No Shakespeare girdle this, whose girthWould compass with its armsThe sounding seas and snows of earth,The fruitful fields and farms.[A]Here priestly power has thrown aroundA circuit wide and high,A bar where waves of human soundBeat vainly, drop, and die.“Who dreams of war in such a sceneOf undisturbed repose?Who babbles here of spite and spleen?Who rhymes of human woes?Nought here is heard of mingling cries,Of life’s unlovely jarsNought here is seen but yonder skies,And circling suns and stars!”O wise in wisdom of the fool!O warped in sight and soul!O Arctic spirit, icy coolAs passions of the Pole!Is ’t but a dream of babe or bardThat conjures grief and groans?Or is thy shrunken heart more hardThan those three standing stones?I dreamed a dream when last I stoodWithin their sombre shade:Time took my hand full many a roodBeyond the tides of trade,Beyond the sacerdotal rite,And soul-absorbing creeds,Beyond the narrow skirts of sightAnd despicable deeds.I soared above the brimming Earth;I peered beneath its breast;I saw the founts of joy and mirth,And seats of life’s unrest.But in the ocean of its thoughtOne current swelled and grewAnd on to seas with blessing fraughtA thousand others drew.’Twas Love: and Time stood by, and said:“Behold! a thousand spiresSpeak gilded words from hearts as deadAs those old Druid fires.But love lives on and leavens allIn Earth’s expanding range,The height and depth, the rise and fall,The first and last of Change.“Kings pale and perish, dogmas die,The world goes slowly onTo greet an all-unclouded sky,To kiss a purer dawn.Stript of the garb of mimic worth,Freed from his brothers’ banAnd circumscribing creeds, steps forthA newer, nobler man.“’Twas thus God’s chosen race was bentBeneath a tyrant yoke:’Twas thus the hated chains were rent,The conqueror’s sceptre broke.Thus Babylon to Persia bowed,Thus Persia bent to Greece,Thus Greece gave place to Rome the proud,The Goth broke Roman peace.”These mighty stones, this giant ringGive token of a dayThat died, as dies a dreamt-of thing,And passed in dust away,Save these, for you—dear heart—and meTo gaze on, muse, and rhyme:“Time conquers all, both bond and free,But Love shall conquer Time!”
No Shakespeare girdle this, whose girthWould compass with its armsThe sounding seas and snows of earth,The fruitful fields and farms.[A]Here priestly power has thrown aroundA circuit wide and high,A bar where waves of human soundBeat vainly, drop, and die.“Who dreams of war in such a sceneOf undisturbed repose?Who babbles here of spite and spleen?Who rhymes of human woes?Nought here is heard of mingling cries,Of life’s unlovely jarsNought here is seen but yonder skies,And circling suns and stars!”O wise in wisdom of the fool!O warped in sight and soul!O Arctic spirit, icy coolAs passions of the Pole!Is ’t but a dream of babe or bardThat conjures grief and groans?Or is thy shrunken heart more hardThan those three standing stones?I dreamed a dream when last I stoodWithin their sombre shade:Time took my hand full many a roodBeyond the tides of trade,Beyond the sacerdotal rite,And soul-absorbing creeds,Beyond the narrow skirts of sightAnd despicable deeds.I soared above the brimming Earth;I peered beneath its breast;I saw the founts of joy and mirth,And seats of life’s unrest.But in the ocean of its thoughtOne current swelled and grewAnd on to seas with blessing fraughtA thousand others drew.’Twas Love: and Time stood by, and said:“Behold! a thousand spiresSpeak gilded words from hearts as deadAs those old Druid fires.But love lives on and leavens allIn Earth’s expanding range,The height and depth, the rise and fall,The first and last of Change.“Kings pale and perish, dogmas die,The world goes slowly onTo greet an all-unclouded sky,To kiss a purer dawn.Stript of the garb of mimic worth,Freed from his brothers’ banAnd circumscribing creeds, steps forthA newer, nobler man.“’Twas thus God’s chosen race was bentBeneath a tyrant yoke:’Twas thus the hated chains were rent,The conqueror’s sceptre broke.Thus Babylon to Persia bowed,Thus Persia bent to Greece,Thus Greece gave place to Rome the proud,The Goth broke Roman peace.”These mighty stones, this giant ringGive token of a dayThat died, as dies a dreamt-of thing,And passed in dust away,Save these, for you—dear heart—and meTo gaze on, muse, and rhyme:“Time conquers all, both bond and free,But Love shall conquer Time!”
No Shakespeare girdle this, whose girthWould compass with its armsThe sounding seas and snows of earth,The fruitful fields and farms.[A]Here priestly power has thrown aroundA circuit wide and high,A bar where waves of human soundBeat vainly, drop, and die.
“Who dreams of war in such a sceneOf undisturbed repose?Who babbles here of spite and spleen?Who rhymes of human woes?Nought here is heard of mingling cries,Of life’s unlovely jarsNought here is seen but yonder skies,And circling suns and stars!”
O wise in wisdom of the fool!O warped in sight and soul!O Arctic spirit, icy coolAs passions of the Pole!
Is ’t but a dream of babe or bardThat conjures grief and groans?Or is thy shrunken heart more hardThan those three standing stones?
I dreamed a dream when last I stoodWithin their sombre shade:Time took my hand full many a roodBeyond the tides of trade,Beyond the sacerdotal rite,And soul-absorbing creeds,Beyond the narrow skirts of sightAnd despicable deeds.
I soared above the brimming Earth;I peered beneath its breast;I saw the founts of joy and mirth,And seats of life’s unrest.But in the ocean of its thoughtOne current swelled and grewAnd on to seas with blessing fraughtA thousand others drew.
’Twas Love: and Time stood by, and said:“Behold! a thousand spiresSpeak gilded words from hearts as deadAs those old Druid fires.
But love lives on and leavens allIn Earth’s expanding range,The height and depth, the rise and fall,The first and last of Change.
“Kings pale and perish, dogmas die,The world goes slowly onTo greet an all-unclouded sky,To kiss a purer dawn.Stript of the garb of mimic worth,Freed from his brothers’ banAnd circumscribing creeds, steps forthA newer, nobler man.
“’Twas thus God’s chosen race was bentBeneath a tyrant yoke:’Twas thus the hated chains were rent,The conqueror’s sceptre broke.Thus Babylon to Persia bowed,Thus Persia bent to Greece,Thus Greece gave place to Rome the proud,The Goth broke Roman peace.”
These mighty stones, this giant ringGive token of a dayThat died, as dies a dreamt-of thing,And passed in dust away,Save these, for you—dear heart—and meTo gaze on, muse, and rhyme:“Time conquers all, both bond and free,But Love shall conquer Time!”
So, my son, you came this morning at the blinking of the day,“King, and heir for Uther,” riding swiftly shoreward on the sprayThat, within my face, comes blowing from a stranger sea and sky,—Felt, not seen—upon whose margin here, a sightless Merlin, IStand, and turn my head and harken to the whisper of the windBorne from seaward on to leeward,—dark before and dark behind.
So, my son, you came this morning at the blinking of the day,“King, and heir for Uther,” riding swiftly shoreward on the sprayThat, within my face, comes blowing from a stranger sea and sky,—Felt, not seen—upon whose margin here, a sightless Merlin, IStand, and turn my head and harken to the whisper of the windBorne from seaward on to leeward,—dark before and dark behind.
So, my son, you came this morning at the blinking of the day,“King, and heir for Uther,” riding swiftly shoreward on the sprayThat, within my face, comes blowing from a stranger sea and sky,—Felt, not seen—upon whose margin here, a sightless Merlin, IStand, and turn my head and harken to the whisper of the windBorne from seaward on to leeward,—dark before and dark behind.
And they say you’re like your father?—How can I know, for I lookWith a dead eye into darkness; yet I’ve felt upon a bookSomething tell me: “In His form and with His likeness made He man:”So you’re like your father, and he looks like God—but, ah! the ban,A Damocles-blade, keeps hanging, as o’er ancient Adam’s head,O’er last moment’s latest Adam, just arisen from the dead.
And they say you’re like your father?—How can I know, for I lookWith a dead eye into darkness; yet I’ve felt upon a bookSomething tell me: “In His form and with His likeness made He man:”So you’re like your father, and he looks like God—but, ah! the ban,A Damocles-blade, keeps hanging, as o’er ancient Adam’s head,O’er last moment’s latest Adam, just arisen from the dead.
And they say you’re like your father?—How can I know, for I lookWith a dead eye into darkness; yet I’ve felt upon a bookSomething tell me: “In His form and with His likeness made He man:”So you’re like your father, and he looks like God—but, ah! the ban,A Damocles-blade, keeps hanging, as o’er ancient Adam’s head,O’er last moment’s latest Adam, just arisen from the dead.
Ban! Who banned you? Is it God, or is it man suspends the knife?God decreed you’d toil for bread, but man decrees you’ll die for life!
Ban! Who banned you? Is it God, or is it man suspends the knife?God decreed you’d toil for bread, but man decrees you’ll die for life!
Ban! Who banned you? Is it God, or is it man suspends the knife?God decreed you’d toil for bread, but man decrees you’ll die for life!
“From the dead.”—You like the phrase not, wife; yet not from death he’s come,But from life, of all the ages past the product and the sum.Thine and mine,—yet neither mine nor thine, but heir of every hour,Drawing through thee from the world’s breast,—we the stem and he the flower.Ours, and yet not ours; the acorn from its parent will be broke,Drop to earth, from earth to heaven stretch the fingers of the oak.Acorn—oak, and back to acorn, hedging all the hills of time,On and on forever, housing birds of every wing and clime.Thus we die,—and thus we die not; mortal, yet immortal we;Closely clasping crumbling fingers round the hand of the To Be;Flingling out along the ages tendrils that will grip, and twineIn a slow attenuation down the long posterior line.
“From the dead.”—You like the phrase not, wife; yet not from death he’s come,But from life, of all the ages past the product and the sum.Thine and mine,—yet neither mine nor thine, but heir of every hour,Drawing through thee from the world’s breast,—we the stem and he the flower.Ours, and yet not ours; the acorn from its parent will be broke,Drop to earth, from earth to heaven stretch the fingers of the oak.Acorn—oak, and back to acorn, hedging all the hills of time,On and on forever, housing birds of every wing and clime.Thus we die,—and thus we die not; mortal, yet immortal we;Closely clasping crumbling fingers round the hand of the To Be;Flingling out along the ages tendrils that will grip, and twineIn a slow attenuation down the long posterior line.
“From the dead.”—You like the phrase not, wife; yet not from death he’s come,But from life, of all the ages past the product and the sum.Thine and mine,—yet neither mine nor thine, but heir of every hour,Drawing through thee from the world’s breast,—we the stem and he the flower.Ours, and yet not ours; the acorn from its parent will be broke,Drop to earth, from earth to heaven stretch the fingers of the oak.Acorn—oak, and back to acorn, hedging all the hills of time,On and on forever, housing birds of every wing and clime.Thus we die,—and thus we die not; mortal, yet immortal we;Closely clasping crumbling fingers round the hand of the To Be;Flingling out along the ages tendrils that will grip, and twineIn a slow attenuation down the long posterior line.
Thus the generations, marching to an universal strain,Start, and stop; and in the starting from Da Capo sing again.
Thus the generations, marching to an universal strain,Start, and stop; and in the starting from Da Capo sing again.
Thus the generations, marching to an universal strain,Start, and stop; and in the starting from Da Capo sing again.
Ah! not ours: yet ours the moulding of a future near or far;Ours to set a sun in heaven,—hurl in space a red-eyed star.—For I’m told, beyond my curtain there revolveth day and night,And among the stars there standeth one that winketh red with fight;And you say the glow that lights upon my cheek is from the sunGuiding lightning-footed planets as they in their orbits run;And I’ve heard that all have sprung from atoms crowding God’s abyss,—Mars, the evil-eyed and warlike; Sol, the pivot-point of bliss.
Ah! not ours: yet ours the moulding of a future near or far;Ours to set a sun in heaven,—hurl in space a red-eyed star.—For I’m told, beyond my curtain there revolveth day and night,And among the stars there standeth one that winketh red with fight;And you say the glow that lights upon my cheek is from the sunGuiding lightning-footed planets as they in their orbits run;And I’ve heard that all have sprung from atoms crowding God’s abyss,—Mars, the evil-eyed and warlike; Sol, the pivot-point of bliss.
Ah! not ours: yet ours the moulding of a future near or far;Ours to set a sun in heaven,—hurl in space a red-eyed star.—For I’m told, beyond my curtain there revolveth day and night,And among the stars there standeth one that winketh red with fight;And you say the glow that lights upon my cheek is from the sunGuiding lightning-footed planets as they in their orbits run;And I’ve heard that all have sprung from atoms crowding God’s abyss,—Mars, the evil-eyed and warlike; Sol, the pivot-point of bliss.
Yes, a weakness, sprung from weakness, weaker waxes, and a strengthOn from strength to strength goes marching, grasping God’s right hand at length;For the mickle at the shoulder means the muckle at the hand,And the hair’s breadth on the compass means the ship upon the land.
Yes, a weakness, sprung from weakness, weaker waxes, and a strengthOn from strength to strength goes marching, grasping God’s right hand at length;For the mickle at the shoulder means the muckle at the hand,And the hair’s breadth on the compass means the ship upon the land.
Yes, a weakness, sprung from weakness, weaker waxes, and a strengthOn from strength to strength goes marching, grasping God’s right hand at length;For the mickle at the shoulder means the muckle at the hand,And the hair’s breadth on the compass means the ship upon the land.
Aye, wife; now I know the reason why you sighed so since we wed:You have seen the world hang on you. Don’t you mind, dear, what you readOut of Cowper?—where he speaks of how the arrow on the wingFalls at last far out of line though small the error at the string.
Aye, wife; now I know the reason why you sighed so since we wed:You have seen the world hang on you. Don’t you mind, dear, what you readOut of Cowper?—where he speaks of how the arrow on the wingFalls at last far out of line though small the error at the string.
Aye, wife; now I know the reason why you sighed so since we wed:You have seen the world hang on you. Don’t you mind, dear, what you readOut of Cowper?—where he speaks of how the arrow on the wingFalls at last far out of line though small the error at the string.
There he’s: take him! You can rhyme of chubby cheeks, and laughy eyesThat have housed far down within them little patches of the skies;You can paint your glowing pictures, that a tear may wash awayWhen a future Vandal stumbles through your dream some after day.Mine are coloured from th’ eternal, set by Love in Fancy’s mould,Knowing nought of life’s mutations, Summer’s heat or Winter’s cold.
There he’s: take him! You can rhyme of chubby cheeks, and laughy eyesThat have housed far down within them little patches of the skies;You can paint your glowing pictures, that a tear may wash awayWhen a future Vandal stumbles through your dream some after day.Mine are coloured from th’ eternal, set by Love in Fancy’s mould,Knowing nought of life’s mutations, Summer’s heat or Winter’s cold.
There he’s: take him! You can rhyme of chubby cheeks, and laughy eyesThat have housed far down within them little patches of the skies;You can paint your glowing pictures, that a tear may wash awayWhen a future Vandal stumbles through your dream some after day.Mine are coloured from th’ eternal, set by Love in Fancy’s mould,Knowing nought of life’s mutations, Summer’s heat or Winter’s cold.
So you’ve only come this morning, courier dove with pinions white?What’s the news from God, what message from the hidden heart of Night?
So you’ve only come this morning, courier dove with pinions white?What’s the news from God, what message from the hidden heart of Night?
So you’ve only come this morning, courier dove with pinions white?What’s the news from God, what message from the hidden heart of Night?
Afar from his wife and his sons and his daughters,The fisherman grapples for gain or loss;Beneath him the silent midnight waters;Above him the blaze of the Southern Cross:And ever his thoughts on the breeze hie homeward,As he calls to the watcher again and again,—“O what of the night: is it dark or bright?”And ever there cometh the old refrain,—“The skies are clearing, the dawn is nearing,The midnight shadows fly.The Cross is bending, the night is ending,The day is drawing nigh.”Again, on the storm-swept winter waters,He battles the billows that tumble and toss;And he thinks of the weeping of wives and daughters,As the clouds fly over the Southern Cross.Ah, then in the hour of his heart’s despairing,When sheets are rending and cables strain,How sweet to his ear come the words of cheer,And the sound of the watcher’s old refrain,—“The skies are clearing, the dawn is nearing,The midnight shadows fly.The Cross is bending, the night is ending,The day is drawing nigh.”. . . . . .Far out, far out on Life’s wild waters,Where storms are howling, where breakers toss,How many of earth’s fair sons and daughtersAre drifting and dragging to gain or loss!But ever the Stars of Hope are shining,Through calm and tempest, through wind and rain;And soft through the night, be it dark or bright,The heart still echoes the old refrain,—“The skies are clearing, the dawn is nearing,The midnight shadows fly.The Cross is bending, the night is ending.The day is drawing nigh.”
Afar from his wife and his sons and his daughters,The fisherman grapples for gain or loss;Beneath him the silent midnight waters;Above him the blaze of the Southern Cross:And ever his thoughts on the breeze hie homeward,As he calls to the watcher again and again,—“O what of the night: is it dark or bright?”And ever there cometh the old refrain,—“The skies are clearing, the dawn is nearing,The midnight shadows fly.The Cross is bending, the night is ending,The day is drawing nigh.”Again, on the storm-swept winter waters,He battles the billows that tumble and toss;And he thinks of the weeping of wives and daughters,As the clouds fly over the Southern Cross.Ah, then in the hour of his heart’s despairing,When sheets are rending and cables strain,How sweet to his ear come the words of cheer,And the sound of the watcher’s old refrain,—“The skies are clearing, the dawn is nearing,The midnight shadows fly.The Cross is bending, the night is ending,The day is drawing nigh.”. . . . . .Far out, far out on Life’s wild waters,Where storms are howling, where breakers toss,How many of earth’s fair sons and daughtersAre drifting and dragging to gain or loss!But ever the Stars of Hope are shining,Through calm and tempest, through wind and rain;And soft through the night, be it dark or bright,The heart still echoes the old refrain,—“The skies are clearing, the dawn is nearing,The midnight shadows fly.The Cross is bending, the night is ending.The day is drawing nigh.”
Afar from his wife and his sons and his daughters,The fisherman grapples for gain or loss;Beneath him the silent midnight waters;Above him the blaze of the Southern Cross:And ever his thoughts on the breeze hie homeward,As he calls to the watcher again and again,—“O what of the night: is it dark or bright?”And ever there cometh the old refrain,—“The skies are clearing, the dawn is nearing,The midnight shadows fly.The Cross is bending, the night is ending,The day is drawing nigh.”
Again, on the storm-swept winter waters,He battles the billows that tumble and toss;And he thinks of the weeping of wives and daughters,As the clouds fly over the Southern Cross.Ah, then in the hour of his heart’s despairing,When sheets are rending and cables strain,How sweet to his ear come the words of cheer,And the sound of the watcher’s old refrain,—“The skies are clearing, the dawn is nearing,The midnight shadows fly.The Cross is bending, the night is ending,The day is drawing nigh.”
. . . . . .
Far out, far out on Life’s wild waters,Where storms are howling, where breakers toss,How many of earth’s fair sons and daughtersAre drifting and dragging to gain or loss!But ever the Stars of Hope are shining,Through calm and tempest, through wind and rain;And soft through the night, be it dark or bright,The heart still echoes the old refrain,—“The skies are clearing, the dawn is nearing,The midnight shadows fly.The Cross is bending, the night is ending.The day is drawing nigh.”
Mine eyes beheld thee—but not nigh: mine ear,Close to thy page, could feel the beat, beat, beat,That told thy great, good heart: now strangers’ feetHave borne thee out. Thee? Nay, I have thee hereForever young; nor less that eye, so clear,Beams brotherhood, nor can the years that fleetLeave me more lonely. No hot tear—full meetFrom widowed Friendship—drop I on thy bier.Some earth-stained page mars oft fair Friendships’s book;And happier I, who saw thro’ Fancy’s lightKin only of the sacred singing race,Blameless of all that mars familiar sight!—Then wherefore should I weep, who skyward look,And mark a god move Godward to his place?
Mine eyes beheld thee—but not nigh: mine ear,Close to thy page, could feel the beat, beat, beat,That told thy great, good heart: now strangers’ feetHave borne thee out. Thee? Nay, I have thee hereForever young; nor less that eye, so clear,Beams brotherhood, nor can the years that fleetLeave me more lonely. No hot tear—full meetFrom widowed Friendship—drop I on thy bier.Some earth-stained page mars oft fair Friendships’s book;And happier I, who saw thro’ Fancy’s lightKin only of the sacred singing race,Blameless of all that mars familiar sight!—Then wherefore should I weep, who skyward look,And mark a god move Godward to his place?
Mine eyes beheld thee—but not nigh: mine ear,Close to thy page, could feel the beat, beat, beat,That told thy great, good heart: now strangers’ feetHave borne thee out. Thee? Nay, I have thee hereForever young; nor less that eye, so clear,Beams brotherhood, nor can the years that fleetLeave me more lonely. No hot tear—full meetFrom widowed Friendship—drop I on thy bier.Some earth-stained page mars oft fair Friendships’s book;And happier I, who saw thro’ Fancy’s lightKin only of the sacred singing race,Blameless of all that mars familiar sight!—Then wherefore should I weep, who skyward look,And mark a god move Godward to his place?
Perfume of eld, more sweet than all the scentOf late-blown roses squandered on the air,Sweetens the tawny forest of thy hair,And there shall dwell till all the years be spent.To thee war’s call with hint of song is blent,And time sits easy on the brows of care;Love lifts a white affirming hand to swearThee hero of thy heroes,—thou, who wentTo the frore Past. Lo! in its eyes did danceReflection of a day within the wakeOf some unrisen, kindlier star; and thouDidst cry: “Behold, with goodlier days the NowIs great, as forests wave in seeds to break,And countless thousands pulse in Love’s first glance!”
Perfume of eld, more sweet than all the scentOf late-blown roses squandered on the air,Sweetens the tawny forest of thy hair,And there shall dwell till all the years be spent.To thee war’s call with hint of song is blent,And time sits easy on the brows of care;Love lifts a white affirming hand to swearThee hero of thy heroes,—thou, who wentTo the frore Past. Lo! in its eyes did danceReflection of a day within the wakeOf some unrisen, kindlier star; and thouDidst cry: “Behold, with goodlier days the NowIs great, as forests wave in seeds to break,And countless thousands pulse in Love’s first glance!”
Perfume of eld, more sweet than all the scentOf late-blown roses squandered on the air,Sweetens the tawny forest of thy hair,And there shall dwell till all the years be spent.To thee war’s call with hint of song is blent,And time sits easy on the brows of care;Love lifts a white affirming hand to swearThee hero of thy heroes,—thou, who wentTo the frore Past. Lo! in its eyes did danceReflection of a day within the wakeOf some unrisen, kindlier star; and thouDidst cry: “Behold, with goodlier days the NowIs great, as forests wave in seeds to break,And countless thousands pulse in Love’s first glance!”
They deemed, self-centred souls! that those great eyesWhich star the night, in amorous orbit turnedAnd, ever boldly bashful, sighed and burnedFor one earth kiss, and stood within the skiesEternally expectant. O most wiseIn your great selves! that rude iconoclastHis stones of Truth among your dreamings cast,And robbed your wisdom of its dear disguise.He stood, a Sampson of Titanic force,’Twixt men and God, and swiftly grasped and hurledHis bolts at callow thoughts of centuries,And pivoted th’ unreckoned universe,And marked the rhythmic orbit of a world,And changed chaotic chords to harmonies!
They deemed, self-centred souls! that those great eyesWhich star the night, in amorous orbit turnedAnd, ever boldly bashful, sighed and burnedFor one earth kiss, and stood within the skiesEternally expectant. O most wiseIn your great selves! that rude iconoclastHis stones of Truth among your dreamings cast,And robbed your wisdom of its dear disguise.He stood, a Sampson of Titanic force,’Twixt men and God, and swiftly grasped and hurledHis bolts at callow thoughts of centuries,And pivoted th’ unreckoned universe,And marked the rhythmic orbit of a world,And changed chaotic chords to harmonies!
They deemed, self-centred souls! that those great eyesWhich star the night, in amorous orbit turnedAnd, ever boldly bashful, sighed and burnedFor one earth kiss, and stood within the skiesEternally expectant. O most wiseIn your great selves! that rude iconoclastHis stones of Truth among your dreamings cast,And robbed your wisdom of its dear disguise.He stood, a Sampson of Titanic force,’Twixt men and God, and swiftly grasped and hurledHis bolts at callow thoughts of centuries,And pivoted th’ unreckoned universe,And marked the rhythmic orbit of a world,And changed chaotic chords to harmonies!
(To remind him that the Genius of Ireland, nigh twenty centuries ago, taught the dull ears of the world the subtleties and charms of the rhyme of which he is now acknowledged master.)
Moulder of mighty measures and sublime;Whose flower of song—how dead soe’er the ground—Blossoms: whose feet, from no great depth profound,By cloudy slopes to cloudier summits climb!What though thou art, in this thy world-broad prime,Great King of Song, sceptred and robed and crowned;Be it not thine to scorn the narrow roundWhence broadened out the bounds of later time.Not all the message of that far-off chimeThe strident strains of this our day have drowned:“Forget not, Singer, whence hath sprung thy rhyme,Or whence thy tongue its lofty power hath found;Nor squander all thy store in mocking mime,Niggard of sense and prodigal of sound.”
Moulder of mighty measures and sublime;Whose flower of song—how dead soe’er the ground—Blossoms: whose feet, from no great depth profound,By cloudy slopes to cloudier summits climb!What though thou art, in this thy world-broad prime,Great King of Song, sceptred and robed and crowned;Be it not thine to scorn the narrow roundWhence broadened out the bounds of later time.Not all the message of that far-off chimeThe strident strains of this our day have drowned:“Forget not, Singer, whence hath sprung thy rhyme,Or whence thy tongue its lofty power hath found;Nor squander all thy store in mocking mime,Niggard of sense and prodigal of sound.”
Moulder of mighty measures and sublime;Whose flower of song—how dead soe’er the ground—Blossoms: whose feet, from no great depth profound,By cloudy slopes to cloudier summits climb!What though thou art, in this thy world-broad prime,Great King of Song, sceptred and robed and crowned;Be it not thine to scorn the narrow roundWhence broadened out the bounds of later time.Not all the message of that far-off chimeThe strident strains of this our day have drowned:“Forget not, Singer, whence hath sprung thy rhyme,Or whence thy tongue its lofty power hath found;Nor squander all thy store in mocking mime,Niggard of sense and prodigal of sound.”
In the beginning the Heaven and the Earth were wedded together, and then was the golden age of joy and beauty. But something occurred which destroyed the union, and the Heaven and the Earth were parted amid the tears of Nature, which men call the dew.—Legend Of South Sea Islands.
Truth in untruth; wisdom on Folly’s tongue,And substance in a shadow!—Hear ye this:Erewhile, ’mid transports of primeval bliss,In starry ears a bridal song was sung,And Heav’n and Earth, in mutual rapture, strungEthereal harps, and took one reeling kiss,’Till, seated with much joy, Earth grew remiss:But, love was rife, and, ah! the Earth was young.O trembling tears of dawn in Nature’s eyes!Forget your sadness. Lo! methinks the hourWhen recreant Love turns loveward, thrills the dome;Earth lifts mute praying hands in tree and flower,And Heav’n, in all the windows of the skies,Hangs nightly lamps to light the wand’rer home!
Truth in untruth; wisdom on Folly’s tongue,And substance in a shadow!—Hear ye this:Erewhile, ’mid transports of primeval bliss,In starry ears a bridal song was sung,And Heav’n and Earth, in mutual rapture, strungEthereal harps, and took one reeling kiss,’Till, seated with much joy, Earth grew remiss:But, love was rife, and, ah! the Earth was young.O trembling tears of dawn in Nature’s eyes!Forget your sadness. Lo! methinks the hourWhen recreant Love turns loveward, thrills the dome;Earth lifts mute praying hands in tree and flower,And Heav’n, in all the windows of the skies,Hangs nightly lamps to light the wand’rer home!
Truth in untruth; wisdom on Folly’s tongue,And substance in a shadow!—Hear ye this:Erewhile, ’mid transports of primeval bliss,In starry ears a bridal song was sung,And Heav’n and Earth, in mutual rapture, strungEthereal harps, and took one reeling kiss,’Till, seated with much joy, Earth grew remiss:But, love was rife, and, ah! the Earth was young.
O trembling tears of dawn in Nature’s eyes!Forget your sadness. Lo! methinks the hourWhen recreant Love turns loveward, thrills the dome;Earth lifts mute praying hands in tree and flower,And Heav’n, in all the windows of the skies,Hangs nightly lamps to light the wand’rer home!
O imperturable and silent years,That reck not all the riot of our timeWhose fevered feet, with inharmonious rhyme,Royster around thy high phantasmal tiers!How mean our mockings of the silent seersTo read the riddle of th’ Eternal Soul!We list’ the thundering life within thy bole,And count the hidden harvest that anears,And dream our dreams, and smile to see them wrecked!Oh, vain insurgence on the unrevealed:Enough to map the paths our fathers trackedNot, mother-like, kiss yet the face concealed.Age ages not the elemental law,And we are thou in hope, thou we anew,And still beneath are depths whence Shakspere drew,And still above are stars that Milton saw!
O imperturable and silent years,That reck not all the riot of our timeWhose fevered feet, with inharmonious rhyme,Royster around thy high phantasmal tiers!How mean our mockings of the silent seersTo read the riddle of th’ Eternal Soul!We list’ the thundering life within thy bole,And count the hidden harvest that anears,And dream our dreams, and smile to see them wrecked!Oh, vain insurgence on the unrevealed:Enough to map the paths our fathers trackedNot, mother-like, kiss yet the face concealed.Age ages not the elemental law,And we are thou in hope, thou we anew,And still beneath are depths whence Shakspere drew,And still above are stars that Milton saw!
O imperturable and silent years,That reck not all the riot of our timeWhose fevered feet, with inharmonious rhyme,Royster around thy high phantasmal tiers!How mean our mockings of the silent seersTo read the riddle of th’ Eternal Soul!We list’ the thundering life within thy bole,And count the hidden harvest that anears,And dream our dreams, and smile to see them wrecked!Oh, vain insurgence on the unrevealed:Enough to map the paths our fathers trackedNot, mother-like, kiss yet the face concealed.Age ages not the elemental law,And we are thou in hope, thou we anew,And still beneath are depths whence Shakspere drew,And still above are stars that Milton saw!
Somewhat of Autumn’s splendour round her lies;Yet deem not thou ’tis preface of her death,For there is that within her heart which saithThis word that buds and blossoms in her eyes:—“Reck not the portent of the season’s skies,Nor deem yon darkling clouds aught but a breathSundrawn from half a world that offerethIts votive incense to the year that flies.”The hand that bevels down the shortening dayIs one with that which quickens leaf and wing,So prophecy of pregnance in decayThou hast, and in thine Autumn germs of Spring;To vindicate these lips, that late have said:“They dreamed a lie who deemed thee wholly dead!”
Somewhat of Autumn’s splendour round her lies;Yet deem not thou ’tis preface of her death,For there is that within her heart which saithThis word that buds and blossoms in her eyes:—“Reck not the portent of the season’s skies,Nor deem yon darkling clouds aught but a breathSundrawn from half a world that offerethIts votive incense to the year that flies.”The hand that bevels down the shortening dayIs one with that which quickens leaf and wing,So prophecy of pregnance in decayThou hast, and in thine Autumn germs of Spring;To vindicate these lips, that late have said:“They dreamed a lie who deemed thee wholly dead!”
Somewhat of Autumn’s splendour round her lies;Yet deem not thou ’tis preface of her death,For there is that within her heart which saithThis word that buds and blossoms in her eyes:—“Reck not the portent of the season’s skies,Nor deem yon darkling clouds aught but a breathSundrawn from half a world that offerethIts votive incense to the year that flies.”The hand that bevels down the shortening dayIs one with that which quickens leaf and wing,So prophecy of pregnance in decayThou hast, and in thine Autumn germs of Spring;To vindicate these lips, that late have said:“They dreamed a lie who deemed thee wholly dead!”
THE LITTLE LIBRARY. THE FOLLOWING VOLUMES WILL APPEAR IN DUE COURSE:— 1. The King’s Oak and Other Stories, By ROBERT CROMIE, Author of “The Crack of Doom,” “A Plunge into Space,” &c. These Stories are amongst the best things from the pen of this brilliant and popular Irish Author. 2. [Immediately. SOCIALISM: ITS STRUCTURAL STUPIDITIES, By IGNOTUS. A pungent criticism and confutation of Fabian fallacies. 3. The Eve of the World’s Tragedy; Or, The Thoughts of a Worm, By LOUIS H. VICTORY, Author of “Lady Rosalind,” “Collected Verses,” “Poems,” “The Higher Teaching of Shakespeare,” &c., &c. 4. A VOLUME OF POEMS By the world-renowned SAMUEL K. COWAN, M.A., T.C.D., Author of “Poems,” “Roses and Rue,” “Idylls of Ireland,” “Play,” “Laurel Leaves,” &c., &c. 5. A BOOK OF PROSE By one of the greatest Irish Writers of his time, W. B. YEATS, Author of “The Countess Kathleen,” “Celtic Twilight,” “The Secret Rose,” &c., &c. OTHERS TO FOLLOW.
FOOTNOTE:[A]...Put a Girdle round the earthIn forty minutes.
FOOTNOTE:
[A]...Put a Girdle round the earthIn forty minutes.
[A]
...Put a Girdle round the earthIn forty minutes.
...Put a Girdle round the earthIn forty minutes.
...Put a Girdle round the earthIn forty minutes.