REMONSTRANCE.

Bless the dear old verdant land,Brother, wert thou born of it?As thy shadow life doth stand,Twining round its rosy band,Did an Irish mother's handGuide thee in the morn of it?Did thy father's soft commandTeach thee love or scorn of it?Thou who tread'st its fertile breast,Dost thou feel a glow for it?Thou, of all its charms possest,Living on its first and best,Art thou but a thankless guest,Or a traitor foe for it?If thou lovest, where the test?Wouldst thou strike a blow for it?Has the past no goading stingThat can make thee rouse for it?Does thy land's reviving spring,Full of buds and blossoming,Fail to make thy cold heart cling,Breathing lover's vows for it?With the circling ocean's ringThou wert made a spouse for it!Hast thou kept, as thou shouldst keep,Thy affections warm for it,Letting no cold feeling creep,Like the ice breath o'er the deep,Freezing to a stony sleepHopes the heart would form for it--Glories that like rainbows weepThrough the darkening storm for it?What we seek is Nature's right--Freedom and the aids of it;--Freedom for the mind's strong flightSeeking glorious shapes star-brightThrough the world's intensest night,When the sunshine fades of it!Truth is one, and so is light,Yet how many shades of it!A mirror every heart doth wear,For heavenly shapes to shine in it;If dim the glass or dark the air,That Truth, the beautiful and fair,God's glorious image, shines not there,Or shines with nought divine in it:A sightless lion in its lair,The darkened soul must pine in it!Son of this old, down-trodden land,Then aid us in the fight for it;We seek to make it great and grand,Its shipless bays, its naked strand,By canvas-swelling breezes fanned.Oh! what a glorious sight for it!The past expiring like a brand,In morning's rosy light for it!Think that this dear old land is thine,And thou a traitor slave of it;Think how the Switzer leads his kine,When pale the evening star doth shine,His song has home in every line,Freedom in every stave of it!Think how the German loves his Rhine,And worships every wave of it!Our own dear land is bright as theirs,But, oh! our hearts are cold for it;Awake! we are not slaves but heirs;Our fatherland requires our cares,Our work with man, with God our prayers.Spurn blood-stained Judas-gold for it,Let us do all that honour dares--Be earnest, faithful, bold for it!

IRELAND'S VOW.

Come! Liberty, come! we are ripe for thy coming--Come freshen the hearts where thy rival has trod--Come, richest and rarest!--come, purest and fairest!--Come, daughter of Science!--come, gift of the God!Long, long have we sighed for thee, coyest of maidens--Long, long have we worshipped thee, queen of the brave!Steadily sought for thee, readily fought for thee,Purpled the scaffold and glutted the grave!On went the fight through the cycle of ages,Never our battle-cry ceasing the while;Forward, ye valiant ones! onward, battalioned ones!Strike for your Erin, your own darling isle!Still in the ranks are we, struggling with eagerness,Still in the battle for Freedom are we!Words may avail in it--swords if they fail in it,What matters the weapon, if only we're free?Oh! we are pledged in the face of the universe,Never to falter and never to swerve;Toil for it!--bleed for it!--if there be need for it,Stretch every sinew and strain every nerve!Traitors and cowards our names shall be ever,If for a moment we turn from the chase;For ages exhibited, scoffed at, and gibbeted,As emblems of all that was servile and base!Irishmen! Irishmen! think what is Liberty,Fountain of all that is valued and dear,Peace and security, knowledge and purity,Hope for hereafter and happiness here.Nourish it, treasure it deep in your inner heart--Think of it ever by night and by day;Pray for it!--sigh for it!--work for it!--die for it!--What is this life and dear freedom away?List! scarce a sound can be heard in our thoroughfares--Look! scarce a ship can be seen on our streams;Heart-crushed and desolate, spell-bound, irresolute,Ireland but lives in the bygone of dreams!Irishmen! if we be true to our promises,Nerving our souls for more fortunate hours,Life's choicest blessings, love's fond caressings,Peace, home, and happiness, all shall be ours!

A DREAM.

I dreamt a dream, a dazzling dream, of a green isle far away,Where the glowing West to the ocean's breast calleth the dying day;And that island green was as fair a scene as ever man's eye did see,With its chieftains bold and its temples old, and its homes and its altarsfree!No foreign foe did that green isle know, no stranger band it bore,Save the merchant train from sunny Spain, and from Afric's golden shore!And the young man's heart would fondly start, and the old man's eye wouldsmile,As their thoughts would roam o'er the ocean foam to that lone and "holy isle!"Years passed by, and the orient sky blazed with a newborn light,And Bethlehem's star shone bright afar o'er the lost world's darksome night;And the diamond shrines from plundered mines, and the golden fanes of Jove,Melted away in the blaze of day at the simple spellword--Love!The light serene o'er that island green played with its saving beams,And the fires of Baal waxed dim and pale like the stars in the morning streams!And 'twas joy to hear, in the bright air clear, from out each sunny glade,The tinkling bell, from the quiet cell, or the cloister's tranquil shade!A cloud of night o'er that dream so bright soon with its dark wing came,And the happy scene of that island green was lost in blood and shame;For its kings unjust betrayed their trust, and its queens, though fair, werefrail,And a robber band, from a stranger land, with their war-whoops filled the gale;A fatal spell on that green isle fell, a shadow of death and gloomPassed withering o'er, from shore to shore, like the breath of the foul simoom;And each green hill's side was crimson dyed, and each stream rolled red andwild,With the mingled blood of the brave and good--of mother and maid and child!Dark was my dream, though many a gleam of hope through that black night broke,Like a star's bright form through a whistling storm, or the moon through amidnight oak!And many a time, with its wings sublime, and its robes of saffron light,Would the morning rise on the eastern skies, but to vanish again in night!For, in abject prayer, the people there still raised their fettered hands,When the sense of right and the power to smite are the spirit that commands;For those who would sneer at the mourner's tear, and heed not the suppliant'ssigh,Would bow in awe to that first great law, a banded nation's cry!At length arose o'er that isle of woes a dawn with a steadier smile,And in happy hour a voice of power awoke the slumbering isle!And the people all obeyed the call of their chief's unsceptred hand,Vowing to raise, as in ancient days, the name of their own dear land!My dream grew bright as the sunbeam's light, as I watched that isle's career,Through the varied scene and the joys serene of many a future year;And, oh! what a thrill did my bosom fill as I gazed on a pillared pile,Where a senate once more in power watched o'er the rights of that lone greenisle!

THE PRICE OF FREEDOM.

Man of Ireland, heir of sorrow,Wronged, insulted, scorned, oppressed,Wilt thou never see that morrowWhen thy weary heart may rest?Lift thine eyes, thou outraged creature;Nay, look up, for man thou art,Man in form, and frame, and feature,Why not act man's god-like part?Think, reflect, inquire, examine,Is it for this God gave you birth--With the spectre look of famine,Thus to creep along the earth?Does this world contain no treasuresFit for thee, as man, to wear?--Does this life abound in pleasures,And thou askest not to share?Look! the nations are awaking,Every chain that bound them burst!At the crystal fountains slakingWith parched lips their fever thirst!Ignorance the demon, fleeing,Leaves unlocked the fount they sip;Wilt thou not, thou wretched being,Stoop and cool thy burning lip?History's lessons, if thou'lt read 'em,All proclaim this truth to thee:Knowledge is the price of freedom,Know thyself, and thou art free!Know, O man! thy proud vocation,Stand erect, with calm, clear brow--Happy! happy were our nation,If thou hadst that knowledge now!Know thy wretched, sad condition,Know the ills that keep thee so;Knowledge is the sole physician,Thou wert healed if thou didst know!Those who crush, and scorn, and slight thee,Those to whom thou once wouldst kneel,Were the foremost then to right thee,Didst thou but feel as thou shouldst feel!Not as beggars lowly bending,Not in sighs, and groans, and tears,But a voice of thunder sendingThrough thy tyrant brother's ears!Tell him he is not thy master,Tell him of man's common lot,Feel life has but one disaster,To be a slave, and know it not!Didst but prize what knowledge giveth,Didst but know how blest is heWho in Freedom's presence liveth,Thou wouldst die, or else be free!Round about he looks in gladness,Joys in heaven, and earth, and sea,Scarcely heaves a sigh of sadness,Save in thoughts of such as thee!

THE VOICE AND PEN.

Oh! the orator's voice is a mighty power,As it echoes from shore to shore,And the fearless pen has more sway o'er menThan the murderous cannon's roar!What burst the chain far over the main,And brighten'd the captive's den?'Twas the fearless pen and the voice of power,Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!Hurrah!Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!The tyrant knaves who deny man's rights,And the cowards who blanch with fear,Exclaim with glee: "No arms have ye,Nor cannon, nor sword, nor spear!Your hills are ours--with our forts and towersWe are masters of mount and glen!"Tyrants, beware! for the arms we bearAre the Voice and the fearless Pen!Hurrah!Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!Though your horsemen stand with their bridles in hand,And your sentinels walk around!Though your matches flare in the midnight air,And your brazen trumpets sound!Oh! the orator's tongue shall be heard amongThese listening warrior men;And they'll quickly say: "Why should we slayOur friends of the Voice and Pen?"Hurrah!Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!When the Lord created the earth and sea,The stars and the glorious sun,The Godhead spoke, and the universe wokeAnd the mighty work was done!Let a word be flung from the orator's tongue,Or a drop from the fearless pen,And the chains accursed asunder burstThat fettered the minds of men!Hurrah!Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!Oh! these are the swords with which we fight,The arms in which we trust,Which no tyrant hand will dare to brand,Which time cannot dim or rust!When these we bore we triumphed before,With these we'll triumph again!And the world will say no power can stayThe Voice and the fearless Pen!Hurrah!Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!

"CEASE TO DO EVIL—LEARN TO DO WELL."105

Oh! thou whom sacred duty hither calls,Some glorious hours in freedom's cause to dwell,Read the mute lesson on thy prison walls,"Cease to do evil--learn to do well."If haply thou art one of genius vast,Of generous heart, of mind sublime and grand,Who all the spring-time of thy life has pass'dBattling with tyrants for thy native land,If thou hast spent thy summer as thy prime,The serpent brood of bigotry to quell,Repent, repent thee of thy hideous crime,"Cease to do evil--learn to do well!"If thy great heart beat warmly in the causeOf outraged man, whate'er his race might be,If thou hast preached the Christian's equal laws,And stayed the lash beyond the Indian sea!If at thy call a nation rose sublime,If at thy voice seven million fetters fell,--Repent, repent thee of thy hideous crime,"Cease to do evil--learn to do well!"If thou hast seen thy country's quick decay,And, like the prophet, raised thy saving hand,And pointed out the only certain wayTo stop the plague that ravaged o'er the land!If thou hast summoned from an alien climeHer banished senate here at home to dwell:Repent, repent thee of thy hideous crime,"Cease to do evil--learn to do well!"Or if, perchance, a younger man thou art,Whose ardent soul in throbbings doth aspire,Come weal, come woe, to play the patriot's partIn the bright footsteps of thy glorious sireIf all the pleasures of life's youthful timeThou hast abandoned for the martyr's cell,Do thou repent thee of thy hideous crime,"Cease to do evil--learn to do well!"Or art thou one whom early science ledTo walk with Newton through the immense of heaven,Who soared with Milton, and with Mina bled,And all thou hadst in freedom's cause hast given?Oh! fond enthusiast--in the after timeOur children's children of thy worth shall tell--England proclaims thy honesty a crime,"Cease to do evil--learn to do well!"Or art thou one whose strong and fearless penRoused the Young Isle, and bade it dry its tears,And gathered round thee ardent, gifted men,The hope of Ireland in the coming years?Who dares in prose and heart-awakening rhyme,Bright hopes to breathe and bitter truths to tell?Oh! dangerous criminal, repent thy crime,"Cease to do evil--learn to do well!""Cease to do evil"--ay! ye madmen, cease!Cease to love Ireland--cease to serve her well;Make with her foes a foul and fatal peace,And quick will ope your darkest, dreariest cell."Learn to do well"--ay! learn to betray,Learn to revile the land in which you dwellEngland will bless you on your altered way"Cease to do evil--learn to do well!"

105This inscription is on the front of Richmond Penitentiary, Dublin, in which O'Connell and the other political prisoners were confined in the year 1844.

THE LIVING LAND.

We have mourned and sighed for our buried pride,[106]We have given what nature gives,A manly tear o'er a brother's bier,But now for the Land that lives!He who passed too soon, in his glowing noon,The hope of our youthful band,From heaven's blue wall doth seem to call"Think, think of your Living Land!I dwell serene in a happier scene,Ye dwell in a Living Land!"Yes! yes! dear shade, thou shalt be obeyed,We must spend the hour that flies,In no vain regret for the sun that has set,But in hope for another to rise;And though it delay with its guiding ray,We must each, with his little brand,Like sentinels light through the dark, dark night,The steps of our Living Land.She needeth our care in the chilling air--Our old, dear Living Land!Yet our breasts will throb, and the tears will throngTo our eyes for many a day,For an eagle in strength and a lark in songWas the spirit that passed away.Though his heart be still as a frozen rill,And pulseless his glowing hand,We must struggle the more for that old green shoreHe was making a Living Land.By him we have lost, at whatever the cost,She must be a Living Land!A Living Land, such as Nature plann'd,When she hollowed our harbours deep,When she bade the grain wave o'er the plain,And the oak wave over the steep:When she bade the tide roll deep and wide,From its source to the ocean strand,Oh! it was not to slaves she gave these waves,But to sons of a Living Land!Sons who have eyes and hearts to prizeThe worth of a Living Land!Oh! when shall we lose the hostile hues,That have kept us so long apart?Or cease from the strife, that is crushing the lifeFrom out of our mother's heart?Could we lay aside our doubts and our pride,And join in a common band,One hour would see our country free,A young and a Living Land!With a nation's heart and a nation's part,A free and a Living Land!

106Thomas Davis.

THE DEAD TRIBUNE.

The awful shadow of a great man's deathFalls on this land, so sad and dark before--Dark with the famine and the fever breath,And mad dissensions knawing at its core.Oh! let us hush foul discord's maniac roar,And make a mournful truce, however brief,Like hostile armies when the day is o'er!And thus devote the night-time of our griefTo tears and prayers for him, the great departed chief.In "Genoa the Superb" O'Connell dies--That city of Columbus by the sea,Beneath the canopy of azure skies,As high and cloudless as his fame must be.Is it mere chance or higher destinyThat brings these names together? One, the boldWanderer in ways that none had trod but he--The other, too, exploring paths untold;One a new world would seek, and one would save the old!With childlike incredulity we cry,It cannot be that great career is run,It cannot be but in the eastern skyAgain will blaze that mighty world-watch'd sun!Ah! fond deceit, the east is dark and dun,Death's black, impervious cloud is on the skies;Toll the deep bell, and fire the evening gun,Let honest sorrow moisten manly eyes:A glorious sun has set that never more shall rise!Brothers, who struggle yet in Freedom's van,Where'er your forces o'er the world are spread,The last great champion of the rights of man--The last great Tribune of the world is dead!Join in our grief, and let our tears be shedWithout reserve or coldness on his bier;Look on his life as on a map outspread--His fight for freedom--freedom far and near--And if a speck should rise, oh! hide it with a tear!To speak his praises little need have weTo tell the wonders wrought within these wavesEnough, so well he taught us to be free,That even to him we could not kneel as slaves.Oh! let our tears be fast-destroying graves,Where doubt and difference may for ever lie,Buried and hid as in sepulchral caves;And let love's fond and reverential eyeAlone behold the star new risen in the sky!But can it be, that well-known form is stark?Can it be true, that burning heart is chill?Oh! can it be that twinkling eye is dark?And that great thunder voice is hush'd and still?Never again upon the famous hillWill he preside as monarch of the land,With myriad myriads subject to his will;Never again shall raise that powerful hand,To rouse, to warm, to check, to kindle, and command!The twinkling eye, so full of changeful light,Is dimmed and darkened in a dread eclipse;The withering scowl, the smile so sunny bright,Alike have faded from his voiceless lips.The words of power, the mirthful, merry quips,The mighty onslaught, and the quick reply,The biting taunts that cut like stinging whips,The homely truth, the lessons grave and high,All, all are with the past, but cannot, shall not die!

A MYSTERY.

They are dying! they are dying! where the golden corn is growing,They are dying! they are dying! where the crowded herds are lowing;They are gasping for existence where the streams of life are flowing,And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing!God of Justice! God of Power!Do we dream? Can it be?In this land, at this hour,With the blossom on the tree,In the gladsome month of May,When the young lambs play,When Nature looks aroundOn her waking children now,The seed within the ground,The bud upon the bough?Is it right, is it fair,That we perish of despairIn this land, on this soil,Where our destiny is set,Which we cultured with our toil,And watered with our sweat?We have ploughed, we have sownBut the crop was not our own;We have reaped, but harpy handsSwept the harvest from our lands;We were perishing for food,When, lo! in pitying mood,Our kindly rulers gaveThe fat fluid of the slave,While our corn filled the mangerOf the war-horse of the stranger!God of Mercy! must this last?Is this land preordainedFor the present and the past,And the future, to be chained,To be ravaged, to be drained,To be robbed, to be spoiled,To be hushed, to be whipt,Its soaring pinions clipt,And its every effort foiled?Do our numbers multiplyBut to perish and to die?Is this all our destiny below,That our bodies, as they rot,May fertilise the spotWhere the harvests of the stranger grow?If this be, indeed, our fate,Far, far better now, though late,That we seek some other land and try some other zone;The coldest, bleakest shoreWill surely yield us moreThan the store-house of the stranger that we dare not call our own.Kindly brothers of the West,Who from Liberty's full breastHave fed us, who are orphans, beneath a step-dame's frown,Behold our happy state,And weep your wretched fateThat you share not in the splendours of our empire and our crown!Kindly brothers of the East,Thou great tiara'd priest,Thou sanctified Rienzi of Rome and of the earth--Or thou who bear'st controlOver golden Istambol,Who felt for our misfortunes and helped us in our dearth,Turn here your wondering eyes,Call your wisest of the wise,Your Muftis and your ministers, your men of deepest lore;Let the sagest of your sagesOpe our island's mystic pages,And explain unto your Highness the wonders of our shore.A fruitful teeming soil,Where the patient peasants toilBeneath the summer's sun and the watery winter sky--Where they tend the golden grainTill it bends upon the plain,Then reap it for the stranger, and turn aside to die.Where they watch their flocks increase,And store the snowy fleece,Till they send it to their masters to be woven o'er the waves;Where, having sent their meatFor the foreigner to eat,Their mission is fulfilled, and they creep into their graves.'Tis for this they are dying where the golden corn is growing,'Tis for this they are dying where the crowded herds are lowing,'Tis for this they are dying where the streams of life are flowing,And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing.

Sonnets.AFTER READING J. T. GILBERT'S "THE HISTORY OF DUBLIN."

Long have I loved the beauty of thy streets,Fair Dublin: long, with unavailing vows,Sigh'd to all guardian deities who rouseThe spirits of dead nations to new heatsOf life and triumph:--vain the fond conceits,Nestling like eaves-warmed doves 'neath patriot brows!Vain as the "Hope," that from thy Custom-HouseLooks o'er the vacant bay in vain for fleets.Genius alone brings back the days of yore:Look! look, what life is in these quaint old shops--The loneliest lanes are rattling with the roarof coach and chair; fans, feathers, flambeaus, fops,Flutter and flicker through yon open door,Where Handel's hand moves the great organ stops.[107]

March 11th, 1856.

107It is stated that the "Messiah" was first publicly performed in Dublin. See Gilbert's "History of Dublin," vol. i. p. 75, and Townsend's "Visit of Handel to Dublin," p. 64.

TO HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.(Dedication of Calderon's "Chrysanthus and Daria.")

(Dedication of Calderon's "Chrysanthus and Daria.")

Pensive within the Coliseum's wallsI stood with thee, O Poet of the West!--The day when each had been a welcome guestIn San Clemente's venerable halls:--With what delight my memory now recallsThat hour of hours, that flower of all the rest,When, with thy white beard falling on thy breast,That noble head, that well might serve as Paul'sIn some divinest vision of the saintBy Raffael dreamed--I heard thee mourn the dead--The martyred host who fearless there, though faint,Walked the rough road that up to heaven's gate led:These were the pictures Calderon loved to paintIn golden hues that here perchance have fled.Yet take the colder copy from my hand,Not for its own but for the Master's sake;Take it, as thou, returning home, wilt takeFrom that divinest soft Italian landFixed shadows of the beautiful and grandIn sunless pictures that the sun doth make--Reflections that may pleasant memories wakeOf all that Raffael touched, or Angelo planned:--As these may keep what memory else might lose,So may this photograph of verse impartAn image, though without the native huesOf Calderon's fire, and yet with Calderon's art,Of what thou lovest through a kindred museThat sings in heaven, yet nestles in the heart.

Dublin, August 24th, 1869.

TO KENELM HENRY DIGBY,AUTHOR OF "MORES CATHOLICI," "THE BROADSTONE OF HONOUR," "COMPITUM," ETC.(On being presented by him with a copy, painted by himself, of a rare Portrait of Calderon.)

(On being presented by him with a copy, painted by himself, of a rare Portrait of Calderon.)

How can I thank thee for this gift of thine,Digby, the dawn and day-star of our age,Forerunner thou of many a saint and sageWho since have fought and conquer'd 'neath the Sign?Thou hast left, as in a sacred shrine--What shrine more pure than thy unspotted page?--The priceless relics, as a heritage,Of loftiest thoughts and lessons most divine.Poet and teacher of sublimest lore,Thou scornest not the painter's mimic skill,And thus hath come, obedient to thy willThe outward form that Calderon's spirit wore.Ah! happy canvas that two glories fill,Where Calderon lives 'neath Digby's hand once more.

October 15th, 1878.

TO ETHNA.108

Ethna, to cull sweet flowers divinely fair,To seek for gems of such transparent lightAs would not be unworthy to uniteRound thy fair brow, and through thy dark-brown hair,I would that I had wings to cleave the air,In search of some far region of delight,That back to thee from that adventurous flight,A glorious wreath my happy hands might bear;Soon would the sweetest Persian rose be thine--Soon would the glory of Golconda's mineFlash on thy forehead, like a star--ah! me,In place of these, I bring, with trembling hand,These fading wild flowers from our native land--These simple pebbles from the Irish Sea!

108This sonnet to the poet's wife was prefixed as a dedication to his first volume of poems.

Underglimpses.THE ARRAYING.

The blue-eyed maidens of the seaWith trembling haste approach the lee,So small and smooth, they seem to beNot waves, but children of the waves,And as each linkèd circle lavesThe crescent marge of creek and bay,Their mingled voices all repeat--O lovely May! O long'd-for May!We come to bathe thy snow-white feet.We bring thee treasures rich and rare,White pearl to deck thy golden hair,And coral beads, so smoothly fairAnd free from every flaw or speck;That they may lie upon thy neck,This sweetest day--this brightest dayThat ever on the green world shone--O lovely May, O long'd-for May!As if thy neck and thee were one.We bring thee from our distant homeRobes of the pure white-woven foam,And many a pure, transparent comb,Formed of the shells the tortoise plaits,By Babelmandeb's coral-straits;And amber vases, with inlayOf roseate pearl time never dims--O lovely May! O longed-for May!Wherein to lave thine ivory limbs.We bring, as sandals for thy feet,Beam-broidered waves, like those that greet,With green and golden chrysolite,The setting sun's departing beams,When all the western water seemsLike emeralds melted by his ray,So softly bright, so gently warm--O lovely May! O long'd-for May!That thou canst trust thy tender form.And lo! the ladies of the hill,The rippling stream, and sparkling rill,With rival speed, and like good will,Come, bearing down the mountain's sideThe liquid crystals of the tide,In vitreous vessels clear as they,And cry, from each worn, winding path:O lovely May! O long'd-for May!We come to lead thee to the bath.And we have fashioned, for thy sake,Mirrors more bright than art could make--The silvery-sheeted mountain lakeHangs in its carvèd frame of rocks,Wherein to dress thy dripping locks,Or bind the dewy curls that strayThy trembling breast meandering down--O lovely May! O long'd-for May!Within their self-woven crown.Arise, O May! arise and seeThine emerald robes are held for theeBy many a hundred-handed tree,Who lift from all the fields aroundThe verdurous velvet from the ground,And then the spotless vestments lay,Smooth-folded o'er their outstretch'd arms--O lovely May! O long'd-for May!Wherein to fold thy virgin charms.Thy robes are stiff with golden bees,Dotted with gems more bright than these,And scented by each perfumed breezeThat, blown from heaven's re-open'd bowers,Become the souls of new-born flowers,Who thus their sacred birth betray;Heavenly thou art, nor less should be--O lovely May! O long'd-for May!The favour'd forms that wait on thee.The moss to guard thy feet is spread,The wreaths are woven for thy head,The rosy curtains of thy bedBecome transparent in the blazeOf the strong sun's resistless gaze:Then lady, make no more delay,The world still lives, though spring be dead--O lovely May! O long'd-for May!And thou must rule and reign instead.The lady from her bed arose,Her bed the leaves the moss-bud blowsHerself a lily in that rose;The maidens of the streams and sandsBathe some her feet and some her hands:And some the emerald robes display;Her dewy locks were then upcurled,And lovely May--the long'd-for May--Was crown'd the Queen of all the World!

THE SEARCH.

Let us seek the modest May,She is down in the glen,Hiding and abidingFrom the common gaze of men,Where the silver streamlet crossesO'er the smooth stones green with mosses,And glancing and dancing,Goes singing on its way--We shall find the modest maiden there to-day.Let us seek the merry May,She is up on the hill,Laughing and quaffingFrom the fountain and the rill.Where the southern zephyr sprinkles,Like bright smiles on age's wrinkles,O'er the edges and ledgesOf the rocks, the wild flowers gay--We shall find the merry maiden there to-day.Let us seek the musing May,She is deep in the wood,Viewing and pursuingThe beautiful and good.Where the grassy bank receding,Spreads its quiet couch for readingThe pages of the sages,And the poet's lyric lay--We shall find the musing maiden there to-day.Let us seek the mirthful May,She is out on the strandRacing and chasingThe ripples o'er the sand.Where the warming waves discoverAll the treasures that they cover,Whitening and brighteningThe pebbles for her play--We shall find the mirthful maiden there to-day.Let us seek the wandering May,She is off to the plain,Finding the windingOf the labyrinthine lane.She is passing through its mazesWhile the hawthorn, as it gazesWith grief, lets its leafletsWhiten all the way--We shall find the wandering maiden there to-day.Let us seek her in the ray--Let us track her by the rill--Wending ascendingThe slopings of the hill.Where the robin from the copsesBreathes a love-note, and then drops hisTrilling, till, willing,His mate responds his lay--We shall find the listening maiden there to-day.But why seek her far away?Like a young bird in its nest,She is warming and formingHer dwelling in her breast.While the heart she doth repose on,Like the down the sunwind blows on,Gloweth, yet showethThe trembling of the ray--We shall find the happy maiden there to-day.

THE TIDINGS.

A bright beam came to my window frame,This sweet May morn,And it said to the cold, hard glass:Oh! let me pass,For I have good news to tell,The queen of the dewy dell,The beautiful May is born!Warm with the race, through the open space,This sweet May morn,Came a soft wind out of the skies:And it said to my heart--Arise!Go forth from the winter's fire,For the child of thy long desire,The beautiful May is born!The bright beam glanced and the soft wind danced,This sweet May morn,Over my cheek and over my eyes;And I said with a glad surprise:Oh! lead me forth, ye blessed twain,Over the hill and over the plain,Where the beautiful May is born.Through the open door leaped the beam beforeThis sweet May morn,And the soft wind floated along,Like a poet's song,Warm from his heart and fresh from his brain;And they led me over the mount and plain,To the beautiful May new-born.My guide so bright and my guide so light,This sweet May morn,Led me along o'er the grassy ground,And I knew by each joyous sight and sound,The fields so green and the skies so gay,That heaven and earth kept holiday,That the beautiful May was born.Out of the sea with their eyes of glee,This sweet May morn,Came the blue waves hastily on;And they murmuring cried--Thou happy one!Show us, O Earth! thy darling child,For we heard far out on the ocean wild,That the beautiful May was born.The wingèd flame to the rosebud came,This sweet May morn,And it said to the flower--Prepare!Lay thy nectarine bosom bare;Full soon, full soon, thou must rock to rest,And nurse and feed on thy glowing breast,The beautiful May now born.The gladsome breeze through the trembling trees,This sweet May morn,Went joyously on from bough to bough;And it said to the red-branched plum--O thou,Cover with mimic pearls and gems,And with silver bells, thy coral stems,For the beautiful May now born.Under the eaves and through the leavesThis sweet May morn,The soft wind whispering flew:And it said to the listening birds--Oh, you,Sweet choristers of the skies,Awaken your tenderest lullabies,For the beautiful May now born.The white cloud flew to the uttermost blue,This sweet May morn,It bore, like a gentle carrier-dove,The blessèd news to the realms above;While its sister coo'd in the midst of the grove,And within my heart the spirit of love,That the beautiful May was born!

WELCOME, MAY.

Welcome, May! welcome, May!Thou hast been too long away,All the widow'd wintry hoursWept for thee, gentle May;But the fault was only ours--We were sad when thou wert gay!Welcome, May! welcome, May!We are wiser far to-day--Fonder, too, than we were then.Gentle May! joyous May!Now that thou art come again,We perchance may make thee stay.Welcome, May! welcome, May!Everything kept holidaySave the human heart alone.Mirthful May! gladsome May!We had cares and thou hadst noneWhen thou camest last this way!When thou camest last this wayBlossoms bloomed on every spray,Buds on barren boughs were born--Fertile May! fruitful May!Like the rose upon the thornCannot grief awhile be gay?'Tis not for the golden ray,Or the flowers that strew thy way,O immortal One! thou artHere to-day, gentle May--'Tis to man's ungrateful heartThat thy fairy footsteps stray.'Tis to give that living clayFlowers that ne'er can fade away--Fond remembrances of bliss;And a foretaste, mystic May,Of the life that follows this,Full of joys that last alway!Other months are cold and gray,Some are bright, but what are they?Earth may take the whole eleven--Hopeful May--happy May!Thine the borrowed month of heavenCometh thence and points the way.Wingèd minstrels come and playThrough the woods their roundelay;Who can tell but only thou,Spirit-ear'd, inspirèd May,On the bud-embow'rèd boughWhat the happy lyrists say?Is the burden of their layLove's desire, or Love's decay?Are there not some fond regretsMix'd with these, divinest May,For the sun that never setsDown the everlasting day?But upon thy wondrous wayMirth alone should dance and play--No regrets, how fond they be,E'er should wound the ear of May--Bow before her, flower and tree!Nor, my heart, do thou delay.

THE MEETING OF THE FLOWERS.

There is within this world of oursFull many a happy home and hearth;What time, the Saviour's blessed birthMakes glad the gloom of wintry hours.When back from severed shore and shore,And over seas that vainly part,The scattered embers of the heartGlow round the parent hearth once more.When those who now are anxious men,Forget their growing years and cares;Forget the time-flakes on their hairs,And laugh, light-hearted boys again.When those who now are wedded wives,By children of their own embraced,Recall their early joys, and tasteAnew the childhood of their lives.And the old people--the good sireAnd kindly parent-mother--glowTo feel their children's children throwFresh warmth around the Christmas fire.When in the sweet colloquial din,Unheard the sullen sleet-winds shout;And though the winter rage without,The social summer reigns within.But in this wondrous world of oursAre other circling kindred chords,Binding poor harmless beasts and birds,And the fair family of flowers.That family that meet to-dayFrom many a foreign field and glen,For what is Christmas-tide with menIs with the flowers the time of May.Back to the meadows of the West,Back to their natal fields they come;And as they reach their wished-for home,The Mother folds them to her breast.And as she breathes, with balmy sighs,A fervent blessing over them,The tearful, glistening dews begemThe parents' and the children's eyes.She spreads a carpet for their feet,And mossy pillows for their heads,And curtains round their fairy bedsWith blossom-broidered branches sweet.She feeds them with ambrosial food,And fills their cups with nectared wine;And all her choristers combineTo sing their welcome from the wood:And all that love can do is done,As shown to them in countless ways:She kindles to the brighter blazeThe fireside of the world--the sun.And with her own soft, trembling hands,In many a calm and cool retreat,She laves the dust that soils their feetIn coming from the distant lands.Or, leading down some sinuous path,Where the shy stream's encircling heightsShut out all prying eyes, invitesHer lily daughters to the bath.There, with a mother's harmless pride,Admires them sport the waves among:Now lay their ivory limbs alongThe buoyant bosom of the tide.Now lift their marble shoulders o'erThe rippling glass, or sink with fear,As if the wind approaching nearWere some wild wooer from the shore.Or else the parent turns to these,The younglings born beneath her eye,And hangs the baby-buds close by,In wind-rocked cradles from the trees.And as the branches fall and rise,Each leafy-folded swathe expands:And now are spread their tiny hands,And now are seen their starry eyes.But soon the feast concludes the day,And yonder in the sun-warmed dell,The happy circle meet to tellTheir labours since the bygone May.A bright-faced youth is first to raiseHis cheerful voice above the rest,Who bears upon his hardy breastA golden star with silver rays:[109]Worthily won, for he had beenA traveller in many a land,And with his slender staff in handHad wandered over many a green:Had seen the Shepherd Sun unpenHeaven's fleecy flocks, and let them strayOver the high-pealed Himalay,Till night shut up the fold again:Had sat upon a mossy ledge,O'er Baiæ in the morning's beams,Or where the sulphurous crater steamsHad hung suspended from the edge:Or following its devious courseUp many a weary winding mile,Had tracked the long, mysterious NileEven to its now no-fabled source:Resting, perchance, as on he strode,To see the herded camels passUpon the strips of wayside grassThat line with green the dust-white road.Had often closed his weary lidsIn oases that deck the waste,Or in the mighty shadows tracedBy the eternal pyramids.Had slept within an Arab's tent,Pitched for the night beneath a palm,Or when was heard the vesper psalm,With the pale nun in worship bent:Or on the moonlit fields of France,When happy village maidens trodLightly the fresh and verdurous sod,There was he seen amid the dance:Yielding with sympathizing stemTo the quick feet that round him flew,Sprang from the ground as they would do,Or sank unto the earth with them:Or, childlike, played with girl and boyBy many a river's bank, and gaveHis floating body to the wave,Full many a time to give them joy.These and a thousand other talesThe traveller told, and welcome found;These were the simple tales went roundThe happy circles in the vales.Keeping reserved with conscious prideHis noblest act, his crowning feat,How he had led even Humboldt's feetUp Chimborazo's mighty side.Guiding him through the trackless snow,By sheltered clefts of living soil,Sweet'ning the fearless traveller's toil,With memories of the world below.Such was the hardy Daisy's tale,And then the maidens of the group--Lilies, whose languid heads down droopOver their pearl-white shoulders pale--Told, when the genial glow of JuneHad passed, they sought still warmer climesAnd took beneath the verdurous limesTheir sweet siesta through the noon:And seeking still, with fond pursuit,The phantom Health, which lures and wilesIts followers to the shores and islesOf amber waves, and golden fruit.There they had seen the orange groveEnwreath its gold with buds of white,As if themselves had taken flight,And settled on the boughs above.There kiss'd by every rosy mouthAnd press'd to every gentle breast,These pallid daughters of the WestReigned in the sunshine of the South.And thoughtful of the things divine,Were oft by many an altar found,Standing like white-robed angels roundThe precincts of some sacred shrine.And Violets, with dark blue eyes,Told how they spent the winter time,In Andalusia's Eden clime,Or 'neath Italia's kindred skies.Chiefly when evening's golden gloomVeil'd Rome's serenest ether soft,Bending in thoughtful musings oft,Above the lost Alastor's tomb;Or the twin-poet's; he who sings"A thing of beauty never dies,"Paying them back in fragrant sighs,The love they bore all loveliest things.The flower[110] whose bronzèd cheeks recallsThe incessant beat of wind and sun,Spoke of the lore his search had wonUpon Pompeii's rescued walls.How, in his antiquarian march,He crossed the tomb-strewn plain of Rome,Sat on some prostrate plinth, or clombThe Coliseum's topmost arch.And thence beheld in glad amazeWhat Nero's guilty eyes, aloof,Drank in from off his golden roof--The sun-bright city all ablaze:Ablaze by day with solar fires--Ablaze by night with lunar beams,With lambent lustre on its streams,And golden glories round its spires!Thence he beheld that wondrous dome,That, rising o'er the radiant town,Circles, with Art's eternal crown,The still imperial brow of Rome.Nor was the Marigold remiss,But told how in her crown of goldShe sat, like Persia's king of old,High o'er the shores of Salamis;And saw, against the morning sky,The white-sailed fleets their wings display;And ere the tranquil close of day,Fade, like the Persian's from her eye.Fleets, with their white flags all unfurl'd,Inscribed with "Commerce," and with "Peace,"Bearing no threatened ill to Greece,But mutual good to all the world.And various other flowers were seen:Cowslip and Oxlip, and the tallTulip, whose grateful hearts recallThe winter homes where they had been.Some in the sunny vales, beneathThe sheltering hills; and some, whose eyesWere gladdened by the southern skies,High up amid the blooming heath.Meek, modest flowers, by poets loved,Sweet Pansies, with their dark eyes fringedWith silken lashes finely tinged,That trembled if a leaf but moved:And some in gardens where the grassMossed o'er the green quadrangle's breast,There dwelt each flower, a welcome guest,In crystal palaces of glass:Shown as a beauteous wonder there,By beauty's hands to beauty's eyes,Breathing what mimic art supplies,The genial glow of sun-warm air.Nor were the absent ones forgot,Those whom a thousand cares detained,Those whom the links of duty chainedAwhile from this their natal spot.One, who is labour's useful tracksIs proudly eminent, who roamsThe providence of humble homes--The blue-eyed, fair-haired, friendly Flax:Giving himself to cheer and lightThe cottier's else o'ershadowing murk,Filling his hand with cheerful work,And all his being with delight:And one, the loveliest and the last,For whom they waited day by day,All through the merry month of May,Till one-and-thirty days had passed.And when, at length, the longed-for noonOf night arched o'er th' expectant greenThe Rose, their sister and their queen--Came on the joyous wings of June:And when was heard the gladsome sound,And when was breath'd her beauteous name,Unnumbered buds, like lamps of flame,Gleamed from the hedges all around:Where she had been, the distant clime,The orient realm their sceptre sways,The poet's pen may paint and praiseHereafter in his simple rhyme.

109The Daisy.

110The Wallflower.

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