Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy Part 33

That song would pierce where swords would fail, And o'er the battle's din, The sweet, sad music of the Gael A peaceful victory win.

Long was the trance, but sweet and low The harp breathed out again Its speechless wail, its wordless woe, In Carolan's witching strain.

Until at last the gift of words Denied to it so long, Poured o'er the now enfranchised chords The articulate light of song.

Poured the bright light from genius won, That woke the harp's wild lays; Even as that statue which the sun Made vocal with his rays.

Thus Ossian in disparted dream Outpoured the varied lay, But now in one united stream His rapture finds its way:--

"Yes, in thy hands, ill.u.s.trious son, The harp shall speak once more, Its sweet lament shall rippling run From listening sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e.

Till mighty lands that lie unknown Far in the fabled west, And giant isles of verdure thrown Upon the South Sea's breast.

And plains where rushing rivers flow-- Fit emblems of the free-- Shall learn to know of Ireland's woe, And Ireland's weal through thee."

'Twas thus he sang, And while tumultuous plaudits rang From the immortal throng, In the younger minstrel's hand He placed the emblem of the land-- The harp of Irish song.

Oh! what dulcet notes are heard.

Never bird Soaring through the sunny air Like a prayer Borne by angel's hands on high So entranced the listening sky As his song-- Soft, pathetic, joyous, strong, Rising now in rapid flight Out of sight Like a lark in its own light, Now descending low and sweet To our feet, Till the odours of the gra.s.s With the light notes as they pa.s.s Blend and meet: All that Erin's memory guards In her heart, Deeds of heroes, songs of bards, Have their part.

Brian's glories reappear, Fionualla's song we hear, Tara's walls resound again With a more inspir'ed strain, Rival rivers meet and join, Stately Shannon blends with Boyne; While on high the storm-winds cease Heralding the arch of peace.

And all the bright creations fair That 'neath his master-hand awake, Some in tears and some in smiles, Like Nea in the summer isles, Or Kathleen by the lonely lake, Round his radiant throne repair: Nay, his own Peri of the air Now no more disconsolate, Gives in at Fame's celestial gate His pa.s.sport to the skies-- The gift to heaven most dear, His country's tear.

From every lip the glad refrain doth rise, "Joy, ever joy, his glorious task is done, The gates are pa.s.sed and Fame's bright heaven is won!"

Ah! yes, the work, the glorious work is done, And Erin crowns to-day her brightest son, Around his brow entwines the victor bay, And lives herself immortal in his lay-- Leads him with honour to her highest place, For he had borne his more than mother's name Proudly along the Olympic lists of fame When mighty athletes struggled in the race.

Byron, the swift-souled spirit, in his pride Paused to cheer on the rival by his side, And Lycidas, so long Lost in the light of his own dazzling song, Although himself unseen, Gave the bright wreath that might his own have been To him whom 'mid the mountain shepherd throng, The minstrels of the isles, When Adonais died so fair and young, Ierne sent from out her green defiles "The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong, And love taught grief to fall like music from his tongue."

And he who sang of Poland's kindred woes, And Hope's delicious dream, And all the mighty minstrels who arose In that auroral gleam That o'er our age a blaze of glory threw Which Shakspere's only knew-- Some from their hidden haunts remote, Like him the lonely hermit of the hills, Whose song like some great organ note The whole horizon fills.

Or the great Master, he whose magic hand, Wielding the wand from which such wonder flows, Transformed the lineaments of a rugged land, And left the thistle lovely as the rose.

Oh! in a concert of such minstrelsy, In such a glorious company, What pride for Ireland's harp to sound, For Ireland's son to share, What pride to see him glory-crowned, And hear amid the dazzling gleam Upon the rapt and ravished air Her harp still sound supreme!

Glory to Moore, eternal be the glory That here we crown and consecrate to-day, Glory to Moore, for he has sung our story In strains whose sweetness ne'er can pa.s.s away.

Glory to Moore, for he has sighed our sorrow In such a wail of melody divine, That even from grief a pa.s.sing joy we borrow, And linger long o'er each lamenting line.

Glory to Moore, that in his songs of gladness Which neither change nor time can e'er destroy, Though mingled oft with some faint sigh of sadness, He sings his country's rapture and its joy.

What wit like his flings out electric flashes That make the numbers sparkle as they run: Wit that revives dull history's Dead-sea ashes, And makes the ripe fruit glisten in the sun?

What fancy full of loveliness and lightness Has spread like his as at some dazzling feast, The fruits and flowers, the beauty and the brightness, And all the golden glories of the East?

Perpetual blooms his bower of summer roses, No winter comes to turn his green leaves sere, Beside his song-stream where the swan reposes The bulbul sings as by the Bendemeer.

But back returning from his flight with Peris, Above his native fields he sings his best, Like to the lark whose rapture never wearies, When poised in air he singeth o'er his nest.

And so we rank him with the great departed, The kings of song who rule us from their urns, The souls inspired, the natures n.o.ble hearted, And place him proudly by the side of Burns.

And as not only by the Calton Mountain, Is Scotland's bard remembered and revered, But whereso'er, like some o'erflowing fountain, Its hardy race a prosperous path has cleared.

There 'mid the roar of newly-rising cities, His glorious name is heard on every tongue, There to the music of immortal ditties, His lays of love, his patriot songs are sung.

So not alone beside that bay of beauty That guards the portals of his native town Where like two watchful sentinels on duty, Howth and Killiney from their heights look down.

But wheresoe'er the exiled race hath drifted, By what far sea, what mighty stream beside, There shall to-day the poet's name be lifted, And Moore proclaimed its glory and its pride:

There shall his name be held in fond memento, There shall his songs resound for evermore, Whether beside the golden Sacramento, Or where Niagara's thunder shakes the sh.o.r.e.

For all that's bright indeed must fade and perish, And all that's sweet when sweetest not endure, Before the world shall cease to love and cherish The wit and song, the name and fame of MOORE.

Miscellaneous Poems.

THE SPIRIT OF THE SNOW.

The night brings forth the morn-- Of the cloud is lightning born; From out the darkest earth the brightest roses grow.

Bright sparks from black flints fly, And from out a leaden sky Comes the silvery-footed Spirit of the Snow.

The wondering air grows mute, As her pearly parachute Cometh slowly down from heaven, softly floating to and fro; And the earth emits no sound, As lightly on the ground Leaps the silvery-footed Spirit of the Snow.

At the contact of her tread, The mountain's festal head, As with chaplets of white roses, seems to glow; And its furrowed cheek grows white With a feeling of delight, At the presence of the Spirit of the Snow.

As she wendeth to the vale, The longing fields grow pale-- The tiny streams that vein them cease to flow; And the river stays its tide With wonder and with pride, To gaze upon the Spirit of the Snow.

But little doth she deem The love of field or stream-- She is frolicsome and lightsome as the roe; She is here and she is there, On the earth or in the air, Ever changing, floats the Spirit of the Snow.

Now a daring climber, she Mounts the tallest forest tree-- Out along the giddy branches doth she go; And her ta.s.sels, silver-white, Down swinging through the night, Mark the pillow of the Spirit of the Snow.

Now she climbs the mighty mast, When the sailor boy at last Dreams of home in his hammock down below There she watches in his stead Till the morning sun shines red, Then evanishes the Spirit of the Snow.

Or crowning with white fire.

The minster's topmost spire With a glory such as sainted foreheads show; She teaches fanes are given Thus to lift the heart to heaven, There to melt like the Spirit of the Snow.

Now above the loaded wain, Now beneath the thundering train, Doth she hear the sweet bells tinkle and the snorting engine blow; Now she flutters on the breeze, Till the branches of the trees Catch the tossed and tangled tresses of the Spirit of the Snow.

Now an infant's balmy breath Gives the spirit seeming death, When adown her pallid features fair Decay's damp dew-drops flow; Now again her strong a.s.sault Can make an army halt, And trench itself in terror 'gainst the Spirit of the Snow.

At times with gentle power, In visiting some bower, She scarce will hide the holly's red, the blackness of the sloe; But, ah! her awful might, When down some Alpine height The hapless hamlet sinks before the Spirit of the Snow.

On a feather she floats down The turbid rivers brown, Down to meet the drifting navies of the winter-freighted floe; Then swift o'er the azure walls Of the awful waterfalls, Where Niagara leaps roaring, glides the Spirit of the Snow.

With her flag of truce unfurled, She makes peace o'er all the world-- Makes b.l.o.o.d.y battle cease awhile, and war's unpitying woe; Till, its hollow womb within, The deep dark-mouthed culverin Encloses, like a cradled child, the Spirit of the Snow.

She uses in her need The fleetly-flying steed-- Now tries the rapid reindeer's strength, and now the camel slow; Or, ere defiled by earth, Unto her place of birth, Returns upon the eagle's wing the Spirit of the Snow.