Poems - Denis Florence MacCarthy (good books to read .txt) 📗

the wild seclusion
Of sequestered caves.

All the summer hours Hiding in the bowers, Scattering silver showers
Out upon the strand; O'er the pebbles crashing, Through the ripples splashing, Liquid pearl-wreaths dashing
From each other's hand.

By yon mossy boulder, See an ivory shoulder, Dazzling the beholder,
Rises o'er the blue; But a moment's thinking, Sends the Naiad sinking, With a modest shrinking,
From the gazer's view.

Now the wave compresses All their golden tresses- Now their sea-green dresses
Float them o'er the tide; Now with elf-locks dripping From the brine they're sipping, With a fairy tripping,
Down the green waves glide.

Some that scarce have tarried By the shore are carried Sea-ward to be married
To the glad gods there: Triton's horn is playing, Neptune's steeds are neighing, Restless with delaying
For a bride so fair.

See at first the river How its pale lips quiver, How its white waves shiver
With a fond unrest; List how low it sigheth, See how swift it flieth, Till at length it lieth
On the ocean's breast.

Such is Youth's admiring, Such is Love's desiring, Such is Hope's aspiring
For the higher goal; Such is man's condition Till in heaven's fruition Ends the mystic mission
Of the eternal soul.


THE FLOWERS OF THE TROPICS.

"C'est ainsi qu'elle nature a mis, entre les tropiques, la plupart des fleurs apparentes sur des arbres. J'y en ai vu bien peu dans les prairies, mais beaucoup dans les forets. Dans ces pays, il faut lever les yeux en haut pour y voir des fleurs; dans le notre, il faut les baisser a terre."-SAINT PIERRE, "Etudes de la Nature."

In the soft sunny regions that circle the waist
Of the globe with a girdle of topaz and gold, Which heave with the throbbings of life where they're placed,
And glow with the fire of the heart they enfold; Where to live, where to breathe, seems a paradise dream-
A dream of some world more elysian than this- Where, if Death and if Sin were away, it would seem
Not the foretaste alone, but the fulness of bliss.

Where all that can gladden the sense and the sight,
Fresh fruitage as cool and as crimson as even; Where the richness and rankness of Nature unite
To build the frail walls of the Sybarite's heaven. But, ah! should the heart feel the desolate dearth
Of some purer enjoyment to speed the bright hours, In vain through the leafy luxuriance of earth
Looks the languid-lit eye for the freshness of flowers.

No, its glance must be turned from the earth to the sky,
From the clay-rooted grass to the heaven-branching trees; And there, oh! enchantment for soul and for eye,
Hang blossoms so pure that an angel might seize. Thus, when pleasure begins from its sweetness to cloy,
And the warm heart grows rank like a soil over ripe, We must turn from the earth for some promise of joy,
And look up to heaven for a holier type.

In the climes of the North, which alternately shine,
Now warm with the sunbeam, now white with the snow, And which, like the breast of the earth they entwine.
Grow chill with its chillness, or glow with its glow, In those climes where the soul, on more vigorous wing,
Rises soaring to heaven in its rapturous flight, And, led ever on by the radiance they fling,
Tracketh star after star through infinitude's night.

How oft doth the seer from his watch-tower on high.
Scan the depths of the heavens with his wonderful glass; And, like Adam of old, when Earth's creatures went by,
Name the orbs and the sun-lighted spheres as they pass. How often, when drooping, and weary, and worn,
With fire-throbbing temples and star-dazzled eyes, Does he turn from his glass at the breaking of morn,
And exchanges for flowers all the wealth of the skies?

Ah! thus should we mingle the far and the near,
And, while striving to pierce what the Godhead conceals, From the far heights of Science look down with a fear
To the lowliest truths the same Godhead reveals. When the rich fruit of Joy glads the heart and the mouth,
Or the bold wing of Thought leads the daring soul forth; Let us proudly look up as for flowers of the south,
Let us humbly look down as for flowers of the north.


THE YEAR-KING.

It is the last of all the days, The day on which the Old Year dies. Ah! yes, the fated hour is near; I see upon his snow-white bier Outstretched the weary wanderer lies, And mark his dying gaze.

A thousand visions dark and fair, Crowd on the old man's fading sight; A thousand mingled memories throng The old man's heart, still green and strong; The heritage of wrong and right He leaves unto his heir.

He thinks upon his budding hopes, The day he stood the world's young king, Upon his coronation morn, When diamonds hung on every thorn, And peeped the pearl flowers of the spring Adown the emerald slopes.

He thinks upon his youthful pride, When in his ermined cloak of snow, Upon his war-horse, stout and staunch- The cataract-crested avalanche- He thundered on the rocks below, With his warriors at his side.

From rock to rock, through cloven scalp, By rivers rushing to the sea, With thunderous sound his army wound The heaven supporting hills around; Like that the Man of Destiny Led down the astonished Alp.

The bugles of the blast rang out, The banners of the lightning swung, The icy spear-points of the pine Bristled along the advancing line, And as the winds' 'reveille' rung, Heavens! how the hills did shout.

Adown each slippery precipice Rattled the loosen'd rocks, like balls Shot from his booming thunder guns, Whose smoke, effacing stars and suns, Darkens the stifled heaven, and falls Far off in arrowy showers of ice.

Ah! yes, he was a mighty king, A mighty king, full flushed with youth; He cared not then what ruin lay Upon his desolating way; Not his the cause of God or Truth, But the brute lust of conquering.

Nought could resist his mighty will, The green grass withered where he stood; His ruthless hands were prompt to seize Upon the tresses of the trees; Then shrieked the maidens of the wood, And the saplings of the hill.

Nought could resist his mighty will; For in his ranks rode spectral Death; The old expired through very fear; And pined the young, when he came near; The faintest flutter of his breath Was sharp enough to kill.

Nought could resist his mighty will; The flowers fell dead beneath his tread; The streams of life, that through the plains Throb night and day through crystal veins, With feverish pulses frighten'd fled, Or curdled, and grew still.

Nought could resist his mighty will; On rafts of ice, blue-hued, like steel, He crossed the broadest rivers o'er Ah! me, and then was heard no more The murmur of the peaceful wheel That turned the peasant's mill.

But why the evil that attends On War recall to further view? Accurs`ed War!-the world too well Knows what thou art-thou fiend of hell! The heartless havoc of a few For their own selfish ends!

Soon, soon the youthful conqueror Felt moved, and bade the horrors cease; Nature resumed its ancient sway, Warm tears rolled down the cheeks of Day, And Spring, the harbinger of peace Proclaimed the fight was o'er.

Oh! what a change came o'er the world; The winds, that cut like naked swords, Shed balm upon the wounds they made; And they who came the first to aid The foray of grim Winter's hordes The flag of truce unfurled.

Oh! how the song of joy, the sound Of rapture thrills the leaguered camps The tinkling showers like cymbals clash Upon the late leaves of the ash, And blossoms hang like festal lamps On all the trees around.

And there is sunshine, sent to strew God's cloth of gold, whereon may dance, To music that harmonious moves, The link`ed Graces and the Loves, Making reality romance, And rare romance even more than true.

The fields laughed out in dimpling flowers, The streams' blue eyes flashed bright with smiles; The pale-faced clouds turned rosy-red, As they looked down from overhead, Then fled o'er continents and isles, To shed their happy tears in showers.

The youthful monarch's heart grew light To find what joy good deeds can shed; To nurse the orphan buds that bent Over each turf-piled monument, Wherein the parent flowers lay dead Who perished in that fight.

And as he roamed from day to day, Atoning thus to flower and tree, Flinging his lavish gold around In countless yellow flowers, he found, By gladsome-weeping April's knee, The modest maiden May.

Oh! she was young as angels are, Ere the eternal youth they lead Gives any clue to tell the hours They've spent in heaven's elysian bowers; Ere God before their eyes decreed The birth-day of some beauteous star.

Oh! she was fair as are the leaves Of pale white roses, when the light Of sunset, through some trembling bough, Kisses the queen-flower's blushing brow, Nor leaves it red nor marble white, But rosy-pale, like April eves.

Her eyes were like forget-me-nots, Dropped in the silvery snowdrop's cup, Or on the folded myrtle buds, The azure violet of the woods; Just as the thirsty sun drinks up The dewy diamonds on the plots.

And her sweet breath was like the sighs Breathed by a babe of youth and love; When all the fragrance of the south From the cleft cherry of its mouth, Meets the fond lips that from above Stoop to caress its slumbering eyes.

He took the maiden by the hand, And led her in her simple gown Unto a hamlet's peaceful scene, Upraised her standard on the green; And crowned her with a rosy crown The beauteous Queen of all the land.

And happy was the maiden's reign- For peace, and mirth, and twin-born love Came forth from out men's hearts that day, Their gladsome fealty to pay; And there was music in the grove, And dancing on the plain.

And Labour carolled at his task, Like the blithe bird that sings and builds His happy household 'mid the leaves; And now the fibrous twig he weaves, And now he sings to her who gilds The sole horizon he doth ask.

And Sickness half forgot its pain, And Sorrow half forgot its grief; And Eld forgot that it was old, As if to show the age of gold Was not the poet's fond belief, But every year comes back again.

The Year-King passed along his way: Rejoiced, rewarded, and content; He passed to distant lands and new; For other tasks he had to do; But wheresoe'er the wanderer went, He ne'er forgot his darling May.

He sent her stems of living gold From the rich plains of western lands, And purple-gushing grapes from vines Born of the amorous sun that shines Where Tagus rolls its golden sands, Or Guadalete old.

And citrons from Firenze's fields, And golden apples from the isles That gladden the bright southern seas, True home of the Hesperides: Which now no