Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy Part 37

"Una dear, my heart is throbbing, Full of throbbings without number; Come! the tired-out streams are sobbing Like to children ere they slumber; And the longing trees inclining, Seek the earth's too distant bosom; Sad fate! that keeps from intertwining The earthly and the aerial blossom.

"Una dear, I've roamed the mountain, Round the furze and o'er the heather; Una, dear, I've sought the fountain Where we rested oft together; Ah! the mountain now looks dreary, Dead and dark where no life liveth; Ah! the fountain, to the weary, Now, no more refreshment giveth.

"Una, darling, dearest daughter Beauty ever gave to Fancy, Spirit of the silver water, Nymph of Nature's necromancy!

Fair enchantress, fond magician, Is thine every spell-word spoken?

Hast thou closed thy fairy mission?

Is thy potent wand then broken?

"Una dearest, deign to hear me, Fly no more my prayer resisting!"

Then a trembling voice came near me, Like a maiden to the trysting, Like a maiden's feet approaching Where the lover doth attend her; Half-forgiving, half-reproaching, Came that voice so shy and tender.

"Must I blame thee, must I chide thee, Change to scorn the love I bore thee?

And the fondest heart beside thee, And the truest eyes before thee.

And the kindest hands to press thee, And the instinctive sense to guide thee, And the purest lips to bless thee, What, O dreamer! is denied thee?

"Hast thou not the full fruition, Hast thou not the full enjoyance Of thy young heart's fond ambition, Free from every feared annoyance Thou hast sighed for truth and beauty, Hast thou failed, then, in thy wooing?

Dreamed of some ideal duty, Is there nought that waits thy doing?--

"Is the world less bright or beauteous, That dear eyes behold it with thee?

Is the work of life less duteous, That thou art helped to do it, prithee?

Is the near rapture non-existent, Because thou dreamest an ideal?

And canst thou for a glimmering distant Forget the blessings of the real?

"Down on thy knees, O doubting dreamer!

Down! and repent thy heart's misprision."

Scarce had I knelt in tears and tremor, When the scales fell from off my vision.

There stood my human guardian angel, Given me by G.o.d's benign foreseeing, While from her lips came life's evangel, "Live! that each day complete thy being!"

SPRING FLOWERS FROM IRELAND.

On receiving an early crocus and some violets in a letter from Ireland.

Within the letter's rustling fold I find once more a glad surprise-- A little tiny cup of gold-- Two little lovely violet eyes; A cup of gold with emeralds set, Once filled with wine from happier spheres; Two little eyes so lately wet With spring's delicious dewy tears.

Oh! little eyes that wept and laughed, Now bright with smiles, with tears now dim, Oh! little cup that once was quaffed By fay-queens fluttering round thy rim.

I press each silken fringe's fold, Sweet little eyes once more ye s.h.i.+ne; I kiss thy lip, oh, cup of gold, And find thee full of Memory's wine.

Within their violet depths I gaze, And see as in the camera's gloom, The island with its belt of bays, Its chieftained heights all capped with broom, Which as the living lens it fills, Now seems a giant charmed to sleep-- Now a broad s.h.i.+eld embossed with hills Upon the bosom of the deep.

When will the slumbering giant wake?

When will the s.h.i.+eld defend and guard?

Ah, me! prophetic gleams forsake The once rapt eyes of seer or bard.

Enough, if shunning Samson's fate, It doth not all its vigour yield; Enough, if plenteous peace, though late, May rest beneath the sheltering s.h.i.+eld.

I see the long and lone defiles Of Keimaneigh's bold rocks uphurled, I see the golden fruited isles That gem the queen-lakes of the world; I see--a gladder sight to me-- By soft Shanganah's silver strand, The breaking of a sapphire sea Upon the golden-fretted sand.

Swiftly the tunnel's rock-hewn pa.s.s, Swiftly the fiery train runs through; Oh! what a glittering sheet of gla.s.s!

Oh! what enchantment meets my view!

With eyes insatiate I pursue, Till Bray's bright headland bounds the scene.

'Tis Baiae, by a softer blue!

Gaeta, by a gladder green!

By ta.s.seled groves, o'er meadows fair, I'm carried in my blissful dream, To where--a monarch in the air-- The pointed mountain reigns supreme; There in a spot remote and wild, I see once more the rustic seat, Where Carrigoona, like a child, Sits at the mightier mountain's feet.

There by the gentler mountain's slope, That happiest year of many a year, That first swift year of love and hope, With her then dear and ever dear, I sat upon the rustic seat, The seat an aged bay-tree crowns, And saw outspreading from our feet The golden glory of the Downs.

The furze-crowned heights, the glorious glen, The white-walled chapel glistening near, The house of G.o.d, the homes of men, The fragrant hay, the ripening ear; There where there seemed nor sin nor crime, There in G.o.d's sweet and wholesome air-- Strange book to read at such a time-- We read of Vanity's false Fair.

We read the painful pages through, Perceived the skill, admired the art, Felt them if true, not wholly true, A truer truth was in our heart.

Save fear and love of One, hath proved The sage how vain is all below; And one was there who feared and loved, And one who loved that she was so.

The vision spreads, the memories grow, Fair phantoms crowd the more I gaze, Oh! cup of gold, with wine o'erflow, I'll drink to those departed days: And when I drain the golden cup To them, to those I ne'er can see, With wine of hope I'll fill it up, And drink to days that yet may be.

I've drunk the future and the past, Now for a draught of warmer wine-- One draught, the sweetest and the last, Lady, I'll drink to thee and thine.

These flowers that to my breast I fold, Into my very heart have grown; To thee I'll drain the cup of gold, And think the violet eyes thine own.

Boulogne, March, 1865.

TO THE MEMORY OF FATHER PROUT.

In deep dejection, but with affection, I often think of those pleasant times, In the days of Fraser, ere I touched a razor, How I read and revell'd in thy racy rhymes; When in wine and wa.s.sail, we to thee were va.s.sal, Of Watergra.s.s-hill, O renowned P.P.!

May the bells of Shandon Toll blithe and bland on The pleasant waters of thy memory!

Full many a ditty, both wise and witty, In this social city have I heard since then (With the gla.s.s before me, how the dream comes o'er me, Of those Attic suppers, and those vanished men).

But no song hath woken, whether sung or spoken, Or hath left a token of such joy in me As "The Bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee."

The songs melodious, which--a new Harmodius-- "Young Ireland" wreathed round its rebel sword, With their deep vibrations and aspirations, Fling a glorious madness o'er the festive board!

But to me seems sweeter, with a tone completer, The melodious metre that we owe to thee-- Of the bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

There's a grave that rises o'er thy sward, Devizes, Where Moore lies sleeping from his land afar, And a white stone flashes over Goldsmith's ashes In quiet cloisters by Temple Bar; So where'er thou sleepest, with a love that's deepest, Shall thy land remember thy sweet song and thee, While the Bells of Shandon Shall sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

THOSE SHANDON BELLS.

[The remains of the Rev. Francis Mahony were laid in the family burial-place in St. Anne Shandon Churchyard, the "Bells," which he has rendered famous, tolling the knell of the poet, who sang of their sweet chimes.]

Those Shandon bells, those Shandon bells!

Whose deep, sad tone now sobs, now swells-- Who comes to seek this hallowed ground, And sleep within their sacred sound?

'Tis one who heard these chimes when young, And who in age their praises sung, Within whose breast their music made A dream of home where'er he strayed.

And, oh! if bells have power to-day To drive all evil things away, Let doubt be dumb, and envy cease-- And round his grave reign holy peace.

True love doth love in turn beget, And now these bells repay the debt; Whene'er they sound, their music tells Of him who sang sweet Shandon bells!