Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy Part 30

Oh! she was fair as are the leaves Of pale white roses, when the light Of sunset, through some trembling bough, Kisses the queen-flower's blushing brow, Nor leaves it red nor marble white, But rosy-pale, like April eves.

Her eyes were like forget-me-nots, Dropped in the silvery snowdrop's cup, Or on the folded myrtle buds, The azure violet of the woods; Just as the thirsty sun drinks up The dewy diamonds on the plots.

And her sweet breath was like the sighs Breathed by a babe of youth and love; When all the fragrance of the south From the cleft cherry of its mouth, Meets the fond lips that from above Stoop to caress its slumbering eyes.

He took the maiden by the hand, And led her in her simple gown Unto a hamlet's peaceful scene, Upraised her standard on the green; And crowned her with a rosy crown The beauteous Queen of all the land.

And happy was the maiden's reign-- For peace, and mirth, and twin-born love Came forth from out men's hearts that day, Their gladsome fealty to pay; And there was music in the grove, And dancing on the plain.

And Labour carolled at his task, Like the blithe bird that sings and builds His happy household 'mid the leaves; And now the fibrous twig he weaves, And now he sings to her who gilds The sole horizon he doth ask.

And Sickness half forgot its pain, And Sorrow half forgot its grief; And Eld forgot that it was old, As if to show the age of gold Was not the poet's fond belief, But every year comes back again.

The Year-King pa.s.sed along his way: Rejoiced, rewarded, and content; He pa.s.sed to distant lands and new; For other tasks he had to do; But wheresoe'er the wanderer went, He ne'er forgot his darling May.

He sent her stems of living gold From the rich plains of western lands, And purple-gushing grapes from vines Born of the amorous sun that shines Where Tagus rolls its golden sands, Or Guadalete old.

And citrons from Firenze's fields, And golden apples from the isles That gladden the bright southern seas, True home of the Hesperides: Which now no dragon guards, but smiles, The bounteous mother, as she yields.

And then the king grew old like Lear-- His blood waxed chill, his beard grew gray; He changed his sceptre for a staff: And as the thoughtless children laugh To see him totter on his way, He knew his destined hour was near.

And soon it came; and here he strives, Outstretched upon his snow-white bier, To reconcile the dread account-- How stands the balance, what the amount; As we shall do with trembling fear When our last hour arrives.

Come, let us kneel around his bed, And pray unto his G.o.d and ours For mercy on his servant here: Oh, G.o.d be with the dying year!

And G.o.d be with the happy hours That died before their sire lay dead!

And as the bells commingling ring The New Year in, the Old Year out, m.u.f.fled and sad, and now in peals With which the quivering belfry reels, Grateful and hopeful be the shout, The King is dead!--Long live the King!

THE AWAKING.

A lady came to a snow-white bier, Where a youth lay pale and dead: She took the veil from her widowed head, And, bending low, in his ear she said: "Awaken! for I am here."

She pa.s.s'd with a smile to a wild wood near, Where the boughs were barren and bare; She tapp'd on the bark with her fingers fair, And call'd to the leaves that were buried there: "Awaken! for I am here."

The birds beheld her without a fear, As she walk'd through the dank-moss'd dells; She breathed on their downy citadels, And whisper'd the young in their ivory sh.e.l.ls: "Awaken! for I am here."

On the graves of the flowers she dropp'd a tear, But with hope and with joy, like us; And even as the Lord to Lazarus, She call'd to the slumbering sweet flowers thus: "Awaken! for I am here."

To the lilies that lay in the silver mere, To the reeds by the golden pond; To the moss by the rounded marge beyond, She spoke with her voice so soft and fond: "Awaken! for I am here."

The violet peep'd, with its blue eye clear, From under its own gravestone; For the blessed tidings around had flown, And before she spoke the impulse was known: "Awaken! for I am here."

The pale gra.s.s lay with its long looks sere On the breast of the open plain; She loosened the matted hair of the slain, And cried, as she filled each juicy vein: "Awaken! for I am here."

The rush rose up with its pointed spear The flag, with its falchion broad; The dock uplifted its shield unawed, As her voice rung over the quickening sod: "Awaken! for I am here."

The red blood ran through the clover near, And the heath on the hills o'erhead; The daisy's fingers were tipp'd with red, As she started to life, when the lady said: "Awaken! for I am here."

And the young Year rose from his snow-white bier, And the flowers from their green retreat; And they came and knelt at the lady's feet, Saying all, with their mingled voices sweet: "O lady! behold us here."

THE RESURRECTION.

The day of wintry wrath is o'er, The whirlwind and the storm have pa.s.s'd, The whiten'd ashes of the snow Enwrap the ruined world no more; Nor keenly from the orient blow The venom'd hissings of the blast.

The frozen tear-drops of despair Have melted from the trembling thorn; Hope plumes unseen her radiant wing, And lo! amid the expectant air, The trumpet of the angel Spring Proclaims the resurrection morn.

Oh! what a wave of gladsome sound Runs rippling round the sh.o.r.es of s.p.a.ce, As the requicken'd earth upheaves The swelling bosom of the ground, And Death's cold pallor, startled, leaves The deepening roses of her face.

Up from their graves the dead arise-- The dead and buried flowers of spring;-- Up from their graves in glad amaze, Once more to view the long-lost skies, Resplendent with the dazzling rays Of their great coming Lord and King.

And lo! even like that mightiest one, In the world's last and awful hour, Surrounded by the starry seven, So comes G.o.d's greatest work, the sun, Upborne upon the clouds of heaven, In pomp, and majesty, and power.

The virgin snowdrop bends its head Above its grave in grateful prayer; The daisy lifts its radiant brow, With a saint's glory round it shed; The violet's worth, unhidden now, Is wafted wide by every air.

The parent stem reclasps once more Its long-lost severed buds and leaves; Once more the tender tendrils twine Around the forms they clasped of yore The very rain is now a sign Great Nature's heart no longer grieves.

And now the judgment-hour arrives, And now their final doom they know; No dreadful doom is theirs whose birth Was not more stainless than their lives; 'Tis Goodness calls them from the earth, And Mercy tells them where to go.

Some of them fly with glad accord, Obedient to the high behest, To worship with their fragrant breath Around the altars of the Lord; And some, from nothingness and death, Pa.s.s to the heaven of beauty's breast.

Oh, let the simple fancy be Prophetic of our final doom; Grant us, O Lord, when from the sod Thou deign'st to call us too, that we Pa.s.s to the bosom of our G.o.d From the dark nothing of the tomb!

THE FIRST OF THE ANGELS.

Hush! hush! through the azure expanse of the sky Comes a low, gentle sound, 'twixt a laugh and a sigh; And I rise from my writing, and look up on high, And I kneel, for the first of G.o.d's angels is nigh!

Oh, how to describe what my rapt eyes descry!

For the blue of the sky is the blue of his eye; And the white clouds, whose whiteness the snowflakes outvie, Are the luminous pinions on which he doth fly!

And his garments of gold gleam at times like the pyre Of the west, when the sun in a blaze doth expire; Now tinged like the orange, now flaming with fire!

Half the crimson of roses and purple of Tyre.

And his voice, on whose accents the angels have hung, He himself a bright angel, immortal and young, Scatters melody sweeter the green buds among Than the poet e'er wrote, or the nightingale sung.

It comes on the balm-bearing breath of the breeze, And the odours that later will gladden the bees, With a life and a freshness united to these, From the rippling of waters and rustling of trees.

Like a swan to its young o'er the gla.s.s of a pond, So to earth comes the angel, as graceful and fond; While a bright beam of sunshine--his magical wand, Strikes the fields at my feet, and the mountains beyond.

They waken--they start into life at a bound-- Flowers climb the tall hillocks, and cover the ground With a nimbus of glory the mountains are crown'd, As the rivulets rush to the ocean profound.

There is life on the earth, there is calm on the sea, And the rough waves are smoothed, and the frozen are free; And they gambol and ramble like boys, in their glee, Round the sh.e.l.l-shining strand or the gra.s.s-bearing lea.