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

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 shore!

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 shore!

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 God: 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 shore!

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 sunshine o'er; Transplanted thou'rt the merest weed,
O shamrock of the Irish shore.

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 shore!

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 shore!

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 shore!

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 shore!

Boulogne-sur-Mer, March 17, 1865.


ITALIAN MYRTLES.

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

By many a soft Ligurian bay
The myrtles glisten green and bright, Gleam with their flowers of snow by day,
And glow with fire-flies through the night, And yet, despite the cold and heat, Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet.

There is an island in the West,
Where living myrtles bloom and blow, Hearts where the fire-fly Love my rest
Within a paradise of snow- Which yet, despite the cold and heat, Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet.

Deep in that gentle breast of thine-
Like fire and snow within the pearl- Let purity and love combine,
O warm, pure-hearted Irish girl! And in the cold and in the heat Be ever fresh, and pure, and sweet.

Thy bosom bears as pure a snow
As e'er Italia's bowers can boast, And though no fire-fly lends its glow-
As on the soft Ligurian coast- 'Tis warmed by an internal heat Which ever keeps it pure and sweet.

The fire-flies fade on misty eves-
The inner fires alone endure; Like rain that wets the leaves,
Thy very sorrows keep thee pure- They temper a too ardent heat- And keep thee ever pure and sweet.

La Spezzia, 1862.


THE IRISH EMIGRANT'S MOTHER.

"Oh! come, my mother, come away, across the sea-green water; Oh! come with me, and come with him, the husband of thy daughter; Oh! come with us, and come with them, the sister and the brother, Who, prattling climb thy ag'ed knees, and call thy daughter-mother.

"Oh come, and leave this land of death-this isle of desolation- This speck upon the sunbright face of God's sublime creation, Since now o'er all our fatal stars the most malign hath risen, When Labour seeks the poorhouse, and Innocence the prison.

"'Tis true, o'er all the sun-brown fields the husky wheat is bending; 'Tis true, God's blessed hand at last a better time is sending; 'Tis true the island's aged face looks happier and younger, But in the best of days we've known the sickness and the hunger.

"When health breathed out in every breeze, too oft we've known the
fever- Too oft, my mother, have we felt the hand of the bereaver: Too well remember many a time the mournful task that brought him, When freshness fanned the summer air, and cooled the glow of autumn.

"But then the trial, though severe, still testified our patience, We bowed with mingled hope and fear to God's wise dispensations; We felt the gloomiest time was both a promise and a warning, Just as the darkest hour of night is herald of the morning.

"But now through all the black expanse no hopeful morning breaketh- No bird of promise in our hearts the gladsome song awaketh; No far-off gleams of good light up the hills of expectation- Nought but the gloom that might precede the world's annihilation.

"So, mother, turn thy ag'ed feet, and let our children lead 'em Down to the ship that wafts us soon to plenty and to freedom; Forgetting nought of all the past, yet all the past forgiving; Come, let us leave the dying land, and fly unto the living.

"They tell us, they who read and think of Ireland's ancient story, How once its emerald flag flung out a sunburst's fleeting glory Oh! if that sun will pierce no more the dark clouds that efface it, Fly where the rising stars of heaven commingle to replace it.

"So come, my mother, come away, across the sea-green water; Oh! come with us, and come with him, the husband of thy daughter; Oh! come with us, and come with them, the sister and the brother, Who, prattling, climb thy ag'ed knees, and call thy daughter-mother."

"Ah! go, my children, go away-obey this inspiration; Go, with the mantling hopes of health and youthful expectation; Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough the expectant
prairies; Go, in the sacred name of God, and the Blessed Virgin Mary's.

"But though I feel how sharp the pang from thee and thine to sever, To look upon these darling ones the last time and for ever; Yet in this sad and dark old land, by desolation haunted, My heart has struck its roots too deep ever to be transplanted.

"A thousand fibres still have life, although the trunk is dying, They twine around the yet green grave where thy father's bones are
lying; Ah! from that sad and sweet embrace no soil on earth can loose 'em, Though golden harvests gleam on its breast, and golden sands its bosom.

"Others are twined around the stone, where ivy-blossoms smother The crumbling lines that trace your names, my father and my mother; God's blessing be upon their souls-God grant, my old heart prayeth, Their names be written in the Book whose writing ne'er decayeth.

"Alas! my prayers would never warm within those great cold buildings, Those grand cathedral churches with their marbles and their gildings; Far fitter than the proudest dome that would hang in splendour o'er me, Is the simple chapel's white-washed wall, where my people knelt before
me.

"No doubt it is a glorious land to which you now are going, Like that which God bestowed of old, with milk and honey flowing; But where are the blessed saints of God, whose lives of his law remind
me, Like Patrick, Brigid, and Columkille, in the land I'd leave behind me?

"So leave me here, my children, with my old ways and old notions; Leave me here in peace, with my memories and devotions; Leave me in sight of your father's grave, and as the heavens allied us, Let not, since we were joined in life, even the grave divide us.

"There's not a week but I can hear how you prosper better and better, For the mighty fire-ships o'er the sea will bring the expected letter; And if I need aught for my simple wants, my food or my winter firing, You will gladly spare from your growing store a little for my requiring.

"Remember with a pitying love the hapless land that bore you; At every festal season be its gentle form before you; When the Christmas candle is lighted, and the holly and ivy glisten, Let your eye look back for a vanished face-for a voice that is silent,
listen!

"So go, my children, go away-obey this inspiration; Go, with the mantling hopes of health and youthful expectation; Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough the expectant
prairies; Go, in the sacred name of God, and the Blessed Virgin Mary's."


THE RAIN: A SONG OF PEACE.[119]

The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain- Welcome, welcome, it cometh again; It cometh with green to gladden the plain, And to wake the sweets in the winding lane.

The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, It fills the flowers to their tiniest vein, Till they rise from the sod whereon they had lain- Ah, me! ah, me! like an army slain.

The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, Each drop is a link of a diamond chain That unites the earth with its sin and its stain To the radiant realm where God doth reign.

The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, Each drop is a tear not shed in vain, Which the angels weep for the golden grain All trodden to death on the gory plain;

For Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, Will waken the golden seeds again! But, ah! what power will revive the slain, Stark lying death over fair Lorraine?

'Twere better far, O beautiful Rain, That you swelled the torrent and flooded the main; And that Winter, with all his spectral train, Alone lay camped on the icy plain.

For then, O Rain, O beautiful Rain, The snow-flag of peace were unfurl'd again; And the truce would be rung in each loud refrain Of the blast replacing the bugle's strain.

Then welcome, welcome, beautiful Rain, Thou bringest flowers to the parched-up plain; Oh! for many a frenzied heart and brain, Bring peace and love to the world again!

August 28, 1870.


119. Written during the Franco-German war.


M. H. Gill & Sons, Printers, Dublin.


Transcriber's Notes.


Source. The collection of poems here presented follows as closely as possible the 1882 first edition. I assembled this e-text over several years, either typing or scanning one poem at a time as the spirit moved me. Some poems were transcribed either from