The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoems

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoemsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: PoemsAuthor: Denis Florence MacCarthyRelease date: June 1, 2004 [eBook #12622]Most recently updated: October 28, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Dennis McCarthy*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: PoemsAuthor: Denis Florence MacCarthyRelease date: June 1, 2004 [eBook #12622]Most recently updated: October 28, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Dennis McCarthy

Title: Poems

Author: Denis Florence MacCarthy

Release date: June 1, 2004 [eBook #12622]Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Dennis McCarthy

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***

POEMSBYDENIS FLORENCE MAC CARTHYDUBLINM. H. GILL AND SON,50 UPPER SACKVILLE STREET1882M. H. GILL AND SON, PRINTERS, DUBLINMemorial to Denis Florence MacCarthy.

A Committee of friends and admirers of the late Denis Florence MacCarthy has been formed for the purpose of perpetuating in a fitting manner the memory of this distinguished Irish poet. Among the contributors to the Memorial Fund are Cardinal Newman, Cardinal MacCabe, Cardinal MacClosky; Most Rev. Dr. M'Gettigan, Most Rev. Dr. Croke, Most Rev. Dr. Butler, and many of the Irish Clergy; Lord O'Hagan, the Marquis of Ripon, Archbishop Trench, Judge O'Hagan, Sir. C. G. Duffy, Aubrey de Vere, Sir Samuel Ferguson, and Dr. J. K. Ingram.

Subscriptions will be received by the Lord Mayor, Mansion House, Dublin; by Dr. James Brady, 38 Harcourt-st; Mr. W. L. Joynt, D. L., 43 Merrion-square; Rev. C. P. Meehan, SS. Michael and John's; or by any Member of the Committee.

CONTENTS.

BALLADS ANDLYRICS.

NATIONALPOEMS ANDSONGS.

SONNETS.

UNDERGLIMPSES.

CENTENARYODES.

MISCELLANEOUSPOEMS.

PREFACE.

This volume contains, besides the poems published in 1850 and 1857,1the odes written for the centenary celebrations in honour of O'Connell in 1875, and of Moore in 1879. To these are added several sonnets and miscellaneous poems now first collected, and the episode of "Ferdiah" translated from theTain Bó Cuailgné.

Born in Dublin,2May 26th, 1817, my father, while still very young, showed a decided taste for literature. The course of his boyish reading is indicated in his "Lament." Some verses from his pen, headed "My Wishes," appeared in theDublin Satirist,April 12th, 1834. This was, as far as I can discover, the earliest of his writings published. To the journal just mentioned he frequently contributed, both in prose and verse, during the next two years. The following are some of the titles:—"The Greenwood Hill;" "Songs of other Days" (Belshazzar's Feast—Thoughts in the Holy Land—Thoughts of the Past); "Life," "Death," "Fables" (The Zephyr and the Sensitive Plant—The Tulip and the Rose—The Bee and the Rose); "Songs of Birds" (Nightingale—Eagle—Phœnix—Fire-fly); "Songs of the Winds," &c.

On October 14th, 1843, his first contribution ("Proclamation Songs," No. 1) appeared in the DublinNation."Here is a song by a new recruit," wrote Mr., now Sir, Charles Gavan Duffy, "which we should give in our leading columns if they were not preoccupied." In the next number I find "The Battle of Clontarf," with this editorial note: "'Desmond' is entitled to be enrolled in our national brigade." "A Dream" soon follows; and at intervals, between this date and 1849—besides many other poems—all the National songs and most of the Ballads included in this volume. In April, 1847, "The Bell-Founder" and "The Foray of Con O'Donnell" appeared in theUniversity Magazine,in which "Waiting for the May," "The Bridal of the Year," and "The Voyage of Saint Brendan," were subsequently published (in January and May, 1848). Meanwhile, in 1846, the year in which he was called to the bar, he edited the "Poets and Dramatists of Ireland," with an introduction, which evinced considerable reading, on the early religion and literature of the Irish people. In the same year he also edited the "Book of Irish Ballads," to which he prefixed an introduction on ballad poetry. This volume was republished with additions and a preface in 1869. In 1853, the poems afterwards published under the title of "Underglimpses" were chiefly written.3

The plays of Calderon—thoroughly national in form and matter—have met with but scant appreciation from foreigners. Yet we find his genius recognized in unexpected quarters, Goethe and Shelley uniting with Augustus Schlegel and Archbishop Trench to pay him homage. My father was, I think, first led to the study of Calderon by Shelley's glowing eulogy of the poet ("Essays," vol. ii., p. 274, and elsewhere). The first of his translations was published in 1853, the last twenty years later. They consist4of fifteen complete plays, which I believe to be the largest amount of translated verse by any one author, that has ever appeared in English. Most of it is in the difficult assonant or vowel rhyme, hardly ever previously attempted in our language. This may be a fitting place to cite a few testimonies as to the execution of the work. Longfellow, whom I have myself heard speak of the "Autos" in a way that showed how deeply he had studied them in the original, wrote, in 1857: "You are doing this work admirably, and seem to gain new strength and sweetness as you go on. It seems as if Calderon himself were behind you whispering and suggesting. And what better work could you do in your bright hours or in your dark hours that just this, which seems to have been put providentially into your hands." Again, in 1862: "Your new work in the vast and flowery fields of Calderon is, I think, admirable, and presents the old Spanish dramatist before the English reader in a very attractive light. Particularly in the most poetical passages you are excellent; as, for instance, in the fine description of the gerfalcon and the heron in 'El Mayor Encanto.' I hope you mean to add more and more, so as to make the translation as nearly complete as a single life will permit. It seems rather appalling to undertake the whole of so voluminous a writer; nevertheless, I hope you will do it. Having proved that you can, perhaps you ought to do it. This may be your appointed work. It is a noble one."5Ticknor ("History of Spanish Literature," new edition, vol. iii. p. 461) writes thus: "Calderon is a poet who, whenever he is translated, should have his very excesses and extravagances, both in thought and manner, fully reproduced, in order to give a faithful idea of what is grandest and most distinctive in his genius. Mr. MacCarthy has done this, I conceive, to a degree which I had previously supposed impossible. Nothing, I think, in the English language will give us so true an impression of what is most characteristic of the Spanish drama; perhaps I ought to say, of what is most characteristic of Spanish poetry generally."

Another eminent Hispaniologist (Mr. C. F. Bradford, of Boston) has spoken of the work in similar terms. His labours did not pass without recognition from the great dramatist's countrymen. He was elected a member of the Real Academia some years ago, and in 1881 this learned body presented him with the medal struck in commemoration of Calderon's bicentenary, "in token of their gratitude and their appreciation of his translations of the great poet's works."

In 1855, at the request of the Marchioness of Donegal, my father wrote the ode which was recited at the inauguration of the statue of her son, the Earl of Belfast. About the same time, his Lectures on Poetry were delivered at the Catholic University at the desire of Cardinal Newman. The Lectures on the Poets of Spain, and on the Dramatists of the Sixteenth Century, were delivered a few years later. In 1862 he published a curious bibliographical treatise on the "Mémoires of the Marquis de Villars." In 1864 the ill-health of some of his family his leaving his home near Killiney Hill6to reside on the Continent. In 1872, "Shelley's Early Life" was published in London, where he had settled, attracted by the facilities for research which its great libraries offered. This biography gives an amusing account of the young poet's visit to Dublin in 1812, and some new details of his adventures and writings at this period. My father's admiration for Shelley was of long standing. At the age of seventeen he wrote some lines to the poet's memory, which appeared in theDublin Satiristalready mentioned, and an elaborate review of his poetry in an early number of theNation.I have before alluded to Shelley's influence in directing his attention to Calderon. The centenary odes in honour of O'Connell and Moore were written, in 1875 and 1879, at the request of the committees which had charge of these celebrations. He returned to Ireland a few months before his death, which took place at Blackrock, near Dublin, on April 7th,7in the present year. His nature was most sensitive, but though it was his lot to suffer many sorrows, I never heard a complaint or and unkind word from his lips.

From what has been said it will be evident that this volume contains only a part of his poetical works, it having been found impossible to include the humorous pieces, parodies, and epigrams, without some acquaintance with which an imperfect idea would be formed of his genius. The same may be said of his numerous translations from various languages (exclusive of Calderon's plays). Of those published in 1850, "The Romance of Maleca," "Saint George's Knight," "The Christmas of the Foreign Child," and others have been frequently reprinted. He has since rendered from the Spanish poems by Juan de Pedraza, Antonio de Trueba, Garcilaso de la Vega, Gongora and "Fernan Caballero," whom he visited when in Spain shortly before her death, and whose prose story, "The Two Muleteers," he has also translated. To these must be added, besides several shorter ballads from Duran's Romancero General, "The Poem of the Cid," "The Romance of Gayferos," and "The Infanta of France." The last is a metrical tale of the fourteenth or fifteenth century, presenting analogies with the "Thousand and One Nights," and probably drawn from an Oriental source. His translations from the Latin, chiefly of mediæval hymns, are also numerous.

In inserting the poem of "Ferdiah" I was influenced by its subject as well as by the wish of friends. A few extracts appeared in a magazine several years ago, and it was afterwards completed without any view to publication. It follows the present Irish text8as closely as the laws of metre will allow. Since these pages were in the printer's hands Mr. Aubrey de Vere has given to the world his treatment of the same theme,9adorning as usual all that he touches. As he well says: "It is not in the form of translation that an ancient Irish tale of any considerable length admits of being rendered in poetry. What is needed is to select from the original such portions as are at once the most essential to the story, and the most characteristic, reproducing them in a condensed form, and taking care that the necessary additions bring out the idea, and contain nothing that is not in the spirit of the original." (Preface, p. vii.) The "Tale of Troy Divine" owes its form, and we may never know how much of its tenderness and grace, to its Alexandrian editor. However, the present version may, from its very literalness, have and interest for some readers.

Many of the earlier poems here collected have been admirably rendered into French by the late M. Ernest de Chatelain.10The Moore Centenary Ode has been translated into Latin by the Rev. M. J. Blacker, M. A.

My thanks are due to the Rev. Matthew Russell, S. J., for his kind assistance in preparing this book for the press, and to the Publishers for the accuracy and speed with which it has been produced.

I cannot let pass this opportunity of expressing my gratitude for the self-sacrificing labours of the committee formed at the suggestion of Mr. William Lane Joynt, D. L., to honour my father's memory, and for the generous response his friends have made to their appeal.11

JOHN MAC CARTHY

Blackrock, Dublin, August,1882.

1"Ballads, Poems, and Lyrics, Original and Translated:" Dublin, 1850. "The Bell-Founder, and other Poems," "Underglimpses, and other Poems:" London, 1857. A few pieces which seemed not to be of abiding interest have been omitted.

2At 24 Lower Sackville-street. The house, with others adjoining, was pulled down several years ago. Their site is now occupied by the Imperial Hotel.

3The subjective view of nature developed in these Poems has been censured as remote from human interest. Yet a critic of deep insight, George Gilfillan, declares his special admiration for "the joyous, sunny, lark-like carols on May, almost worthy of Shelley, and such delicate, tender, Moore-liketrifles(shall I call them?) asAll Fool's Day.The whole" he adds, "is full of a beautiful poetic spirit, and rich resources both of fancy and language." I may be permitted to transcribe here an extract from some unpublished comments by Sir William Rowan Hamilton on another poem of the same class. His remarks are interesting in themselves, as coming from one illustrious as a man of science, and, at the same time, a true poet—a combination which may hereafter become more frequent, since already in the vast regions of space and time brought within human ken, imagination strives hard to keep pace with established fact. In a manuscript volume now in the Library of Trinity College, Dublin, he writes, under date, May, 1848:—

"The University Magazinefor the present month contains a poem which delights one, entitled 'The Bridal of the Year.' It is signed 'D. F. M. C.,' as is also a shorter, but almost a sweeter piece immediately following it, and headed, 'Summer Longings.'"

Sir William goes through the whole poem, copying and criticising every stanza, and concludes as follows:—

"After a very pretty ninth stanza respecting the 'fairy phantoms' in the poet's 'glorious visions seen,' which the author conceives to 'follow the poet's steps beneath the morning's beam,' he burst into rapture at the approach of the Bride herself—

"'Bright as are the planets seven--with her glancesShe advances,For her azure eyes are Heaven!And her robes are sunbeams woven,And her beauteous bridesmaids areHopes and wishes--Dreams delicious--Joys from some serener star,And Heavenly-hued Illusions gleaming from afar!'

"Her eyesareheaven, her robesaresunbeams, and with these physical aspects of the May, how well does the author of this ode (for such, surely, we may term the poem, so rich in lyrical enthusiasm and varied melody) conceive the combination as bridesmaids, as companions to the bride; of those mental feelings, those new buddings of hope in the heart which the season is fitted to awaken. The azure eyes glitter back to ours, for the planets shine upon us from the lovely summer night; but lovelier still are those 'dreams delicious, joys from some serener star,' which at the same sweet season float down invisibly, and win their entrance to our souls. The image of a bridal is happily and naturally kept before us in the remaining stanzas of this poem, which well deserve to be copied here, in continuation of these notes—the former for its cheerfulness, the latter for its sweetness. I wish that I knew the author, or even that I were acquainted with his name.—Since ascertained to be D. F. MacCarthy."

4The following are the titles and dates of publication: In 1853, "The Constant Prince," "The Secret in Words," "The Physician of his own Honour," "Love after Death," "The Purgatory of St. Patrick," "The Scarf and the Flower." In 1861, "The Greatest Enchantment," "The Sorceries of Sin," "Devotion of the Cross." In 1867, "Belshazzar's Feast," "The Divine Philothea" (with Essays from the German of Lorinser, and the Spanish of Gonzales Pedroso). In 1870, "Chrysanthus and Daria, the Two Lovers of Heaven." In 1873, "The Wonder-working Magician," "Life is a Dream," "The Purgatory of St. Patrick" (a new translation entirely in the assonant metre). Introductions and notes are added to all these plays. Another, "Daybreak in Copacabana," was finished a few months before his death, and has not been published.

5When the author of "Evangeline" visited Europe for the last time in 1869, they met in Italy. Thesonnets at p. 174refer to this occasion.

6The "Campo de Estio," described in the lines "Not Known."

7A fortnight after that of Longfellow. His attached friend and early associate, Thomas D'Arcy M'Gee, perished by assassination at Ottawa on the same day and month fourteen years ago.

8Edited by his friend Br. W. K. Sullivan, President of Queen's College, Cork, who, I may add, has in preparation a paper on the "Voyage of St. Brendan," and on other ancient Irish accounts of voyages, of which he finds an explanation in Keltic mythology. The paper will appear in the Transactions of the American Geographical Society.

9"The Combat at the Ford" being Fragment III. of his "Legends of Ireland's Heroic Age." London, 1882.

10In his"Beautés de la Poesie Anglaise, Rayons et Reflets,"&c.

11The first meeting was held on April 15th, at the Mansion House, Dublin, under the presidency of the Lord Mayor, the Right Hon. Charles Dawson, M. P.

Poems.BALLADS AND LYRICS.WAITING FOR THE MAY.

Ah! my heart is weary waiting,Waiting for the May--Waiting for the pleasant rambles,Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles,With the woodbine alternating,Scent the dewy way.Ah! my heart is weary waiting,Waiting for the May.Ah! my heart is sick with longing,Longing for the May--Longing to escape from study,To the young face fair and ruddy,And the thousand charms belongingTo the summer's day.Ah! my heart is sick with longing,Longing for the May.Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,Sighing for the May--Sighing for their sure returning,When the summer beams are burning,Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying,All the winter lay.Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,Sighing for the May.Ah! my heart is pained and throbbing,Throbbing for the May--Throbbing for the sea-side billows,Or the water-wooing willows,Where in laughing and in sobbingGlide the streams away.Ah! my heart is pained and throbbing,Throbbing for the May.Waiting sad, dejected, weary,Waiting for the May.Spring goes by with wasted warnings,Moon-lit evenings, sun-bright mornings;Summer comes, yet dark and drearyLife still ebbs away:Man is ever weary, weary,Waiting for the May!

DEVOTION.

When I wander by the ocean,When I view its wild commotion,Then the spirit of devotionCometh near;And it fills my brain and bosom,Like a fear!I fear its booming thunder,Its terror and its wonder,Its icy waves, that sunderHeart from heart;And the white host that lies underMakes me start.Its clashing and its clangourProclaim the Godhead's anger--I shudder, and with langourTurn away;No joyance fills my bosomFor that day.When I wander through the valleys,When the evening zephyr dallies,And the light expiring ralliesIn the stream,That spirit comes and glads me,Like a dream.The blue smoke upward curling,The silver streamlet purling,The meadow wildflowers furlingTheir leaflets to repose:All woo me from the worldAnd its woes.The evening bell that bringethA truce to toil outringeth,No sweetest bird that singethHalf so sweet,Not even the lark that springethFrom my feet.Then see I God beside me,The sheltering trees that hide me,The mountains that divide meFrom the sea:All prove how kind a FatherHe can be.Beneath the sweet moon shiningThe cattle are reclining,No murmur of repiningSoundeth sad:All feel the present Godhead,And are glad.With mute, unvoiced confessings,To the Giver of all blessingsI kneel, and with caressingsPress the sod,And thank my Lord and Father,And my God.

THE SEASONS OF THE HEART.

The different hues that deck the earthAll in our bosoms have their birth;'Tis not in the blue or sunny skies,'Tis in the heart the summer lies!The earth is bright if that be glad,Dark is the earth if that be sad:And thus I feel each weary day--'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!In vain, upon her emerald car,Comes Spring, "the maiden from afar,"And scatters o'er the woods and fieldsThe liberal gifts that nature yields;In vain the buds begin to grow,In vain the crocus gilds the snow;I feel no joy though earth be gay--'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!And when the Autumn crowns the year,And ripened hangs the golden ear,And luscious fruits of ruddy hueThe bending boughs are glancing through,When yellow leaves from sheltered nooksCome forth and try the mountain brooks,Even then I feel, as there I stray--'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!And when the winter comes at length,With swaggering gait and giant strength,And with his strong arms in a triceBinds up the streams in chains of ice,What need I sigh for pleasures gone,The twilight eve, the rosy dawn?My heart is changed as much as they--'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!Even now, when Summer lends the sceneIts brightest gold, its purest green,Whene'er I climb the mountain's breast,With softest moss and heath-flowers dress'd,When now I hear the breeze that stirsThe golden bells that deck the furze,Alas! unprized they pass away--'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!But when thou comest back once more,Though dark clouds hang and loud winds roar,And mists obscure the nearest hills,And dark and turbid roll the rills,Such pleasures then my breast shall know,That summer's sun shall round me glow;Then through the gloom shall gleam the May--'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!

KATE OF KENMARE.

Oh! many bright eyes full of goodness and gladness,Where the pure soul looks out, and the heart loves to shine,And many cheeks pale with the soft hue of sadness,Have I worshipped in silence and felt them divine!But Hope in its gleamings, or Love in its dreamings,Ne'er fashioned a being so faultless and fairAs the lily-cheeked beauty, the rose of the Roughty,[12]The fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare!It was all but a moment, her radiant existence,Her presence, her absence, all crowded on me;But time has not ages and earth has not distanceTo sever, sweet vision, my spirit from thee!Again am I straying where children are playing,Bright is the sunshine and balmy the air,Mountains are heathy, and there do I see thee,Sweet fawn of the valley, young Kate of Kenmare!Thine arbutus beareth full many a clusterOf white waxen blossoms like lilies in air;But, oh! thy pale cheek hath a delicate lustreNo blossoms can rival, no lily doth wear;To that cheek softly flushing, thy lip brightly blushing,Oh! what are the berries that bright tree doth bear?Peerless in beauty, that rose of the Roughty,That fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare!O Beauty! some spell from kind Nature thou bearest,Some magic of tone or enchantment of eye,That hearts that are hardest, from forms that are fairest,Receive such impressions as never can die!The foot of the fairy, though lightsome and airy,[13]Can stamp on the hard rock the shapes it doth wear;Art cannot trace it, nor ages efface it:And such are thy glances, sweet Kate of Kenmare!To him who far travels how sad is the feeling,How the light of his mind is o'ershadowed and dim,When the scenes he most loves, like a river's soft stealing,All fade as a vision and vanish from him!Yet he bears from each far land a flower for that garlandThat memory weaves of the bright and the fair;While this sigh I am breathing my garland is wreathing,And the rose of that garland is Kate of Kenmare!In lonely Lough Quinlan in summer's soft hours,Fair islands are floating that move with the tide,Which, sterile at first, are soon covered with flowers,And thus o'er the bright waters fairy-like glide.Thus the mind the most vacant is quickly awakened,And the heart bears a harvest that late was so bare,Of him who in roving finds objects of loving,Like the fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare!Sweet Kate of Kenmare! though I ne'er may behold thee,Though the pride and the joy of another thou be,Though strange lips may praise thee, and strange arms enfold thee,A blessing, dear Kate, be on them and on thee!One feeling I cherish that never can perish--One talisman proof to the dark wizard care--The fervent and dutiful love of the Beautiful,Of which thou art a type, gentle Kate of Kenmare!

12The river of Kenmare.

13Near the town is the "Fairy Rock," on which the marks of several feet are deeply impressed. It derives its name from the popular belief that these are the work of fairies.

A LAMENT.

The dream is over,The vision has flown;Dead leaves are lyingWhere roses have blown;Wither'd and strownAre the hopes I cherished,--All hath perishedBut grief alone.My heart was a gardenWhere fresh leaves grewFlowers there were many,And weeds a few;Cold winds blew,And the frosts came thither,For flowers will wither,And weeds renew!Youth's bright palaceIs overthrown,With its diamond sceptreAnd golden throne;As a time-worn stoneIts turrets are humbled,--All hath crumbledBut grief alone!Wither, oh, whither,Have fled awayThe dreams and hopesOf my early day?Ruined and grayAre the towers I builded;And the beams that gilded--Ah! where are they?Once this worldWas fresh and bright,With its golden noonAnd its starry night;Glad and light,By mountain and river,Have I bless'd the GiverWith hushed delight.These were the daysOf story and song,When Hope had a meaningAnd Faith was strong."Life will be long,And lit with Love's gleamings;"Such were my dreamings,But, ah, how wrong!Youth's illusions,One by one,Have passed like cloudsThat the sun looked on.While morning shone,How purple their fringes!How ashy their tingesWhen that was gone!Darkness that comethEre morn has fled--Boughs that witherEre fruits are shed--Death bells insteadOf a bridal's pealings--Such are my feelings,Since Hope is dead!Sad is the knowledgeThat cometh with years--Bitter the treeThat is watered with tears;Truth appears,With his wise predictions,Then vanish the fictionsOf boyhood's years.As fire-flies fadeWhen the nights are damp--As meteors are quenchedIn a stagnant swamp--Thus Charlemagne's camp,Where the Paladins rally,And the Diamond Valley,And Wonderful Lamp,And all the wondersOf Ganges and Nile,And Haroun's rambles,And Crusoe's isle,And Princes who smileOn the Genii's daughters'Neath the Orient watersFull many a mile,And all that the penOf Fancy can writeMust vanishIn manhood's misty light--Squire and knight,And damosels' glances,Sunny romancesSo pure and bright!These have vanished,And what remains?--Life's budding garlandsHave turned to chains;Its beams and rainsFeed but docks and thistles,And sorrow whistlesO'er desert plains!The dove will flyFrom a ruined nest,Love will not dwellIn a troubled breast;The heart has no zestTo sweeten life's dolour--If Love, the Consoler,Be not its guest!The dream is over,The vision has flown;Dead leaves are lyingWhere roses have blown;Wither'd and strownAre the hopes I cherished,--All hath perishedBut grief alone!

THE BRIDAL OF THE YEAR.

Yes! the Summer is returning,Warmer, brighter beams are burningGolden mornings, purple evenings,Come to glad the world once more.Nature from her long sojourningIn the Winter-House of Mourning,With the light of hope outpeeping,From those eyes that late were weeping,Cometh dancing o'er the watersTo our distant shore.On the boughs the birds are singing,Never idle,For the bridalGoes the frolic breeze a-ringingAll the green bells on the branches,Which the soul of man doth hear;Music-shaken,It doth waken,Half in hope, and half in fear,And dons its festal garments for the Bridal of the Year!For the Year is sempiternal,Never wintry, never vernal,Still the same through all the changesThat our wondering eyes behold.Spring is but his time of wooing--Summer but the sweet renewingOf the vows he utters yearly,Ever fondly and sincerely,To the young bride that he weddeth,When to heaven departs the old,For it is her fate to perish,Having brought him,In the Autumn,Children for his heart to cherish.Summer, like a human mother,Dies in bringing forth her young;Sorrow blinds him,Winter finds himChildless, too, their graves among,Till May returns once more, and the bridal hymns are sung.Thrice the great Betrothéd naming,Thrice the mystic banns proclaiming,February, March, and April,Spread the tidings far and wide;Thrice they questioned each new-comer,"Know ye, why the sweet-faced Summer,With her rich imperial dower,Golden fruit and diamond flower,And her pearly raindrop trinkets,Should not be the green Earth's Bride?"All things vocal spoke elated(Nor the voicelessDid rejoice less)--"Be the heavenly lovers mated!"All the many murmuring voicesOf the music-breathing Spring,Young birds twittering,Streamlets glittering,Insects on transparent wing--All hailed the Summer nuptials of their King!Now the rosy East gives warning,'Tis the wished-for nuptial morning.Sweetest truant from Elysium,Golden morning of the May!All the guests are in their places--Lilies with pale, high-bred faces--Hawthorns in white wedding favours,Scented with celestial savours--Daisies, like sweet country maidens,Wear white scolloped frills to-day;'Neath her hat of straw the PeasantPrimrose sitteth,Nor permittethAny of her kindred present,Specially the milk-sweet cowslip,E'er to leave the tranquil shade;By the hedges,Or the edgesOf some stream or grassy glade,They look upon the scene half wistful, half afraid.Other guests, too, are invited,From the alleys dimly lighted,From the pestilential vapoursOf the over-peopled town--From the fever and the panic,Comes the hard-worked, swarth mechanic--Comes the young wife pallor-strickenAt the cares that round her thicken--Comes the boy whose brow is wrinkled,Ere his chin is clothed in down--And the foolish pleasure-seekers,Nightly thinkingThey are drinkingLife and joy from poisoned beakers,Shudder at their midnight madness,And the raving revel scorn:All are treadingTo the weddingIn the freshness of the morn,And feel, perchance too late, the bliss of being born.And the Student leaves his poring,And his venturous exploringIn the gold and gem-enfoldingWaters of the ancient lore--Seeking in its buried treasures,Means for life's most common pleasures;Neither vicious nor ambitious--Simple wants and simple wishes.Ah! he finds the ancient learningBut the Spartan's iron ore;Without value in an eraFar more goldenThan the olden--When the beautiful chimera,Love, hath almost wholly fadedEven from the dreams of men.From his prisonNewly risen--From his book-enchanted den--The stronger magic of the morning drives him forth again.And the Artist, too--the Gifted--He whose soul is heaven-ward lifted.Till it drinketh inspirationAt the fountain of the skies;He, within whose fond embracesStart to life the marble graces;Or, with God-like power presiding,With the potent pencil gliding,O'er the void chaotic canvasBids the fair creations rise!And the quickened mass obeyingHeaves its mountains;From its fountainsSends the gentle streams a-strayingThrough the vales, like Love's first feelingsStealing o'er a maiden's heart;The Creator--Imitator--From his easel forth doth start,And from God's glorious Nature learns anew his Art!But who is this with tresses flowing,Flashing eyes and forehead glowing,From whose lips the thunder-musicPealeth o'er the listening lands?'Tis the first and last of preachers--First and last of priestly teachers;First and last of those appointedIn the ranks of the anointed;With their songs like swords to severTyranny and Falsehood's bands!'Tis the Poet--sum and totalOf the others,With his brothers,In his rich robes sacerdotal,Singing with his golden psalter.Comes he now to wed the twain--Truth and Beauty--Rest and Duty--Hope, and Fear, and Joy, and Pain,Unite for weal or woe beneath the Poet's chain!And the shapes that follow after,Some in tears and some in laughter,Are they not the fairy phantomsIn his glorious vision seen?Nymphs from shady forests wending,Goddesses from heaven descending;Three of Jove's divinest daughters,Nine from Aganippe's waters;And the passion-immolated,Too fond-hearted Tyrian Queen,Various shapes of one idea,Memory-haunting,Heart-enchanting,Cythna, Genevieve, and Nea,[14]Rosalind and all her sisters,Born by Avon's sacred stream,All the bloomingShapes, illumingThe Eternal Pilgrim's dream,[15]Follow the Poet's steps beneath the morning's beam.But the Bride--the Bride is coming!Birds are singing, bees are humming;Silent lakes amid the mountainsLook but cannot speak their mirth;Streams go bounding in their gladness,With a bacchanalian madness;Trees bow down their heads in wonder,Clouds of purple part asunder,As the Maiden of the MorningLeads the blushing Bride to Earth!Bright as are the planets seven--With her glancesShe advances,For her azure eyes are Heaven!And her robes are sunbeams woven,And her beauteous bridesmaids areHopes and wishes--Dreams delicious--Joys from some serener star,And Heavenly-hued Illusions gleaming from afar.Now the mystic right is over--Blessings on the loved and lover!Strike the tabours, clash the cymbals,Let the notes of joy resound!With the rosy apple-blossom,Blushing like a maiden's bosom;With all treasures from the meadowsStrew the consecrated ground;Let the guests with vows fraternalPledge each other,Sister, brother,With the wine of Hope--the vernalVine-juice of Man's trustful heart:PerseveranceAnd Forbearance,Love and Labour, Song and Art,Be this the cheerful creed wherewith the world may start.But whither the twain departed?The United--the One-hearted--Whither from the bridal banquetHave the Bride and Bridegroom flown?Ah! their steps have led them quicklyWhere the young leaves cluster thickly;Blossomed boughs rain fragrance o'er them,Greener grows the grass before them,As they wander through the island,Fond, delighted, and alone!At their coming streams grow brighter,Skies grow clearer,Mountains nearer,And the blue waves dancing lighterFrom the far-off mighty oceanFrolic on the glistening sand;Jubilations,Gratulations,Breathe around, as hand-in-handThey roam the Sutton's sea-washed shore, or soft Shanganah's strand.

14Characters in Shelley, Coleridge, and Moore.

15"The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fameOver his living head, like Heaven, is bent,An early but enduring monument."Byron.(Shelley's "Adonais.")

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