Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy Part 38

May 30, 1866.

YOUTH AND AGE.

To give the blossom and the fruit The soft warm air that wraps them round, Oh! think how long the toilsome root Must live and labour 'neath the ground.

To send the river on its way, With ever deepening strength and force, Oh! think how long 'twas let to play, A happy streamlet, near its source.

TO JUNE.

WRITTEN AFTER AN UNGENIAL MAY.

I'll heed no more the poet's lay-- His false-fond song shall charm no more-- My heart henceforth shall but adore The real, not the misnamed May.

Too long I've knelt, and vainly hung My offerings round an empty name; O May! thou canst not be the same As once thou wert when Earth was young.

Thou canst not be the same to-day-- The poet's dream--the lover's joy:-- The floral heaven of girl and boy Were heaven no more, if thou wert May.

If thou wert May, then May is cold, And, oh! how changed from what she has been-- Then barren boughs are bright with green, And leaden skies are glad with gold.

And the dark clouds that veiled thy moon Were silvery-threaded tissues bright, Looping the locks of amber light That float but on the airs of June.

O June! thou art the real May; Thy name is soft and sweet as hers But rich blood thy bosom stirs, Her marble cheek cannot display.

She cometh like a haughty girl, So conscious of her beauty's power, She now will wear nor gem nor flower Upon her pallid breast of pearl.

And her green silken summer dress, So simply flower'd in white and gold, She scorns to let our eyes behold, But hides through very wilfulness:

Hides it 'neath ermined robes, which she Hath borrowed from some wintry quean, Instead of dancing on the green-- A village maiden fair and free.

Oh! we have spoiled her with our praise, And made her froward, false, and vain; So that her cold blue eyes disdain To smile as in the earlier days.

Let her beware--the world full soon Like me shall tearless turn away, And woo, instead of thine, O May!

The brown, bright, joyous eyes of June.

O June! forgive the long delay, My heart's deceptive dream is o'er-- Where I believe I will adore, Nor worship June, yet kneel to May.

SUNNY DAYS IN WINTER.

Summer is a glorious season Warm, and bright, and pleasant; But the Past is not a reason To despise the Present.

So while health can climb the mountain, And the log lights up the hall, There are sunny days in Winter, after all!

Spring, no doubt, hath faded from us, Maiden-like in charms; Summer, too, with all her promise, Perished in our arms.

But the memory of the vanished, Whom our hearts recall, Maketh sunny days in Winter, after all!

True, there's scarce a flower that bloometh, All the best are dead; But the wall-flower still perfumeth Yonder garden-bed.

And the arbutus pearl-blossom'd Hangs its coral ball-- There are sunny days in Winter, after all!

Summer trees are pretty,--very, And love them well: But this holly's glistening berry, None of those excel.

While the fir can warm the landscape, And the ivy clothes the wall, There are sunny days in Winter, after all!

Sunny hours in every season Wait the innocent-- Those who taste with love and reason What their G.o.d hath sent.

Those who neither soar too highly, Nor too lowly fall, Feel the sunny days of Winter, after all!

Then, although our darling treasures Vanish from the heart; Then, although our once-loved pleasures One by one depart; Though the tomb looms in the distance, And the mourning pall, There is sunshine, and no Winter, after all!

THE BIRTH OF THE SPRING.

O Kathleen, my darling, I've dreamt such a dream, 'Tis as hopeful and bright as the summer's first beam: I dreamt that the World, like yourself, darling dear, Had presented a son to the happy New Year!

Like yourself, too, the poor mother suffered awhile, But like yours was the joy, at her baby's first smile, When the tender nurse, Nature, quick hastened to fling Her sun-mantle round, as she fondled THE SPRING.

O Kathleen, 'twas strange how the elements all, With their friendly regards, condescended to call: The rough rains of winter like summer-dews fell, And the North-wind said, zephyr-like: "Is the World well?"

And the streams ran quick-sparkling to tell o'er the earth G.o.d's goodness to man in this mystical birth; For a Son of this World, and an heir to the King Who rules over man, is this beautiful Spring!

O Kathleen, methought, when the bright babe was born, More lovely than morning appeared the bright morn; The birds sang more sweetly, the gra.s.s greener grew, And with buds and with blossoms the old trees looked new; And methought when the Priest of the Universe came-- The Sun--in his vestments of glory and flame, He was seen, the warm raindrops of April to fling On the brow of the babe, and baptise him The Spring!

O Kathleen, dear Kathleen! what treasures are piled In the mines of the past for this wonderful Child!

The lore of the sages, the lays of the bards, Like a primer, the eye of this infant regards; All the dearly-bought knowledge that cost life and limb, Without price, without peril, is offered to him; And the blithe bee of Progress concealeth its sting, As it offers its sweets to the beautiful Spring!

O Kathleen, they tell us of wonderful things, Of speed that surpa.s.seth the fairy's fleet wings; How the lands of the world in communion are brought, And the slow march of speech is as rapid as thought.

Think, think what an heir-loom the great world will be With this wonderful wire 'neath the earth and the sea; When the snows and the sunshine together shall bring All the wealth of the world to the feet of The Spring.

Oh! Kathleen, but think of the birth-gifts of love, That THE MASTER who lives in the GREAT HOUSE above Prepares for the poor child that's born on His land-- Dear G.o.d! they're the sweet flowers that fall from Thy hand-- The crocus, the primrose, the violet given Awhile, to make earth the reflection of heaven; The brightness and lightness that round the world wing Are thine, and are ours too, through thee, happy Spring!

O Kathleen, dear Kathleen! that dream is gone by, And I wake once again, but, thank G.o.d! thou art by; And the land that we love looks as bright in the beam, Just as if my sweet dream was not all out a dream, The spring-tide of Nature its blessing imparts, Let the spring-tide of Hope send its pulse through our hearts; Let us feel 'tis a mother, to whose breast we cling, And a brother we hail, when we welcome the Spring.

ALL FOOL'S DAY.

The Sun called a beautiful Beam, that was playing At the door of his golden-wall'd palace on high; And he bade him be off, without any delaying, To a fast-fleeting Cloud on the verge of the sky: "You will give him this letter," said roguish Apollo (While a sly little twinkle contracted his eye), With my royal regards; and be sure that you follow Whatsoever his Highness may send in reply."

The Beam heard the order, but being no novice, Took it coolly, of course--nor in this was he wrong-- But was forced (being a clerk in Apollo's post-office) To declare (what a bounce!) that he wouldn't be long; So he went home and dress'd--gave his beard an elision-- Put his scarlet coat on, nicely edged with gold lace; And thus being equipped, with a postman's precision, He prepared to set out on his nebulous race.

Off he posted at last, but just outside the portals He lit on earth's high-soaring bird in the dark; So he tarried a little, like many frail mortals, Who, when sent on an errand, first go on a lark; But he broke from the bird--reach'd the cloud in a minute-- Gave the letter and all, as Apollo ordained; But the Sun's correspondent, on looking within it, Found, "Send the fool farther," was all it contained.

The Cloud, who was up to all mystification, Quite a humorist, saw the intent of the Sun; And was ever too airy--though lofty his station-- To spoil the least taste of the prospect of fun; So he hemm'd, and he haw'd--took a roll of pure vapour, Which the light from the beam made as bright as could be, (Like a sheet of the whitest cream golden-edg'd paper), And wrote a few words, superscribed, "To the Sea."

"My dear Beam," or "dear Ray" (t'was thus coolly he hailed him), "Pray take down to Neptune this letter from me, For the person you seek--though I lately regaled him-- Now tries a new airing, and dwells by the sea."

So our Mercury hastened away through the ether, The bright face of Thetis to gladden and greet; And he plunged in the water a few feet beneath her, Just to get a sly peep at her beautiful feet.

To Neptune the letter was brought for inspection-- But the G.o.d, though a deep one, was still rather green; So he took a few moments of steady reflection, Ere he wholly made out what the missive could mean: But the date (it was "April the first") came to save it From all fear of mistake; so he took pen in hand, And, transcribing the cruel entreaty, he gave it To our travel-tired friend, and said, "Bring it to Land."