Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy Part 39

To Land went the Sunbeam, which scarcely received it, When it sent it, post-haste, back again to the sea; The Sea's hypocritical calmness deceived it, And sent it once more to the Land on the lea;-- From the Land to the Lake--from the Lakes to the Fountains-- From the Fountains and Streams to the Hills' azure crest, 'Till, at last, a tall Peak on the top of the mountains, Sent it back to the Cloud in the now golden west.

He saw the whole trick by the way he was greeted By the Sun's laughing face, which all purple appears; Then, amused, yet annoyed at the way he was treated, He first laughed at the joke, and then burst into tears.

It is thus that this day of mistakes and surprises, When fools write on foolscap, and wear it the while, This gay saturnalia for ever arises 'Mid the showers and the suns.h.i.+ne, the tear and the smile.

DARRYNANE.

[Written in 1844, after a visit to Darrynane Abbey.]

Where foams the white torrent, and rushes the rill, Down the murmuring slopes of the echoing hill-- Where the eagle looks out from his cloud-crested crags, And the caverns resound with the panting of stags-- Where the brow of the mountain is purple with heath, And the mighty Atlantic rolls proudly beneath, With the foam of its waves like the snowy 'fenane'--[114]

Oh! that is the region of wild Darrynane!

Oh! fair are the islets of tranquil Glengariff, And wild are the sacred recesses of Scariff, And beauty, and wildness, and grandeur commingle By Bantry's broad bosom, and wave-wasted Dingle; But wild as the wildest, and fair as the fairest, And lit by a l.u.s.tre that thou alone wearest-- And dear to the eye and the free heart of man Are the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane!

And who is the Chief of this lordly domain?

Does a slave hold the land where a monarch might reign?

Oh! no, by St. Finbar,[115] nor cowards, nor slaves, Could live in the sound of these free, das.h.i.+ng waves!

A chieftain, the greatest the world has e'er known-- Laurel his coronet--true hearts his throne-- Knowledge his sceptre--a Nation his clan-- O'Connell, the chieftain of proud Darrynane!

A thousand bright streams on the mountains awake, Whose waters unite in O'Donoghue's lake-- Streams of Glanflesk and the dark Gishadine Filling the heart of that valley divine!

Then rus.h.i.+ng in one mighty artery down To the limitless ocean by murmuring Lowne--[116]

Thus Nature unfolds in her mystical plan A type of the Chieftain of wild Darrynane!

In him every pulse of our bosoms unite-- Our hatred of wrong and our wors.h.i.+p of right-- The hopes that we cherish, the ills we deplore, All centre within his heart's innermost core, Which, gathered in one mighty current, are flung To the ends of the earth from his thunder-toned tongue!

Till the Indian looks up, and the valiant Afghan Draws his sword at the echo from far Darrynane!

But here he is only the friend and the father, Who from children's sweet lips truest wisdom can gather, And seeks from the large heart of Nature to borrow Rest for the present and strength for the morrow!

Oh! who that e'er saw him with children about him And heard his soft tones of affection could doubt him?

My life on the truth of the heart of that man That throbs like the Chieftain's of wild Darrynane!

Oh! wild Darrynane, on thy ocean-washed sh.o.r.e, Shall the glad song of mariners echo once more?

Shall the merchants, and minstrels, and maidens of Spain, Once again in their swift s.h.i.+ps come over the main?

Shall the soft lute be heard, and the gay youths of France Lead our blue-eyed young maidens again to the dance?

Graceful and shy as thy fawns, Killenane,[117]

Are the mind-moulded maidens of far Darrynane!

Dear land of the south, as my mind wandered o'er All the joys I have felt by thy magical sh.o.r.e, From those lakes of enchantment by oak-clad Glena To the mountainous pa.s.ses of bold Iveragh!

Like birds which are lured to a haven of rest, By those rocks far away on the ocean's bright breast--[118]

Thus my thoughts loved to linger, as memory ran O'er the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane!

114. "In the mountains of Slievelougher, and other parts of this county, the country people, towards the end of June, cut the coa.r.s.e mountain gra.s.s, called by them 'fenane'; towards August this gra.s.s grows white."--Smith's Kerry.

115. The abbey on the grounds of Darrynane was founded in the seventh century by the monks of St. Finbar.

116. The river Lowne is the only outlet by which all the streams that form the Lakes of Killarney discharge themselves into the sea--'Lan,' or 'Lowne,' in the old Irish signifying full.

117. "Killenane lies to the east of Cahir. It has many mountains towards the sea. These mountains are frequented by herds of fallow deer, that range about it in perfect security."--Smith's Kerry.

118. The Skellig Rocks. In describing one of them, Keating says "That there is a certain attractive virtue in the soil which draws down all the birds which attempt to fly over it, and obliges them to alight upon the rock."

A SHAMROCK FROM THE IRISH Sh.o.r.e.

(On receiving a Shamrock in a Letter from Ireland.)

O postman! speed thy tardy gait-- Go quicker round from door to door; For thee I watch, for thee I wait, Like many a weary wanderer more.

Thou brightest news of bale and bliss-- Some life begun, some life well o'er.

He stops--he rings!--O heaven! what's this?-- A shamrock from the Irish sh.o.r.e!

Dear emblem of my native land, By fresh fond words kept fresh and green; The pressure of an unfelt hand-- The kisses of a lip unseen; A throb from my dead mother's heart-- My father's smile revived once more-- Oh, youth! oh, love! oh, hope thou art, Sweet shamrock from the Irish sh.o.r.e!

Enchanter, with thy wand of power, Thou mak'st the past be present still: The emerald lawn--the lime-leaved bower-- The circling sh.o.r.e--the sunlit hill; The gra.s.s, in winter's wintriest hours, By dewy daisies dimpled o'er, Half hiding, 'neath their trembling flowers, The shamrock of the Irish sh.o.r.e!

And thus, where'er my footsteps strayed, By queenly Florence, kingly Rome-- By Padua's long and lone arcade-- By Ischia's fires and Adria's foam-- By Spezzia's fatal waves that kissed My poet sailing calmly o'er; By all, by each, I mourned and missed The shamrock of the Irish sh.o.r.e!

I saw the palm-tree stand aloof, Irresolute 'twixt the sand and sea: I saw upon the trellised roof Outspread the wine that was to be; A giant-flowered and glorious tree I saw the tall magnolia soar; But there, even there, I longed for thee, Poor shamrock of the Irish sh.o.r.e!

Now on the ramparts of Boulogne, As lately by the lonely Rance, At evening as I watch the sun, I look! I dream! Can this be France Not Albion's cliffs, how near they be, He seems to love to linger o'er; But gilds, by a remoter sea, The shamrock on the Irish sh.o.r.e!

I'm with him in that wholesome clime-- That fruitful soil, that verdurous sod-- Where hearts unstained by vulgar crime Have still a simple faith in G.o.d: Hearts that in pleasure and in pain, The more they're trod rebound the more, Like thee, when wet with heaven's own rain, O shamrock of the Irish sh.o.r.e!

Memorial of my native land, True emblem of my land and race-- Thy small and tender leaves expand But only in thy native place.

Thou needest for thyself and seed Soft dews around, kind suns.h.i.+ne o'er; Transplanted thou'rt the merest weed, O shamrock of the Irish sh.o.r.e.

Here on the tawny fields of France, Or in the rank, red English clay, Thou showest a stronger form perchance; A bolder front thou mayest display, More able to resist the scythe That cut so keen, so sharp before; But then thou art no more the blithe Bright shamrock of the Irish sh.o.r.e!

Ah, me! to think--thy scorns, thy slights, Thy trampled tears, thy nameless grave On Fredericksburg's ensanguined heights, Or by Potomac's purpled wave!

Ah, me! to think that power malign Thus turns thy sweet green sap to gore, And what calm rapture might be thine, Sweet shamrock of the Irish sh.o.r.e!

Struggling, and yet for strife unmeet, True type of trustful love thou art; Thou liest the whole year at my feet, To live but one day at my heart.

One day of festal pride to lie Upon the loved one's heart--what more?

Upon the loved one's heart to die, O shamrock of the Irish sh.o.r.e!

And shall I not return thy love?

And shalt thou not, as thou shouldst, be Placed on thy son's proud heart above The red rose or the fleur-de-lis?

Yes, from these heights the waters beat, I vow to press thy cheek once more, And lie for ever at thy feet, O shamrock of the Irish sh.o.r.e!

Boulogne-sur-Mer, March 17, 1865.

ITALIAN MYRTLES.

[Suggested by seeing for the first time fire-flies in the myrtle hedges at Spezzia.]