Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy Part 29

Wishing, too, to wander By the sea-waves yonder, There awhile to squander All their silvery stores, There awhile forgetting All their vain regretting When their foam went fretting Round the rippling sh.o.r.es.

Round the rocky region, Whence their prison'd legion, Oft and oft besieging, Vainly sought to break, Vainly sought to throw them O'er the vales below them, Through the clefts that show them Paths they dare not take.

But the swift streams speed them In the might of freedom, Down the paths that lead them Joyously along.

Blinding green recesses With their floating tresses, Charming wildernesses With their murmuring song.

Now the streams are gliding With a sweet abiding-- Now the streams are hiding 'Mid the whispering reeds-- Now the streams outglancing With a shy advancing Naiad-like go dancing Down the golden meads.

Down the golden meadows, Chasing their own shadows-- Down the golden meadows, Playing as they run: Playing with the sedges, By the water's edges, Leaping o'er the ledges, Glist'ning in the sun:

Streams and streamlets blending, Each on each attending, All together wending, Seek the silver sands; Like the sisters holding With a fond enfolding-- Like to sisters holding One another's hands.

Now with foreheads blushing With a rapturous flushing-- Now the streams are rushing In among the waves.

Now in shy confusion, With a pale suffusion, Seek the wild seclusion Of sequestered caves.

All the summer hours Hiding in the bowers, Scattering silver showers Out upon the strand; O'er the pebbles crashing, Through the ripples splashing, Liquid pearl-wreaths dashing From each other's hand.

By yon mossy boulder, See an ivory shoulder, Dazzling the beholder, Rises o'er the blue; But a moment's thinking, Sends the Naiad sinking, With a modest shrinking, From the gazer's view.

Now the wave compresses All their golden tresses-- Now their sea-green dresses Float them o'er the tide; Now with elf-locks dripping From the brine they're sipping, With a fairy tripping, Down the green waves glide.

Some that scarce have tarried By the sh.o.r.e are carried Sea-ward to be married To the glad G.o.ds there: Triton's horn is playing, Neptune's steeds are neighing, Restless with delaying For a bride so fair.

See at first the river How its pale lips quiver, How its white waves shiver With a fond unrest; List how low it sigheth, See how swift it flieth, Till at length it lieth On the ocean's breast.

Such is Youth's admiring, Such is Love's desiring, Such is Hope's aspiring For the higher goal; Such is man's condition Till in heaven's fruition Ends the mystic mission Of the eternal soul.

THE FLOWERS OF THE TROPICS.

"C'est ainsi qu'elle nature a mis, entre les tropiques, la plupart des fleurs apparentes sur des arbres. J'y en ai vu bien peu dans les prairies, mais beaucoup dans les forets. Dans ces pays, il faut lever les yeux en haut pour y voir des fleurs; dans le notre, il faut les baisser a terre."--SAINT PIERRE, "Etudes de la Nature."

In the soft sunny regions that circle the waist Of the globe with a girdle of topaz and gold, Which heave with the throbbings of life where they're placed, And glow with the fire of the heart they enfold; Where to live, where to breathe, seems a paradise dream-- A dream of some world more elysian than this-- Where, if Death and if Sin were away, it would seem Not the foretaste alone, but the fulness of bliss.

Where all that can gladden the sense and the sight, Fresh fruitage as cool and as crimson as even; Where the richness and rankness of Nature unite To build the frail walls of the Sybarite's heaven.

But, ah! should the heart feel the desolate dearth Of some purer enjoyment to speed the bright hours, In vain through the leafy luxuriance of earth Looks the languid-lit eye for the freshness of flowers.

No, its glance must be turned from the earth to the sky, From the clay-rooted gra.s.s to the heaven-branching trees; And there, oh! enchantment for soul and for eye, Hang blossoms so pure that an angel might seize.

Thus, when pleasure begins from its sweetness to cloy, And the warm heart grows rank like a soil over ripe, We must turn from the earth for some promise of joy, And look up to heaven for a holier type.

In the climes of the North, which alternately shine, Now warm with the sunbeam, now white with the snow, And which, like the breast of the earth they entwine.

Grow chill with its chillness, or glow with its glow, In those climes where the soul, on more vigorous wing, Rises soaring to heaven in its rapturous flight, And, led ever on by the radiance they fling, Tracketh star after star through infinitude's night.

How oft doth the seer from his watch-tower on high.

Scan the depths of the heavens with his wonderful gla.s.s; And, like Adam of old, when Earth's creatures went by, Name the orbs and the sun-lighted spheres as they pa.s.s.

How often, when drooping, and weary, and worn, With fire-throbbing temples and star-dazzled eyes, Does he turn from his gla.s.s at the breaking of morn, And exchanges for flowers all the wealth of the skies?

Ah! thus should we mingle the far and the near, And, while striving to pierce what the G.o.dhead conceals, From the far heights of Science look down with a fear To the lowliest truths the same G.o.dhead reveals.

When the rich fruit of Joy glads the heart and the mouth, Or the bold wing of Thought leads the daring soul forth; Let us proudly look up as for flowers of the south, Let us humbly look down as for flowers of the north.

THE YEAR-KING.

It is the last of all the days, The day on which the Old Year dies.

Ah! yes, the fated hour is near; I see upon his snow-white bier Outstretched the weary wanderer lies, And mark his dying gaze.

A thousand visions dark and fair, Crowd on the old man's fading sight; A thousand mingled memories throng The old man's heart, still green and strong; The heritage of wrong and right He leaves unto his heir.

He thinks upon his budding hopes, The day he stood the world's young king, Upon his coronation morn, When diamonds hung on every thorn, And peeped the pearl flowers of the spring Adown the emerald slopes.

He thinks upon his youthful pride, When in his ermined cloak of snow, Upon his war-horse, stout and staunch-- The cataract-crested avalanche-- He thundered on the rocks below, With his warriors at his side.

From rock to rock, through cloven scalp, By rivers rushing to the sea, With thunderous sound his army wound The heaven supporting hills around; Like that the Man of Destiny Led down the astonished Alp.

The bugles of the blast rang out, The banners of the lightning swung, The icy spear-points of the pine Bristled along the advancing line, And as the winds' 'reveille' rung, Heavens! how the hills did shout.

Adown each slippery precipice Rattled the loosen'd rocks, like b.a.l.l.s Shot from his booming thunder guns, Whose smoke, effacing stars and suns, Darkens the stifled heaven, and falls Far off in arrowy showers of ice.

Ah! yes, he was a mighty king, A mighty king, full flushed with youth; He cared not then what ruin lay Upon his desolating way; Not his the cause of G.o.d or Truth, But the brute l.u.s.t of conquering.

Nought could resist his mighty will, The green gra.s.s withered where he stood; His ruthless hands were prompt to seize Upon the tresses of the trees; Then shrieked the maidens of the wood, And the saplings of the hill.

Nought could resist his mighty will; For in his ranks rode spectral Death; The old expired through very fear; And pined the young, when he came near; The faintest flutter of his breath Was sharp enough to kill.

Nought could resist his mighty will; The flowers fell dead beneath his tread; The streams of life, that through the plains Throb night and day through crystal veins, With feverish pulses frighten'd fled, Or curdled, and grew still.

Nought could resist his mighty will; On rafts of ice, blue-hued, like steel, He crossed the broadest rivers o'er Ah! me, and then was heard no more The murmur of the peaceful wheel That turned the peasant's mill.

But why the evil that attends On War recall to further view?

Accurs'ed War!--the world too well Knows what thou art--thou fiend of h.e.l.l!

The heartless havoc of a few For their own selfish ends!

Soon, soon the youthful conqueror Felt moved, and bade the horrors cease; Nature resumed its ancient sway, Warm tears rolled down the cheeks of Day, And Spring, the harbinger of peace Proclaimed the fight was o'er.

Oh! what a change came o'er the world; The winds, that cut like naked swords, Shed balm upon the wounds they made; And they who came the first to aid The foray of grim Winter's hordes The flag of truce unfurled.

Oh! how the song of joy, the sound Of rapture thrills the leaguered camps The tinkling showers like cymbals clash Upon the late leaves of the ash, And blossoms hang like festal lamps On all the trees around.

And there is sunshine, sent to strew G.o.d's cloth of gold, whereon may dance, To music that harmonious moves, The link'ed Graces and the Loves, Making reality romance, And rare romance even more than true.

The fields laughed out in dimpling flowers, The streams' blue eyes flashed bright with smiles; The pale-faced clouds turned rosy-red, As they looked down from overhead, Then fled o'er continents and isles, To shed their happy tears in showers.

The youthful monarch's heart grew light To find what joy good deeds can shed; To nurse the orphan buds that bent Over each turf-piled monument, Wherein the parent flowers lay dead Who perished in that fight.

And as he roamed from day to day, Atoning thus to flower and tree, Flinging his lavish gold around In countless yellow flowers, he found, By gladsome-weeping April's knee, The modest maiden May.

Oh! she was young as angels are, Ere the eternal youth they lead Gives any clue to tell the hours They've spent in heaven's elysian bowers; Ere G.o.d before their eyes decreed The birth-day of some beauteous star.