Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy Part 2

Youth's bright palace Is overthrown, With its diamond sceptre And golden throne; As a time-worn stone Its turrets are humbled,-- All hath crumbled But grief alone!

Wither, oh, whither, Have fled away The dreams and hopes Of my early day?

Ruined and gray Are the towers I builded; And the beams that gilded-- Ah! where are they?

Once this world Was fresh and bright, With its golden noon And its starry night; Glad and light, By mountain and river, Have I bless'd the Giver With hushed delight.

These were the days Of story and song, When Hope had a meaning And 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 pa.s.sed like clouds That the sun looked on.

While morning shone, How purple their fringes!

How ashy their tinges When that was gone!

Darkness that cometh Ere morn has fled-- Boughs that wither Ere fruits are shed-- Death bells instead Of a bridal's pealings-- Such are my feelings, Since Hope is dead!

Sad is the knowledge That cometh with years-- Bitter the tree That is watered with tears; Truth appears, With his wise predictions, Then vanish the fictions Of boyhood's years.

As fire-flies fade When the nights are damp-- As meteors are quenched In a stagnant swamp-- Thus Charlemagne's camp, Where the Paladins rally, And the Diamond Valley, And Wonderful Lamp,

And all the wonders Of Ganges and Nile, And Haroun's rambles, And Crusoe's isle, And Princes who smile On the Genii's daughters 'Neath the Orient waters Full many a mile,

And all that the pen Of Fancy can write Must vanish In manhood's misty light-- Squire and knight, And damosels' glances, Sunny romances So pure and bright!

These have vanished, And what remains?-- Life's budding garlands Have turned to chains; Its beams and rains Feed but docks and thistles, And sorrow whistles O'er desert plains!

The dove will fly From a ruined nest, Love will not dwell In a troubled breast; The heart has no zest To sweeten life's dolour-- If Love, the Consoler, Be not its guest!

The dream is over, The vision has flown; Dead leaves are lying Where roses have blown; Wither'd and strown Are the hopes I cherished,-- All hath perished But grief alone!

THE BRIDAL OF THE YEAR.

Yes! the Summer is returning, Warmer, brighter beams are burning Golden mornings, purple evenings, Come to glad the world once more.

Nature from her long sojourning In the Winter-House of Mourning, With the light of hope outpeeping, From those eyes that late were weeping, Cometh dancing o'er the waters To our distant sh.o.r.e.

On the boughs the birds are singing, Never idle, For the bridal Goes the frolic breeze a-ringing All 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 changes That our wondering eyes behold.

Spring is but his time of wooing-- Summer but the sweet renewing Of 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 him Childless, too, their graves among, Till May returns once more, and the bridal hymns are sung.

Thrice the great Betroth'ed 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 voiceless Did rejoice less)-- "Be the heavenly lovers mated!"

All the many murmuring voices Of 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 Peasant Primrose sitteth, Nor permitteth Any of her kindred present, Specially the milk-sweet cowslip, E'er to leave the tranquil shade; By the hedges, Or the edges Of some stream or gra.s.sy glade, They look upon the scene half wistful, half afraid.

Other guests, too, are invited, From the alleys dimly lighted, From the pestilential vapours Of the over-peopled town-- From the fever and the panic, Comes the hard-worked, swarth mechanic-- Comes the young wife pallor-stricken At 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 thinking They are drinking Life and joy from poisoned beakers, Shudder at their midnight madness, And the raving revel scorn: All are treading To the wedding In the freshness of the morn, And feel, perchance too late, the bliss of being born.

And the Student leaves his poring, And his venturous exploring In the gold and gem-enfolding Waters 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 learning But the Spartan's iron ore; Without value in an era Far more golden Than the olden-- When the beautiful chimera, Love, hath almost wholly faded Even from the dreams of men.

From his prison Newly 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 inspiration At the fountain of the skies; He, within whose fond embraces Start to life the marble graces; Or, with G.o.d-like power presiding, With the potent pencil gliding, O'er the void chaotic canvas Bids the fair creations rise!

And the quickened ma.s.s obeying Heaves its mountains; From its fountains Sends the gentle streams a-straying Through the vales, like Love's first feelings Stealing o'er a maiden's heart; The Creator-- Imitator-- From his easel forth doth start, And from G.o.d's glorious Nature learns anew his Art!

But who is this with tresses flowing, Flashing eyes and forehead glowing, From whose lips the thunder-music Pealeth o'er the listening lands?

'Tis the first and last of preachers-- First and last of priestly teachers; First and last of those appointed In the ranks of the anointed; With their songs like swords to sever Tyranny and Falsehood's bands!

'Tis the Poet--sum and total Of 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 phantoms In his glorious vision seen?

Nymphs from shady forests wending, G.o.ddesses from heaven descending; Three of Jove's divinest daughters, Nine from Aganippe's waters; And the pa.s.sion-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 blooming Shapes, illuming The 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 mountains Look but cannot speak their mirth; Streams go bounding in their gladness, With a baccha.n.a.lian madness; Trees bow down their heads in wonder, Clouds of purple part asunder, As the Maiden of the Morning Leads the blushing Bride to Earth!

Bright as are the planets seven-- With her glances She advances, For her azure eyes are Heaven!

And her robes are sunbeams woven, And her beauteous bridesmaids are Hopes 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 meadows Strew the consecrated ground; Let the guests with vows fraternal Pledge each other, Sister, brother, With the wine of Hope--the vernal Vine-juice of Man's trustful heart: Perseverance And 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 banquet Have the Bride and Bridegroom flown?

Ah! their steps have led them quickly Where the young leaves cl.u.s.ter thickly; Blossomed boughs rain fragrance o'er them, Greener grows the gra.s.s 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 lighter From the far-off mighty ocean Frolic on the glistening sand; Jubilations, Gratulations, Breathe around, as hand-in-hand They roam the Sutton's sea-washed sh.o.r.e, or soft Shanganah's strand.

14. Characters in Sh.e.l.ley, Coleridge, and Moore.

15. "The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame Over his living head, like Heaven, is bent, An early but enduring monument."

Byron. (Sh.e.l.ley's "Adonais.")

THE VALE OF SHANGANAH.[16]

When I have knelt in the temple of Duty, Worshipping honour and valour and beauty-- When, like a brave man, in fearless resistance, I have fought the good fight on the field of existence; When a home I have won in the conflict of labour, With truth for my armour and thought for my sabre, Be that home a calm home where my old age may rally, A home full of peace in this sweet pleasant valley!

Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah!

Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah!

May the accents of love, like the droppings of manna, Fall sweet on my heart in the Vale of Shanganah!