureth ye?

Sad heart! why art thou tremblingly beating-- What troubleth thee?

There where the waves from the fathomless water come greeting, Wild with their glee!

Or rush from the rocks, like a routed battalion retreating, Over the sea!

Sad feet! why are ye constantly straying Down by the sea?

There, where the winds in the sandy harbour are playing Child-like and free, What is the charm, whose potent enchantment obeying, There chaineth ye?

O! sweet is the dawn, and bright are the colours it glows in, Yet not to me!

To the beauty of G.o.d's bright creation my bosom is frozen!

Nought can I see, Since she has departed--the dear one, the loved one, the chosen, Over the sea!

Pleasant it was when the billows did struggle and wrestle, Pleasant to see!

Pleasant to climb the tall cliffs where the sea birds nestle, When near to thee!

Nought can I now behold but the track of thy vessel Over the sea!

Long as a Lapland winter, which no pleasant sunlight cheereth, The summer shall be Vainly shall autumn be gay, in the rich robes it weareth, Vainly for me!

No joy can I feel till the prow of thy vessel appeareth Over the sea!

Sweeter than summer, which tenderly, motherly bringeth Flowers to the bee; Sweeter than autumn, which bounteously, lovingly flingeth Fruits on the tree, Shall be winter, when homeward returning, thy swift vessel wingeth Over the sea!

OH! HAD I THE WINGS OF A BIRD.

Oh! had I the wings of a bird, To soar through the blue, sunny sky, By what breeze would my pinions be stirred?

To what beautiful land should I fly?

Would the gorgeous East allure, With the light of its golden eyes, Where the tall green palm, over isles of balm, Waves with its feathery leaves?

Ah! no! no! no!

I heed not its tempting glare; In vain should I roam from my island home, For skies more fair!

Should I seek a southern sea, Italia's sh.o.r.e beside, Where the cl.u.s.tering grape from tree to tree Hangs in its rosy pride?

My truant heart, be still, For I long have sighed to stray Through the myrtle flowers of fair Italy's bowers.