The Fairy Changeling and Other Poems Part 8

O chatter, chatter, chatter, when to speak is misery, When silence lies around your heart-and night is on the sea.

So tired of little fashions that are root of all our strife, Of all the petty pa.s.sions that upset the calm of life.

The law of G.o.d upon the land shines steady for all time; The laws confused that man has made, have reason not nor rhyme.

O bird that fights the heavens, and is blown beyond the sh.o.r.e, Would you leave your flight and danger for a cage to fight no more?

No more the cold of winter, or the hunger of the snow, Nor the winds that blow you backward from the path you wish to go?

Would you leave your world of pa.s.sion for a home that knows no riot?

Would I change my vagrant longings for a heart more full of quiet?

No!-for all its dangers, there is joy in danger too: On, bird, and fight your tempests, and this nomad heart with you!

The seas that shake and thunder will close our mouths one day, The storms that shriek and whistle will blow our breaths away.

The dust that flies and whitens will mark not where we trod.

What matters then our judging? we are face to face with G.o.d.

WHEN YOU ARE ON THE SEA

How can I laugh or dance as others do, Or ply my rock or reel?

My heart will still return to dreams of you Beside my spinning-wheel.

My little dog he cried out in the dark, He would not whisht for me: I took him to my side-why did he bark When you were on the sea?

I fear the red c.o.c.k-if he crow to-night- I keep him close and warm, 'Twere ill with me, if he should wake in fright And you out in the storm.

I dare not smile for fear my laugh would ring Across your dying ears; O, if you, drifting, drowned, should hear me sing And think I had not tears.

I never thought the sea could wake such waves, Nor that such winds could be; I never wept when other eyes grew blind For some one on the sea.

But now I fear and pray all things for you, How many dangers be!

I set my wheel aside, what can I do When you are on the sea?

MY NEIGHBOUR'S GARDEN

Why in my neighbour's garden Are the flowers more sweet than mine?

I had never such bloom of roses, Such yellow and pink woodbine.

Why in my neighbour's garden Are the fruits all red and gold, While here the grapes are bitter That hang for my fingers' hold?

Why in my neighbour's garden Do the birds all fly to sing?

Over the fence between us One would think 'twas always spring.

I thought my own wide garden Once more sweet and fair than all, Till I saw the gold and crimson Just over my neighbour's wall.

But now I want his thrushes, And now I want his vine, If I cannot have his cherries That grow more red than mine.

The serpent 'neath his apples Will tempt me to my fall, And then-I'll steal my neighbour's fruit Across the garden wall.

AN IRISH BLACKBIRD

This is my brave singer, With his beak of gold; Now my heart's a captive In his song's sweet hold.

O, the lark's a rover, Seeking fields above: But my serenader Hath a human love.

"Hark!" he says, "in winter Nests are full of snow, But a truce to wailing Summer breezes blow."

"Hush!" he sings, "with night-time Phantoms cease to be, Join your serenader Piping on his tree."

O, my little lover, Warble in the blue; Wingless must I envy Skies so wide for you.

DEATH OF GORMLAITH

Gormlaith, wife of Niall Glendu, Happy was your dream that night, Dreamt you woke in sudden fright, Niall of Ulster stood by you.

Niall of Ulster, dead and gone, Many a year had come again, Him who was in battle slain Now your glad eyes rest upon.

Well your gaze caressed him o'er, His dark head you loved so well, Where the coulin curled and fell On the clever brow he bore.

Those brave shoulders wide and strong, Many a Dane had quaked to see, Never a phantom fair as he,- Wife of Glendu gazed so long.

Glad Queen Gormlaith, at the dawn Up you sprang to draw him near, Ah! the grey c.o.c.k loud and clear Crew, and then the Ghost was gone.

Stretched your arms in vain request, Slipped and fell, and wounded sore Called his name, then spake no more, For the bed-stick pierced your breast.

Queen, your smiling lips were dumb With that last dear name you cried, Yet some had it, ere you died, Niall of Ulster whispered, "Come."

UNKNOWN IDEAL

Whose is the voice that will not let me rest?

I hear it speak.

Where is the sh.o.r.e will gratify my quest, Show what I seek?

Not yours, weak Muse, to mimic that far voice, With halting tongue; No peace, sweet land, to bid my heart rejoice Your groves among.