Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy Part 4

By the sh.o.r.es of its southern bay.

But no! no! no!

Though bright be its sparkling seas, I never would roam from my island home, For charms like these!

Should I seek that land so bright, Where the Spanish maiden roves, With a heart of love and an eye of light, Through her native citron groves?

Oh! sweet would it be to rest In the midst of the olive vales, Where the orange blooms and the rose perfumes The breath of the balmy gales!

But no! no! no!-- Though sweet be its wooing air, I never would roam from my island home, To scenes though fair!

Should I pa.s.s from pole to pole?

Should I seek the western skies, Where the giant rivers roll, And the mighty mountains rise?

Or those treacherous isles that lie In the midst of the sunny deeps, Where the cocoa stands on the glistening sands, And the dread tornado sweeps!

Ah! no! no! no!

They have no charms for me; I never would roam from my island home, Though poor it be!

Poor!--oh! 'tis rich in all That flows from Nature's hand; Rich in the emerald wall That guards its emerald land!

Are Italy's fields more green?

Do they teem with a richer store Than the bright green breast of the Isle of the West, And its wild, luxuriant sh.o.r.e?

Ah! no! no! no!

Upon it heaven doth smile; Oh, I never would roam from my native home, My own dear isle!

LOVE'S LANGUAGE.

Need I say how much I love thee?-- Need my weak words tell, That I prize but heaven above thee, Earth not half so well?

If this truth has failed to move thee, Hope away must flee; If thou dost not feel I love thee, Vain my words would be!

Need I say how long I've sought thee-- Need my words declare, Dearest, that I long have thought thee Good and wise and fair?

If no sigh this truth has brought thee, Woe, alas! to me; Where thy own heart has not taught thee, Vain my words would be!

Need I say when others wooed thee, How my breast did pine, Lest some fond heart that pursued thee Dearer were than mine?

If no pity then came to thee, Mixed with love for me, Vainly would my words imbue thee, Vain my words would be!

Love's best language is unspoken, Yet how simply known; Eloquent is every token, Look, and touch, and tone.

If thy heart hath not awoken, If not yet on thee Love's sweet silent light hath broken, Vain my words would be!

Yet, in words of truest meaning, Simple, fond, and few; By the wild waves intervening, Dearest, I love you!

Vain the hopes my heart is gleaning, If, long since to thee, My fond heart required unscreening, Vain my words will be!

THE FIRESIDE.

I have tasted all life's pleasures, I have s.n.a.t.c.hed at all its joys, The dance's merry measures and the revel's festive noise; Though wit flashed bright the live-long night, and flowed the ruby tide, I sighed for thee, I sighed for thee, my own fireside!

In boyhood's dreams I wandered far across the ocean's breast, In search of some bright earthly star, some happy isle of rest; I little thought the bliss I sought in roaming far and wide Was sweetly centred all in thee, my own fireside!

How sweet to turn at evening's close from all our cares away, And end in calm, serene repose, the swiftly pa.s.sing day!

The pleasant books, the smiling looks of sister or of bride, All fairy ground doth make around one's own fireside!

"My Lord" would never condescend to honour my poor hearth; "His Grace" would scorn a host or friend of mere plebeian birth; And yet the lords of human kind, whom man has deified, For ever meet in converse sweet around my fireside!

The poet sings his deathless songs, the sage his lore repeats, The patriot tells his country's wrongs, the chief his warlike feats; Though far away may be their clay, and gone their earthly pride, Each G.o.d-like mind in books enshrined still haunts my fireside!

Oh, let me glance a moment through the coming crowd of years, Their triumphs or their failures, their sunshine or their tears; How poor or great may be my fate, I care not what betide, So peace and love but hallow thee, my own fireside!

Still let me hold the vision close, and closer to my sight; Still, still, in hopes elysian, let my spirit wing its flight; Still let me dream, life's shadowy stream may yield from out its tide, A mind at rest, a tranquil breast, a quiet fireside!

THE BANISHED SPIRIT'S SONG.[20]

Beautiful clime, where I've dwelt so long, In mirth and music, in gladness and song!

Fairer than aught upon earth art thou-- Beautiful clime, must I leave thee now?

No more shall I join the circle bright Of my sister nymphs, when they dance at night In their grottos cool and their pearly halls, When the glowworm hangs on the ivy walls!

No more shall I glide o'er the waters blue, With a crimson sh.e.l.l for my light canoe, Or a rose-leaf plucked from the neighbouring trees, Piloted o'er by the flower-fed breeze!

Oh! must I leave those spicy gales, Those purple hills and those flowery vales?

Where the earth is strewed with pansy and rose, And the golden fruit of the orange grows!

Oh! must I leave this region fair, For a world of toil and a life of care?

In its dreary paths how long must I roam, Far away from my fairy home?

The song of birds and the hum of bees, And the breath of flowers, are on the breeze; The purple plum and the cone-like pear, Drooping, hang in the rosy air!

The fountains scatter their pearly rain On the thirsty flowers and the ripening grain; The insects sport in the sunny beam, And the golden fish in the laughing stream.

The Naiads dance by the river's edge, On the low, soft moss and the bending sedge; Wood-nymphs and satyrs and graceful fawns Sport in the woods, on the gra.s.sy lawns!

The slanting sunbeams tip with gold The emerald leaves in the forests old-- But I must away from this fairy scene, Those leafy woods and those valleys green!

20. Written in early youth.

REMEMBRANCE.

With that pleasant smile thou wearest, Thou art gazing on the fairest Wonders of the earth and sea: Do thou not, in all thy seeing, Lose the mem'ry of one being Who at home doth think of thee.

In the capital of nations, Sun of all earth's constellations, Thou art roaming glad and free: Do thou not, in all thy roving, Lose the mem'ry of one loving Heart at home that beats for thee.

Strange eyes around thee glisten, To a strange tongue thou dost listen, Strangers bend the suppliant knee: Do thou not, for all their seeming Truth, forget the constant beaming Eyes at home that watch for thee.

Stately palaces surround thee, Royal parks and gardens bound thee-- Gardens of the 'Fleur de Lis': Do thou not, for all their splendour, Quite forget the humble, tender Thoughts at home, that turn to thee.

When, at length of absence weary, When the year grows sad and dreary, And an east wind sweeps the sea; Ere the days of dark November, Homeward turn, and then remember Hearts at home that pine for thee!