The unity of form and content is what distinguishes poetry from other areas of creativity. However, this is precisely what titanic work implies. Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy (websites to read books for free .TXT) 📖
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truest, in battle the bravest, In revel the gayest, in council the gravest?- A hunter to-day and a victor to-morrow?- Oh! who but a chief of the princely MacCaura!
But, oh! proud MacCaura, what anguish to touch on The fatal stain of thy princely escutcheon; In thy story's bright garden the one spot of bleakness, Through ages of valour the one hour of weakness! Thou, the heir of a thousand chiefs, sceptred and royal- Thou to kneel to the Norman and swear to be loyal! Oh! a long night of horror, and outrage, and sorrow, Have we wept for thy treason, base Diarmid MacCaura![27]
Oh! why ere you thus to the foreigner pandered, Did you not bravely call round your emerald standard, The chiefs of your house of Lough Lene and Clan Awley O'Donogh, MacPatrick, O'Driscoll, MacAwley, O'Sullivan More, from the towers of Dunkerron, And O'Mahon, the chieftain of green Ardinterran? As the sling sends the stone or the bent bow the arrow, Every chief would have come at the call of MacCaura.
Soon, soon didst thou pay for that error in woe, Thy life to the Butler, thy crown to the foe, Thy castles dismantled, and strewn on the sod, And the homes of the weak, and the abbeys of God! No more in thy halls is the wayfarer fed, Nor the rich mead sent round, nor the soft heather spread, Nor the "clairsech's" sweet notes, now in mirth, now in sorrow, All, all have gone by, but the name of MacCaura!
MacCaura, the pride of thy house is gone by, But its name cannot fade, and its fame cannot die, Though the Arigideen, with its silver waves, shine Around no green forests or castles of thine- Though the shrines that you founded no incense doth hallow, Nor hymns float in peace down the echoing Allo, One treasure thou keepest, one hope for the morrow- True hearts yet beat of the clan of MacCaura!
21. MacCarthaig, or MacCarthy.
22. The eldest son of Milesius, King of Spain, in the legendary history of Ireland.
23. The Round Towers.
24. The Tuatha Dedannans, so called, says Keating, from their skill in necromancy, for which some were so famous as to be called gods.
25. See Keating's "History of Ireland" and Petrie's "Tara."
26. In the palace of Emania, in Ulster.
27. Diarmid MacCaura, King of Desmond, and Daniel O'Brien, King of Thomond, were the first of the Irish princes to swear fealty to Henry II.
THE WINDOW.
At my window, late and early,
In the sunshine and the rain, When the jocund beams of morning Come to wake me from my napping, With their golden fingers tapping
At my window pane: From my troubled slumbers flitting,
From the dreamings fond and vain, From the fever intermitting, Up I start, and take my sitting
At my window pane:-
Through the morning, through the noontide,
Fettered by a diamond chain, Through the early hours of evening, When the stars begin to tremble, As their shining ranks assemble
O'er the azure plain: When the thousand lamps are blazing
Through the street and lane- Mimic stars of man's upraising- Still I linger, fondly gazing
From my window pane!
For, amid the crowds slow passing,
Surging like the main, Like a sunbeam among shadows, Through the storm-swept cloudy masses, Sometimes one bright being passes
'Neath my window pane: Thus a moment's joy I borrow
From a day of pain. See, she comes! but-bitter sorrow! Not until the slow to-morrow,
Will she come again.
AUTUMN FEARS.
The weary, dreary, dripping rain,
From morn till night, from night till morn, Along the hills and o'er the plain,
Strikes down the green and yellow corn; The flood lies deep upon the ground,
No ripening heat the cold sun yields, And rank and rotting lies around
The glory of the summer fields!
How full of fears, how racked with pain,
How torn with care the heart must be, Of him who sees his golden grain
Laid prostrate thus o'er lawn and lea; For all that nature doth desire,
All that the shivering mortal shields, The Christmas fare, the winter's fire,
All comes from out the summer fields.
I too have strayed in pleasing toil
Along youth's and fertile meads; I too within Hope's genial soil
Have, trusting, placed Love's golden seeds; I too have feared the chilling dew,
The heavy rain when thunder pealed, Lest Fate might blight the flower that grew
For me in Hope's green summer field.
Ah! who can paint that beauteous flower,
Thus nourished by celestial dew, Thus growing fairer, hour by hour,
Delighting more, the more it grew; Bright'ning, not burdening the ground,
Nor proud with inward worth concealed, But scattering all its fragrance round
Its own sweet sphere, its summer field!
At morn the gentle flower awoke,
And raised its happy face to God; At evening, when the starlight broke,
It bending sought the dewy sod; And thus at morn, and thus at even,
In fragrant sighs its heart revealed, Thus seeking heaven, and making heaven
Within its own sweet summer field!
Oh! joy beyond all human joy!
Oh! bliss beyond all earthly bliss! If pitying Fate will not destroy
My hopes of such a flower as this! How happy, fond, and heaven-possest,
My heart will be to tend and shield, And guard upon my grateful breast
The pride of that sweet summer field!
FATAL GIFTS.
The poet's heart is a fatal boon,
And fatal his wondrous eye,
And the delicate ear,
So quick to hear,
Over the earth and sky, Creation's mystic tune! Soon, soon, but not too soon, Does that ear grow deaf and that eye grow dim, And nature becometh a waste for him,
Whom, born for another sphere,
Misery hath shipwrecked here!
For what availeth his sensitive heart
For the struggle and stormy strife
That the mariner-man,
Since the world began
Has braved on the sea of life? With fearful wonder his eye doth start, When it should be fixed on the outspread chart That pointeth the way to golden shores- Rent are his sails and broken his oars,
And he sinks without hope or plan,
With his floating caravan.
And love, that should be his strength and stay,
Becometh his bane full soon,
Like flowers that are born
Of the beams at morn,
But die of their heat ere noon. Far better the heart were the sterile clay Where the shining sands of the desert play, And where never the perishing flow'ret gleams Than the heart that is fed with its wither'd dreams,
And whose love is repelled with scorn,
Like the bee by the rose's thorn.
SWEET MAY.
The summer is come!-the summer is come!
With its flowers and its branches green, Where the young birds chirp on the blossoming boughs,
And the sunlight struggles between: And, like children, over the earth and sky
The flowers and the light clouds play; But never before to my heart or eye
Came there ever so sweet a May
As this-
Sweet May! sweet May!
Oh! many a time have I wandered out
In the youth of the opening year, When Nature's face was fair to my eye,
And her voice was sweet to my ear! When I numbered the daisies, so few and shy,
That I met in my lonely way; But never before to my heart or eye,
Came there ever so sweet a May
As this-
Sweet May! sweet May!
If the flowers delayed, or the beams were cold,
Or the blossoming trees were bare, I had but to look in the poet's book,
For the summer is always there! But the sunny page I now put by,
And joy in the darkest day! For never before to my heart or eye,
Came there ever so sweet a May
As this-
Sweet May! sweet May!
For, ah! the belov'ed at length has come,
Like the breath of May from afar; And my heart is lit with gentle eyes,
As the heavens by the evening star. 'Tis this that brightens the darkest sky,
And lengthens the faintest ray, And makes me feel that to the heart or eye
There was never so sweet a May
As this-
Sweet May! sweet May!
FERDIAH;[28] OR, THE FIGHT AT THE FORD.
An Episode from the Ancient Irish Epic Romance, "The Tain Bo Cuailgne; or, the Cattle Prey of Cuailgne."
["The 'Tain Bo Cuailgne'" says the late Professor O'Curry, "is to Irish what the Argonautic Expedition, or the Seven against Thebes, is to Grecian history." For an account of this, perhaps the earliest epic romance of Western Europe, see the Professor's "Lectures on the Manuscript Materials of Irish History."
The Fight of Cuchullin with Ferdiah took place in the modern county of Louth, at the ford of Ardee, which still preserves the name of the departed champion, Ardee being the softened form of 'Ath Ferdiah,' or Ferdiah's Ford.
The circumstances under which this famous combat took place are thus succinctly mentioned by O'Curry, in his description of the Tain Bo Cuailgne:-
"Cuchulainn confronts the invaders of his province, demands single combat, and conjures his opponents by the laws of Irish chivalry (the 'Fir comhlainn') not to advance farther until they had conquered him. This demand, in accordance with the Irish laws of warfare, is granted; and then the whole contest is resolved into a succession of single combats, in each of which Cuchulainn was victorious."-"Lectures," p. 37.
The original
But, oh! proud MacCaura, what anguish to touch on The fatal stain of thy princely escutcheon; In thy story's bright garden the one spot of bleakness, Through ages of valour the one hour of weakness! Thou, the heir of a thousand chiefs, sceptred and royal- Thou to kneel to the Norman and swear to be loyal! Oh! a long night of horror, and outrage, and sorrow, Have we wept for thy treason, base Diarmid MacCaura![27]
Oh! why ere you thus to the foreigner pandered, Did you not bravely call round your emerald standard, The chiefs of your house of Lough Lene and Clan Awley O'Donogh, MacPatrick, O'Driscoll, MacAwley, O'Sullivan More, from the towers of Dunkerron, And O'Mahon, the chieftain of green Ardinterran? As the sling sends the stone or the bent bow the arrow, Every chief would have come at the call of MacCaura.
Soon, soon didst thou pay for that error in woe, Thy life to the Butler, thy crown to the foe, Thy castles dismantled, and strewn on the sod, And the homes of the weak, and the abbeys of God! No more in thy halls is the wayfarer fed, Nor the rich mead sent round, nor the soft heather spread, Nor the "clairsech's" sweet notes, now in mirth, now in sorrow, All, all have gone by, but the name of MacCaura!
MacCaura, the pride of thy house is gone by, But its name cannot fade, and its fame cannot die, Though the Arigideen, with its silver waves, shine Around no green forests or castles of thine- Though the shrines that you founded no incense doth hallow, Nor hymns float in peace down the echoing Allo, One treasure thou keepest, one hope for the morrow- True hearts yet beat of the clan of MacCaura!
21. MacCarthaig, or MacCarthy.
22. The eldest son of Milesius, King of Spain, in the legendary history of Ireland.
23. The Round Towers.
24. The Tuatha Dedannans, so called, says Keating, from their skill in necromancy, for which some were so famous as to be called gods.
25. See Keating's "History of Ireland" and Petrie's "Tara."
26. In the palace of Emania, in Ulster.
27. Diarmid MacCaura, King of Desmond, and Daniel O'Brien, King of Thomond, were the first of the Irish princes to swear fealty to Henry II.
THE WINDOW.
At my window, late and early,
In the sunshine and the rain, When the jocund beams of morning Come to wake me from my napping, With their golden fingers tapping
At my window pane: From my troubled slumbers flitting,
From the dreamings fond and vain, From the fever intermitting, Up I start, and take my sitting
At my window pane:-
Through the morning, through the noontide,
Fettered by a diamond chain, Through the early hours of evening, When the stars begin to tremble, As their shining ranks assemble
O'er the azure plain: When the thousand lamps are blazing
Through the street and lane- Mimic stars of man's upraising- Still I linger, fondly gazing
From my window pane!
For, amid the crowds slow passing,
Surging like the main, Like a sunbeam among shadows, Through the storm-swept cloudy masses, Sometimes one bright being passes
'Neath my window pane: Thus a moment's joy I borrow
From a day of pain. See, she comes! but-bitter sorrow! Not until the slow to-morrow,
Will she come again.
AUTUMN FEARS.
The weary, dreary, dripping rain,
From morn till night, from night till morn, Along the hills and o'er the plain,
Strikes down the green and yellow corn; The flood lies deep upon the ground,
No ripening heat the cold sun yields, And rank and rotting lies around
The glory of the summer fields!
How full of fears, how racked with pain,
How torn with care the heart must be, Of him who sees his golden grain
Laid prostrate thus o'er lawn and lea; For all that nature doth desire,
All that the shivering mortal shields, The Christmas fare, the winter's fire,
All comes from out the summer fields.
I too have strayed in pleasing toil
Along youth's and fertile meads; I too within Hope's genial soil
Have, trusting, placed Love's golden seeds; I too have feared the chilling dew,
The heavy rain when thunder pealed, Lest Fate might blight the flower that grew
For me in Hope's green summer field.
Ah! who can paint that beauteous flower,
Thus nourished by celestial dew, Thus growing fairer, hour by hour,
Delighting more, the more it grew; Bright'ning, not burdening the ground,
Nor proud with inward worth concealed, But scattering all its fragrance round
Its own sweet sphere, its summer field!
At morn the gentle flower awoke,
And raised its happy face to God; At evening, when the starlight broke,
It bending sought the dewy sod; And thus at morn, and thus at even,
In fragrant sighs its heart revealed, Thus seeking heaven, and making heaven
Within its own sweet summer field!
Oh! joy beyond all human joy!
Oh! bliss beyond all earthly bliss! If pitying Fate will not destroy
My hopes of such a flower as this! How happy, fond, and heaven-possest,
My heart will be to tend and shield, And guard upon my grateful breast
The pride of that sweet summer field!
FATAL GIFTS.
The poet's heart is a fatal boon,
And fatal his wondrous eye,
And the delicate ear,
So quick to hear,
Over the earth and sky, Creation's mystic tune! Soon, soon, but not too soon, Does that ear grow deaf and that eye grow dim, And nature becometh a waste for him,
Whom, born for another sphere,
Misery hath shipwrecked here!
For what availeth his sensitive heart
For the struggle and stormy strife
That the mariner-man,
Since the world began
Has braved on the sea of life? With fearful wonder his eye doth start, When it should be fixed on the outspread chart That pointeth the way to golden shores- Rent are his sails and broken his oars,
And he sinks without hope or plan,
With his floating caravan.
And love, that should be his strength and stay,
Becometh his bane full soon,
Like flowers that are born
Of the beams at morn,
But die of their heat ere noon. Far better the heart were the sterile clay Where the shining sands of the desert play, And where never the perishing flow'ret gleams Than the heart that is fed with its wither'd dreams,
And whose love is repelled with scorn,
Like the bee by the rose's thorn.
SWEET MAY.
The summer is come!-the summer is come!
With its flowers and its branches green, Where the young birds chirp on the blossoming boughs,
And the sunlight struggles between: And, like children, over the earth and sky
The flowers and the light clouds play; But never before to my heart or eye
Came there ever so sweet a May
As this-
Sweet May! sweet May!
Oh! many a time have I wandered out
In the youth of the opening year, When Nature's face was fair to my eye,
And her voice was sweet to my ear! When I numbered the daisies, so few and shy,
That I met in my lonely way; But never before to my heart or eye,
Came there ever so sweet a May
As this-
Sweet May! sweet May!
If the flowers delayed, or the beams were cold,
Or the blossoming trees were bare, I had but to look in the poet's book,
For the summer is always there! But the sunny page I now put by,
And joy in the darkest day! For never before to my heart or eye,
Came there ever so sweet a May
As this-
Sweet May! sweet May!
For, ah! the belov'ed at length has come,
Like the breath of May from afar; And my heart is lit with gentle eyes,
As the heavens by the evening star. 'Tis this that brightens the darkest sky,
And lengthens the faintest ray, And makes me feel that to the heart or eye
There was never so sweet a May
As this-
Sweet May! sweet May!
FERDIAH;[28] OR, THE FIGHT AT THE FORD.
An Episode from the Ancient Irish Epic Romance, "The Tain Bo Cuailgne; or, the Cattle Prey of Cuailgne."
["The 'Tain Bo Cuailgne'" says the late Professor O'Curry, "is to Irish what the Argonautic Expedition, or the Seven against Thebes, is to Grecian history." For an account of this, perhaps the earliest epic romance of Western Europe, see the Professor's "Lectures on the Manuscript Materials of Irish History."
The Fight of Cuchullin with Ferdiah took place in the modern county of Louth, at the ford of Ardee, which still preserves the name of the departed champion, Ardee being the softened form of 'Ath Ferdiah,' or Ferdiah's Ford.
The circumstances under which this famous combat took place are thus succinctly mentioned by O'Curry, in his description of the Tain Bo Cuailgne:-
"Cuchulainn confronts the invaders of his province, demands single combat, and conjures his opponents by the laws of Irish chivalry (the 'Fir comhlainn') not to advance farther until they had conquered him. This demand, in accordance with the Irish laws of warfare, is granted; and then the whole contest is resolved into a succession of single combats, in each of which Cuchulainn was victorious."-"Lectures," p. 37.
The original
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