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

The deep dark-mouthed culverin Encloses, like a cradled child, the Spirit of the Snow.

She uses in her need
The fleetly-flying steed- Now tries the rapid reindeer's strength, and now the camel slow;
Or, ere defiled by earth,
Unto her place of birth, Returns upon the eagle's wing the Spirit of the Snow.

Oft with pallid figure bowed,
Like the Banshee in her shroud, Doth the moon her spectral shadow o'er some silent gravestone throw;
Then moans the fitful wail,
And the wanderer grows pale, Till at morning fades the phantom of the Spirit of the Snow.

In her ermine cloak of state
She sitteth at the gate Of some winter-prisoned princess in her palace by the Po;
Who dares not to come forth
Till back unto the North Flies the beautiful besieger-the Spirit of the Snow.

In her spotless linen hood,
Like the other sisterhood, She braves the open cloister when the psalm sounds sweet and low;
When some sister's bier doth pass
From the minster and the Mass, Soon to sink into the earth, like the Spirit of the Snow.

But at times so full of joy,
She will play with girl and boy, Fly from out their tingling fingers, like white fireballs on the foe;
She will burst in feathery flakes,
And the ruin that she makes Will but wake the crackling laughter of the Spirit of the Snow.

Or in furry mantle drest,
She will fondle on her breast The embryo buds awaiting the near Spring's mysterious throe;
So fondly that the first
Of the blossoms that outburst Will be called the beauteous daughter of the Spirit of the Snow.

Ah! would that we were sure
Of hearts so warmly pure, In all the winter weather that this lesser life must know;
That when shines the Sun of Love
From the warmer realm above, In its light we may dissolve, like the Spirit of the Snow.


TO THE BAY OF DUBLIN.

My native Bay, for many a year I've lov'd thee with a trembling fear, Lest thou, though dear and very dear,
And beauteous as a vision, Shouldst have some rival far away, Some matchless wonder of a bay, Whose sparkling waters ever play
'Neath azure skies elysian.

'Tis Love, methought, blind Love that pours The rippling magic round these shores, For whatsoever Love adores
Becomes what Love desireth: 'Tis ignorance of aught beside That throws enchantment o'er the tide, And makes my heart respond with pride
To what mine eye admireth,

And thus, unto our mutual loss, Whene'er I paced the sloping moss Of green Killiney, or across
The intervening waters, Up Howth's brown sides my feet would wend, To see thy sinuous bosom bend, Or view thine outstretch'd arms extend
To clasp thine islet daughters;

Then would this spectre of my fear Beside me stand-How calm and clear Slept underneath, the green waves, near
The tide-worn rocks' recesses; Or when they woke, and leapt from land, Like startled sea-nymphs, hand-in-hand, Seeking the southern silver strand
With floating emerald tresses:

It lay o'er all, a moral mist, Even on the hills, when evening kissed The granite peaks to amethyst,
I felt its fatal shadow: It darkened o'er the brightest rills, It lowered upon the sunniest hills, And hid the wing`ed song that fills
The moorland and the meadow.

But now that I have been to view All even Nature's self can do, And from Gaeta's arch of blue
Borne many a fond memento; And from each fair and famous scene, Where Beauty is, and Power hath been, Along the golden shores between
Misenum and Sorrento:

I can look proudly in thy face, Fair daughter of a hardier race, And feel thy winning well-known grace,
Without my old misgiving; And as I kneel upon thy strand, And kiss thy once unvalued hand, Proclaim earth holds no lovelier land,
Where life is worth the living.


TO ETHNA.

First loved, last loved, best loved of all I've loved!
Ethna, my boyhood's dream, my manhood's light,
Pure angel spirit, in whose light I've moved,
Full many a year, along life's darksome night!
Thou wert my star, serenely shining bright
Beyond youth's passing clouds and mists obscure
Thou wert the power that kept my spirit white,
My soul unsoiled, my heart untouched and pure. Thine was the light from heaven that ever must endure.

Purest, and best, and brightest, no mishap,
No chance, or change can break our mutual ties;
My heart lies spread before thee like a map,
Here roll the tides, and there the mountains rise;
Here dangers frown and there hope's streamlet flies,
And golden promontories cleave the main:
And I have looked into thy lustrous eyes,
And saw the thought thou couldst not all restrain, A sweet, soft, sympathetic pity for my pain!

Dearest, and best, I dedicate to thee,
From this hour forth, my hopes, my dreams, my cares,
All that I am, and all I e'er may be,
Youth's clustering locks, and age's thin white hairs;
Thou by my side, fair vision, unawares-
Sweet saint-shalt guard me as with angel's wings;
To thee shall rise the morning's hopeful prayers,
The evening hymns, the thoughts that midnight brings, The worship that like fire out of the warm heart springs.

Thou wilt be with me through the struggling day,
Thou wilt be with me through the pensive night,
Thou wilt be with me, though far, far away
Some sad mischance may snatch you from my sight,
In grief, in pain, in gladness, in delight,
In every thought thy form shall bear a part,
In every dream thy memory shall unite,
Bride of my soul! and partner of my heart! Till from the dreadful bow flieth the fatal dart!

Am I deceived? and do I pine and faint
For worth that only dwells in heaven above,
And if thou'rt not the Ethna that I paint,
Then thou art not the Ethna that I love;
If thou art not as gentle as the dove,
And good as thou art beautiful, the tooth
Of venomed serpent will not deadlier prove
Than that dark revelation; but in sooth, Ethna, I wrong thee, dearest, for thy name is TRUTH.


"NOT KNOWN."

On receiving through the Post-Office a Returned Letter from an old residence, marked on the envelope, "Not Known."

A beauteous summer-home had I
As e'er a bard set eyes on- A glorious sweep of sea and sky,
Near hills and far horizon. Like Naples was the lovely bay,
The lovely hill like Rio- And there I lived for many a day
In Campo de Estio.

It seemed as if the magic scene
No human skill had planted; The trees remained for ever green,
As if they were enchanted: And so I said to Sweetest-eyes,
My dear, I think that we owe To fairy hands this paradise
Of Campo de Estio.

How swiftly flew the hours away!
I read and rhymed and revelled; In interchange of work and play,
I built, and drained, and levelled; "The Pope," so "happy," days gone by
(Unlike our ninth Pope Pio), Was far less happy then than I
In Campo de Estio.

For children grew in that sweet place,
As in the grape wine gathers- Their mother's eyes in each bright face,
In each light heart, their father's: Their father, who by some was thought
A literary 'leo,' Ne'er dreamed he'd be so soon forgot
In Campo de Estio.

But so it was:-Of hope bereft,
A year had scarce gone over, Since he that sweetest place had left,
And gone-we'll say-to Dover, When letters came where he had flown.
Returned him from the "P. O.," On which was writ, O Heavens! "NOT KNOWN
IN CAMPO DE ESTIO!"

"Not known" where he had lived so long,
A "cintra" home created, Where scarce a shrub that now is strong
But had its place debated; Where scarce a flower that now is shown,
But shows his care: O Dio! And now to be described, "Not known
In Campo de Estio."

That pillar from the Causeway brought-
This fern from Connemara- That pine so long and widely sought-
This Cedrus deodara- That bust (if Shakespeare's doth survive,
And busts had brains and 'brio'), Might keep his name at least alive
In Campo de Estio.

When Homer went from place to place,
The glorious siege reciting (Of course I presuppose the case
Of reading and of writing), I've little doubt the Bard divine
His letters got from Scio, Inscribed "Not known," Ah! me, like mine
From Campo de Estio.

The poet, howsoe'er inspired,
Must brave neglect and danger; When Philip Massinger expired,
The death-list said "a stranger!" A stranger! yes, on earth, but let
The poet sing 'laus Deo'!- Heaven's glorious summer waits him yet-
God's "Campo de Estio."


THE LAY MISSIONER.

Had I a wish-'twere this, that heaven would make
My heart as strong to imitate as love,
That half its weakness it could leave, and take
Some spirit's strength, by which to soar above,
A lordly eagle mated with a dove.
Strong-will and warm affection, these be mine;