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 G.o.d"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, G.o.d"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 G.o.d"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 G.o.d, 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; G.o.d"s blessing be upon their souls--G.o.d 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 G.o.d bestowed of old, with milk and honey flowing; But where are the blessed saints of G.o.d, 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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 a.s.sembled 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 the 1884 second edition, or from D. F. MacCarthy"s earlier publications, depending on whatever happened to be handy at the time. I have proofread this entire e-text against the 1882 edition. In many instances there are minor variations, mostly in punctuation, among the different source material. In some cases, if the 1882 edition clearly has an error, I have used the other works as a guide. Where there are variations that are not obviously errors, I have followed the 1882 edition. It is certainly possible, where I transcribed from a non-1882 source, that a few variations may have slipt my notice, and have not been changed.
General. In the printed source the first word of each section and poem is in "small capitals," which I have removed as per Project Gutenberg standards. Elsewhere instances of small capitals are rendered as ALL CAPITALS. In the printed source the patronymic prefix "Mac" is always followed by a half s.p.a.ce; due to limitations in this electronic format I have rendered names in ALL CAPITALS with a full s.p.a.ce (MAC CAURA) and names in Mixed Capitals without any s.p.a.ce (MacCaura) throughout. In this plain-text file, italics in the original publication have been either indicated with "double quotes" or "single quotes" if contextually appropriate; otherwise they have simply been dropt. Accents and other diacritical marks have also been dropt. However, where the original has an accent over the "e" in a past participle for poetical reasons, I have marked an e-acute with an apostrophe (as in "belov"ed") and marked an e-grave with a grave accent (as in "charm"ed") to indicate the intended p.r.o.nunciation. For a fully formatted version, with italics, extended characters, et cetera, please refer to the HTML version of this collection of poetry, released by Project Gutenberg simultaneously with this plain text edition. The longest line in this plain-text file is 72 characters; this means that in some poems I had to wrap the ends of very long verses to the next line.
Footnotes. In the printed source footnotes are marked with an asterisk, dagger, et cetera and placed at the bottom of each page. In this electronic version I have numbered the footnotes and placed them below each section or poem.
Contents. I have removed the page numbers from the contents list. Text in brackets are my additions, giving alternate/earlier published t.i.tles for the poems.