Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy Part 27

Or following its devious course Up many a weary winding mile, Had tracked the long, mysterious Nile Even to its now no-fabled source:

Resting, perchance, as on he strode, To see the herded camels pa.s.s Upon the strips of wayside gra.s.s That line with green the dust-white road.

Had often closed his weary lids In oases that deck the waste, Or in the mighty shadows traced By 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 trod Lightly the fresh and verdurous sod, There was he seen amid the dance:

Yielding with sympathizing stem To 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 boy By many a river's bank, and gave His floating body to the wave, Full many a time to give them joy.

These and a thousand other tales The traveller told, and welcome found; These were the simple tales went round The happy circles in the vales.

Keeping reserved with conscious pride His n.o.blest act, his crowning feat, How he had led even Humboldt's feet Up 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 droop Over their pearl-white shoulders pale--

Told, when the genial glow of June Had pa.s.sed, they sought still warmer climes And took beneath the verdurous limes Their sweet siesta through the noon:

And seeking still, with fond pursuit, The phantom Health, which lures and wiles Its followers to the sh.o.r.es and isles Of amber waves, and golden fruit.

There they had seen the orange grove Enwreath its gold with buds of white, As if themselves had taken flight, And settled on the boughs above.

There kiss'd by every rosy mouth And press'd to every gentle breast, These pallid daughters of the West Reigned in the sunshine of the South.

And thoughtful of the things divine, Were oft by many an altar found, Standing like white-robed angels round The 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 gloom Veil'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 bronz'ed cheeks recalls The incessant beat of wind and sun, Spoke of the lore his search had won Upon Pompeii's rescued walls.

How, in his antiquarian march, He crossed the tomb-strewn plain of Rome, Sat on some prostrate plinth, or clomb The Coliseum's topmost arch.

And thence beheld in glad amaze What 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 l.u.s.tre 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 gold She sat, like Persia's king of old, High o'er the sh.o.r.es 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 tall Tulip, whose grateful hearts recall The winter homes where they had been.

Some in the sunny vales, beneath The sheltering hills; and some, whose eyes Were gladdened by the southern skies, High up amid the blooming heath.

Meek, modest flowers, by poets loved, Sweet Pansies, with their dark eyes fringed With silken lashes finely tinged, That trembled if a leaf but moved:

And some in gardens where the gra.s.s Mossed o'er the green quadrangle's breast, There dwelt each flower, a welcome guest, In crystal palaces of gla.s.s:

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 chained Awhile from this their natal spot.

One, who is labour's useful tracks Is proudly eminent, who roams The providence of humble homes-- The blue-eyed, fair-haired, friendly Flax:

Giving himself to cheer and light The 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 pa.s.sed.

And when, at length, the longed-for noon Of night arched o'er th' expectant green The 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 praise Hereafter in his simple rhyme.

109. The Daisy.

110. The Wallflower.

THE PROGRESS OF THE ROSE.

The days of old, the good old days, Whose misty memories haunt us still, Demand alike our blame and praise, And claim their shares of good and ill.

They had strong faith in things unseen, But stronger in the things they saw Revenge for Mercy's pitying mien, And lordly Right for equal Law.

'Tis true the cloisters all throughout The valleys rais'd their peaceful towers, And their sweet bells ne'er wearied out In telling of the tranquil hours.

But from the craggy hills above, A shadow darken'd o'er the sward; For there--a vulture to this dove-- Hung the rude fortress of the lord;

Whence oft the ravening bird of prey Descending, to his eyry wild Bore, with exulting cries, away The powerless serf's dishonour'd child.

Then Safety lit with partial beams But the high-castled peaks of Force, And Polity revers'd its streams, And bade them flow but for their Source.