Aye, this very hand that trembles thro' this very line,Lay hid, ages gone, in the hand of some forefather Celt,With a sword in its grasp, if stronger, not truer than mine,And I feel, with my pen, what the old hero's sworded hand felt —
The heat of the hate that flashed into flames against wrong,The thrill of the hope that rushed like a storm on the foe;And the sheen of that sword is hid in the sheath of the songAs sure as I feel thro' my veins the pure Celtic blood flow.
The ties of our blood have been strained o'er thousands of years,And still are not severed, how mighty soever the strain;The chalice of time o'erflows with the streams of our tears,Yet just as the shamrocks, to bloom, need the clouds and their rain,
The Faith of our fathers, our hopes, and the love of our isleNeed the rain of our hearts that falls from our grief-clouded eyes,To keep them in bloom, while for ages we wait for the smileOf Freedom, that some day — ah! some day! shall light Erin's skies.
Our dead are not dead who have gone, long ago, to their rest;They are living in us whose glorious race will not die —Their brave buried hearts are still beating on in each breastOf the child of each Celt in each clime 'neath the infinite sky.
Many days yet to come may be dark as the days that are past,Many voices may hush while the great years sweep patiently by;But the voice of our race shall live sounding down to the last,And our blood is the bard of the song that never shall die.
To Mr. and Mrs. A. M. T.
Just when the gentle hand of springCame fringing the trees with bud and leaf,And when the blades the warm suns bringWere given glad promise of golden sheaf;Just when the birds began to singJoy hymns after their winter's grief,I wandered weary to a place;Tired of toil, I sought for rest,Where Nature wore her mildest grace —I went where I was more than guest.Strange, tall trees rose as if they fainWould wear as crowns the clouds of skies;The sad winds swept with low refrainThrough branches breathing softest sighs;And o'er the field and down the laneSweet flowers, the dreams of Paradise,Bloomed up into this world of pain,Where all that's fairest soonest dies;And 'neath the trees a little streamWent winding slowly round and round,Just like a poet's mystic dream,With here a silence, there a sound.The lowly ground, beneath the sheenOf March day suns, now dim, now bright,Now emeralds of golden greenIn flashing or in fading light;And here and there throughout the sceneThe timid wild flowers met the sight,While over all the sun and shadeSwept like a strangely woven veil,Folding the flowers that else might fade,Guarding young rosebuds from the gale.And blossoms of most varied hueBedecked the forest everywhere,While valleys wore the robes of blue,Bright woven by the violets fair;And there was gladness all around;It was a place so fair to see,And yet so simple — there I foundHow sweet a quiet home may be.Four children — and thro' all the dayThey flung their laughter o'er the place;Bright as the flowers in happy May,The children shed a sweet pure graceAround this quiet home, and theyTo father and to mother broughtThe smiles of purest love unsought;It was a happy, happy spot,Too dear to be fore'er forgot.Farewell, sweet place! I came as guest;From toil, in thee I found relief,I found in thee a home and rest —But, ah! the days are far too brief.Farewell! I go, but with me comeSweet memories that long will last;I'll think of thee as of a homeThat stands forever in my past.
To Virginia (on Her Birthday)
Your past is past and never to return,The long bright yesterday of life's first years,Its days are dead — cold ashes in an urn.Some held for you a chalice for your tears,And other days strewed flowers upon your way.They all are gone beyond your reach,And thus they are beyond my speech.I know them not, so that your first gone timesTo me unknown, lie far beyond my rhymes.But I can bless your soul and aims to-day,And I can ask your future to be sweet,And I can pray that you may never meetWith any cross, you are too weak to bear.Virginia, Virgin name, and may you wearIts virtues and its beauties, fore'er and fore'er.I breathe this blessing, and I pray this prayer.
Epilogue
Go, words of mine! and if you liveOnly for one brief, little day;If peace, or joy, or calm you giveTo any soul; or if you bringA something higher to some heart,I may come back again and singSongs free from all the arts of Art.
— Abram J. Ryan.
Posthumous Poems
In Remembrance
In the eclipses of your soul, and when you cry"O God! give more of rest and less of night,"My words may rest you; and mayhap a lightShall flash from them bright o'er thy spirit's sky;Then think of me as one who passes by.A few brief hours — a golden August day,We met, we spake — I pass fore'er away.Let ev'ry word of mine be golden rayTo brighten thy eclipses; and then wilt prayThat he who passes thee shall meet thee yetIn the "Beyond" where souls may ne'er forget.
A Reverie [`"O Songs!" I said:']
"O Songs!" I said:"Stop sounding in my soulJust for a little while and let me sleep,Resting my head on the breastOf Silence;" but the rhythmic rollOf a thousand songs swept on and on,And a far Voice said:"When thou art deadThy restless heart shall rest."
And the songs will never let me sleep.I plead with them; but o'er the deepThey still will rollOn, and on, and on,Their music never gone.Ah! world-tired soul!Just for a little while,Just like a poor, tired childBeneath its Mother's smile —Only to fall asleep!Silence! be mother to me!But — No! No! No!The waves will ebb and flow.I wonder is it bestTo never, never restDown on the shores of this strange Below?
Only a Dream
Only a Dream!It floated thro'The sky of a lonely sleepAs floats a gleamAthwart the BlueOf a golden clouded Deep.
Only a Dream!I calmly slept.Meseems I called a name;I woke; and, waking, I think I weptAnd called — and called the same.
Only a Dream!Graves have no ears;They give not back the dead;They will not listen to the saddest tearsThat ever may be shed.
Only a Dream!Graves keep their own;They have no hearts to hear;But the loved will comeFrom their Heaven-HomeTo smile on the sleeper's tear.
The Poet
The Poet is the loneliest man that lives;Ah me! God makes him so —The sea hath its ebb and flow,He sings his songs — but yet he only givesIn the waves of the words of his artOnly the ~foam~ of his heart.
Its sea rolls on forever, evermore,Beautiful, vast, and deep;Only his ~shallowest~ thoughts touch the shoreOf Speech; his ~deepest~ sleep.
The foam that crests the wave is pure and white;The ~foam~ is not the ~wave~;The wave is not the sea — ~it rolls~ forever on;The winding shores will craveA kiss from ev'ry wavelet on the deep;~Some come~; some always ~sleep~.
The Child of the Poet
The sunshine of thy Father's fameSleeps in the shadows of thy eyes,And flashes sometimes when his nameLike a lost star seeks its skies.
In the horizons of thy heartHis memory shines for aye,A light that never shall departNor lose a single ray.
Thou passest thro' the crowds unknown,So gentle, so sweet, and so shy;Thy heart throbs fast and sometimes may grow low;Then aloneArt the star in thy Father's sky.
'Tis fame enough for thee to bear his name —Thou couldst not ask for more;Thou art the jewel of thy Father's fame,He waiteth on the bright and golden shore;He prayeth in the great EternityBeside God's throne for thee.
The Poet Priest
~Not~ as of one whom multitudes ~admire~,I believe they call him great;They throng to hear him with a strange desire;They, silent, come and wait,And wonder when he opens wide the gateOf some strange, inner temple, where the fireIs lit on many altars of many dreams —They wait to catch the gleams —And then they say,In praiseful words: "'Tis beautiful and grand."And so his wayIs strewn with many flowers, sweet and fair;And people say:"How happy he must be to win and wearPraise ev'ry day!"And all the while he stands far out the crowd,Strangely ~alone~.Is it a Stole he wears? — or mayhap a shroud —No matter which, his spirit maketh moan;And all the while a lonely, lonesome senseCreeps thro' his days — all fame's incenseHath not the fragrance of his altar; andHe seemeth rather to kneel in lowly prayerThan lift his head aloft amid the Grand:If all the world would kneel down at his feetAnd give acclaim —He fain would say: "Oh! No! No! No!The breath of fame is sweet — but far more sweetIs the breath of Him who lives within my heart;God's breath, which e'en, despite of me, will creepAlong the words of merely human art;It cometh from some far-off hidden Deep,Far-off and from so far away —It filleth night and day."~Not~ as of one who ever, ever caresFor earthly praises, not as of such think thou of me,And in the nights and days — I'll meet with theeIn Prayers — and thou shalt meet with me.
Wilt Pray for Me?
Wilt pray for me?They tell me I have Fame;I plead with thee,Sometimes just fold my nameIn beautiful "Hail Marys"!And you give me moreThan all the world besides.It praises Poets for the well-sung lay;But ah! it hath forgotten how to pray.It brings to brows of Poets crowns of Pride;Some win such crowns and wear;Give me, instead, a simple little Prayer.
—-
The living child of a dead Poet is like a faintly glowing Sanctuary lamp,which sheds its rays in the beautiful Temple whence the great Presencehath departed.— Abram J. Ryan