Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy Part 31

There is love for the young, there is life for the old, And wealth for the needy, and heat for the cold; For the dew scatters, nightly, its diamonds untold, And the snowdrop its silver, the crocus its gold!

G.o.d!--whose goodness and greatness we bless and adore-- Be Thou praised for this angel--the first of the four-- To whose charge Thou has given the world's uttermost sh.o.r.e, To guide it, and guard it, till time is no more!

SPIRIT VOICES.

There are voices, spirit voices, Sweetly sounding everywhere, At whose coming earth rejoices, And the echoing realms of air, And their joy and jubilation Pierce the near and reach the far, From the rapid world's gyration To the twinkling of the star.

One, a potent voice uplifting, Stops the white cloud on its way, As it drives with driftless drifting O'er the vacant vault of day, And in sounds of soft upbraiding Calls it down the void inane To the gilding and the shading Of the mountain and the plain.

Airy offspring of the fountains, To thy destined duty sail, Seek it on the proudest mountains, Seek it in the humblest vale; Howsoever high thou fliest, How so deep it bids thee go, Be a beacon to the highest And a blessing to the low.

When the sad earth, broken-hearted, Hath not even a tear to shed, And her very soul seems parted For her children lying dead, Send the streams with warmer pulses Through that frozen fount of fears, And the sorrow that convulses, Soothe and soften down to tears.

Bear the suns.h.i.+ne and the shadow, Bear the rain-drop and the snow, Bear the night-dew to the meadow, And to hope the promised bow, Bear the moon, a moving mirror For her angel face and form, Bear to guilt the flas.h.i.+ng terror Of the lightning and the storm.

When thou thus hast done thy duty On the earth and o'er the sea, Bearing many a beam of beauty, Ever bettering what must be, Thus reflecting heaven's pure splendour And concealing ruined clay, Up to G.o.d thy spirit render, And dissolving pa.s.s away.

And with fond solicitation, Speaks another to the streams-- Leave your airy isolation, Quit the cloudy land of dreams, Break the lonely peak's attraction, Burst the solemn, silent glen, Seek the living world of action And the busy haunts of men.

Turn the mill-wheel with thy fingers, Turn the steam-wheel with thy breath, With thy tide that never lingers Save the dying fields from death; Let the swiftness of thy currents Bear to man the freight-fill'd s.h.i.+p, And the crystal of thy torrents Bring refreshment to his lip.

And when thou, O rapid river, Thy eternal home dost seek, When no more the willows quiver But to touch thy pa.s.sing cheek, When the groves no longer greet thee And the sh.o.r.e no longer kiss, Let infinitude come meet thee On the verge of the abyss.

Other voices seek to win us-- Low, suggestive, like the rest-- But the sweetest is within us In the stillness of the breast; Be it ours, with fond desiring, The same harvest to produce, As the cloud in its aspiring And the river in its use.

Centenary Odes.

O'CONNELL.

AUGUST 6TH, 1875.

Harp of my native land That lived anew 'neath Carolan's master hand; Harp on whose electric chords, The minstrel Moore's melodious words, Each word a bird that sings, Borne as if on Ariel's wings, Touched every tender soul From listening pole to pole.

Sweet harp, awake once more: What, though a ruder hand disturbs thy rest, A theme so high Will its own worth supply.

As finest gold is ever moulded best: Or as a cannon on some festive day, When sea and sky, when winds and waves rejoice, Out-booms with thunderous voice, Bids echo speak, and all the hills obey--

So let the verse in echoing accents ring, So proudly sing, With intermittent wail, The nation's dead, but sceptred King, The glory of the Gael.

1775.

Six hundred stormy years have flown, Since Erin fought to hold her own, To hold her homes, her altars free, Within her wall of circling sea.

No year of all those years had fled, No day had dawned that was not red, (Oft shed by fratricidal hand), With the best blood of all the land.

And now, at last, the fight seemed o'er, The sound of battle pealed no more; Abject the prostrate people lay, Nor dared to hope a better day; An icy chill, a fatal frost, Left them with all but honour lost, Left them with only trust in G.o.d, The lands were gone their fathers owned; Poor pariahs on their native sod.

Their faith was banned, their prophets stoned; Their temples crowning every height, Now echoed with an alien rite, Or silent lay each mouldering pile, With shattered cross and ruined aisle.

Letters denied, forbade to pray, And white-winged commerce scared away: Ah, what can rouse the dormant life That still survives the stormier strife?

What potent charm can once again Relift the cross, rebuild the fane?

Free learning from felonious chains, And give to youth immortal gains?

What signal mercy from on high?-- Hus.h.!.+ hark! I hear an infant's cry, The answer of a new-born child, From Iveragh's far mountain wild.

Yes, 'tis the cry of a child, feeble and faint in the night, But soon to thunder in tones that will rouse both tyrants and slaves.

Yes, 'tis the sob of a stream just awake in its source on the height, But soon to spread as a sea, and rush with the roaring of waves.

Yes, 'tis the cry of a child affection hastens to still, But what shall silence ere long the victor voice of the man?

Easy it is for a branch to bar the flow of the rill, But all the forest would fail where raging the torrent once ran.

And soon the torrent will run, and the pent-up waters o'erflow, For the child has risen to a man, and a shout replaces the cry; And a voice rings out through the world, so wing'ed with Erin's woe, That charmed are the nations to listen, and the Destinies to reply.

Boyhood had pa.s.sed away from that child, predestined by fate To dry the eyes of his mother, to end the worst of her ills, And the terrible record of wrong, and the annals of h.e.l.l and hate, Had gathered into his breast like a lake in the heart of the hills.

Brooding over the past, he found himself but a slave, With manacles forged on his mind, and fetters on every limb; The land that was life to others, to him was only a grave, And however the race he ran no victor wreath was for him.

The fane of learning was closed, shut out was the light of day, No ray from the sun of science, no brightness from Greece or Rome, And those who hungered for knowledge, like him, had to fly away, Where bountiful France threw wide the gates that were shut at home.

And there he happily learned a lore far better than books, A lesson he taught for ever, and thundered over the land, That Liberty's self is a terror, how lovely may be her looks, If religion is not in her heart, and reverence guide not her hand.

The steps of honour were barred: it was not for him to climb, No glorious goal in the future, no prize for the labour of life, And the fate of him and his people seemed fixed for all coming time To hew the wood of the helot and draw the waters of strife.

But the glorious youth returning Back from France the fair and free, Rage within his bosom burning, Such a servile sight to see, Vowed to heaven it should not be.

"No!" the youthful champion cried, "Mother Ireland, widowed bride, If thy freedom can be won By the service of a son, Then, behold that son in me.

I will give thee every hour, Every day shall be thy dower, In the splendour of the light, In the watches of the night, In the s.h.i.+ne and in the shower, I shall work but for thy right."

1782-1800.

A dazzling gleam of evanescent glory, Had pa.s.sed away, and all was dark once more, One golden page had lit the mournful story, Which ruthless hands with envious rage out-tore.

One glorious sun-burst, radiant and far-reaching, Had pierced the cloudy veil dark ages wove, When full-armed Freedom rose from Grattan's teaching, As sprang Minerva from the brain of Jove.

Oh! in the transient light that had outbroken, How all the land with quickening fire was lit!

What golden words of deathless speech were spoken, What lightning flashes of immortal wit!

Letters and arts revived beneath its beaming, Commerce and Hope outspread their swelling sails, And with "Free Trade" upon their standard gleaming, Now feared no foes and dared adventurous gales.

Across the stream the graceful arch extended, Above the pile the rounded dome arose, The soaring spire to heaven's high vault ascended, The loom hummed loud as bees at evening's close.

And yet 'mid all this hope and animation, The people still lay bound in bigot chains, Freedom that gave some slight alleviation, Could dare no panacea for their pains.

Yet faithful to their country's quick uprising, Like some fair island from volcanic waves, They shared the triumph though their claims despising, And hailed the freedom though themselves were slaves.

But soon had come the final compensation, Soon would the land one brotherhood have known, Had not some spell of h.e.l.lish incantation The new-formed fane of Freedom overthrown.

In one brief hour the fair mirage had faded, No isle of flowers lay glad on ocean's green, But in its stead, deserted and degraded, The barren strand of Slavery's sh.o.r.e was seen.