Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy (websites to read books for free .TXT) 📖

late,
May rest beneath the sheltering shield.

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 pass,
Swiftly the fiery train runs through; Oh! what a glittering sheet of glass!
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 tasseled 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 God, the homes of men,
The fragrant hay, the ripening ear; There where there seemed nor sin nor crime,
There in God'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 wassail, we to thee were vassal,
Of Watergrass-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 glass 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!

May 30, 1866.


YOUTH AND AGE.

To give the blossom and the fruit
The soft warm air that wraps them round, Oh! think how long the toilsome root
Must live and labour 'neath the ground.

To send the river on its way,
With ever deepening strength and force, Oh! think how long 'twas let to play,
A happy streamlet, near its source.


TO JUNE. WRITTEN AFTER AN UNGENIAL MAY.

I'll heed no more the poet's lay-
His false-fond song shall charm no more-
My heart henceforth shall but adore The real, not the misnamed May.

Too long I've knelt, and vainly hung
My offerings round an empty name;
O May! thou canst not be the same As once thou wert when Earth was young.

Thou canst not be the same to-day-
The poet's dream-the lover's joy:-
The floral heaven of girl and boy Were heaven no more, if thou wert May.

If thou wert May, then May is cold,
And, oh! how changed from what she has been-
Then barren boughs are bright with green, And leaden skies are glad with gold.

And the dark clouds that veiled thy moon
Were silvery-threaded tissues bright,
Looping the locks of amber light That float but on the airs of June.

O June! thou art the real May;
Thy name is soft and sweet as hers
But rich blood thy bosom stirs, Her marble cheek cannot display.

She cometh like a haughty girl,
So conscious of her beauty's power,
She now will wear nor gem nor flower Upon her pallid breast of pearl.

And her green silken summer dress,
So simply flower'd in white and gold,
She scorns to let our eyes behold, But hides through very wilfulness:

Hides it 'neath ermined robes, which she
Hath borrowed from some wintry quean,
Instead of dancing on the green- A village maiden fair and free.

Oh! we have spoiled her with our praise,
And made her froward, false, and vain;
So that her cold blue eyes disdain To smile as in the earlier days.

Let her beware-the world full soon
Like me shall tearless turn away,
And woo, instead of thine, O May! The brown, bright, joyous eyes of June.

O June! forgive the long delay,
My heart's deceptive dream is o'er-
Where I believe I will adore, Nor worship June, yet kneel to May.


SUNNY DAYS IN WINTER.

Summer is a glorious season
Warm, and bright, and pleasant; But the Past is not a reason
To despise the Present. So while health can climb the mountain,
And the log lights up the hall, There are sunny days in Winter, after all!

Spring, no doubt, hath faded from us,
Maiden-like in charms; Summer, too, with all her promise,
Perished in our arms. But the memory of the vanished,
Whom our hearts recall, Maketh sunny days in Winter, after all!

True, there's scarce a flower that bloometh,
All the best are dead; But the wall-flower still perfumeth
Yonder garden-bed. And the arbutus pearl-blossom'd
Hangs its coral ball- There are sunny days in Winter, after all!

Summer trees are pretty,-very,
And love them well: But this holly's glistening berry,
None of those excel. While the fir can warm the landscape,
And the ivy clothes the wall, There are sunny days in Winter, after all!

Sunny hours in every season
Wait the innocent- Those who taste with love and reason
What their God hath sent. Those who neither soar too highly,
Nor too lowly fall, Feel the sunny days of Winter, after all!

Then, although our darling treasures
Vanish from the heart; Then, although our once-loved pleasures
One by one depart; Though the tomb looms in the distance,
And the mourning pall, There is sunshine, and no Winter, after all!


THE BIRTH OF THE SPRING.

O Kathleen, my darling, I've dreamt such a dream, 'Tis as hopeful and bright as the summer's first beam: I dreamt that the World, like yourself, darling dear, Had presented a son to the happy New Year! Like yourself, too, the poor mother suffered awhile, But like yours was the joy, at her baby's first smile, When the tender nurse, Nature, quick hastened to fling Her sun-mantle round, as she fondled THE SPRING.

O Kathleen, 'twas strange how the elements all, With their friendly regards, condescended to call: The rough rains of winter like summer-dews fell, And the North-wind said, zephyr-like: "Is the World well?" And the streams ran quick-sparkling to tell o'er the earth God's goodness to man in this mystical birth; For a Son of this World, and an heir to the King Who rules over man, is this beautiful Spring!

O Kathleen, methought, when the bright babe was born, More lovely than morning appeared the bright morn; The birds sang more sweetly, the grass greener grew, And with buds and with blossoms the old trees looked new; And methought when the Priest of the Universe came- The Sun-in his vestments of glory and flame, He was seen, the warm raindrops of April to fling On the brow of the babe, and baptise him The Spring!