A A = — ^ - A = = n = ^^ :□ n = =^= HJ 3 = ^^ o -7 ^= ^ 7 ^ 3 = H = — ^ in •<> = 4 = ^— = s^= -c ' 1 Ro s e s and Rue THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES Roses and Rue '/ ROSES AND RUE BY ALICE FURLONG LONDON ELKIN MATHEWS, VIGO STREET 1899 To My Dead Mother I DEDICATE THIS BOOK. She fov whom my hook is writ. In her heaven golden-lit, Sun will smile for thought of it. Grief and gladness both were hers, I have gathered up the tears And the laughter of dead years. If my rhyming holy is, Then my mouth hath kept the bliss Of my dear sainfs dying kiss. And if a strain from Paradise Wanders through it or underlies. She is speaking in this wise. 86MC2 Contents PAGE The Trees i The Betrayal 3 The Seeking of Tir-Na'n-Oge 4 God's Poem 6 The Dreamer ......•• 8 A Caoine for Owen Roe lO At Nazareth 12 The Lonely One IS Ireland in America . 17 The Year's Children 20 Forsaken 22 In a Lonely Land 24 The Awakening . 27 In Memory of My Father 28 On Patrick's Day 30 The World's Winter 32 " My Share of the World " 34 Home-Coming 36 To Spring . 38 Death and the Girl 39 Yuletide 41 vu All Souls' Night . . . . 43 The Bard to his Beloved . 45 The Rann of Noma . 48 The Days o' the Spring 52 The King's Mercy 53 My King .... 54 Messages .... 56 A Philosopher . . . . 58 A March Song . > . 61 In the Dargle . 62 VIU The Trees THESE be God's fair, high palaces, Walled with fine leafy trellises, Interstarred with the warm and luminous azure ; Sunlights come laughing through, And rains and honey-dew Scatter pale pearls at every green embrasure. The tangled twist and twine Of His soaring staircases have mosses fine For emerald pavement, and each leafy chamber Is atmosphered with amber. Athwart the iridescent air The twinkling gossamer Doth shimmer and shine In many a jewelly line. The chaffinch is God's little page. O joyant vassalage ! " Your Will ! Your W^ill ! " he saith the whole day long, In sweet, monotonous song. Poised on the window-sills of outmost leaves He watches where the tremulous sunlight weaves B Its golden webbing over the palpitant grass, While the Summer butterfly, winged of the blue-veined snow, Like a fairy ship with its delicate sails ablow, Floats by on aerial tides as clear as glass. From the break of morn. Herein the blackbird is God's courtier, With gold tongue ever astir, Piping and praising On his beakt^d horn. To do his Seigneur duty, In mellow fluency and dulcet phrasing, In paeans of passing beauty ; As a chanting priest. Chanting his matins i' the wane o' the night, W^hile slow, great winds of vibrant light Sweep up the lilied east. The dumb beast is God's guest, And every tired creature seeking rest ; The sheep, grown weary browsing, The cattle, drouthy with heat. One after one, lagging on listless feet. Seek the green shadow of God's pleasant housing ; While the thousand winged things of bough and air Do find God's palace fair. The Betrayal WHEN you were weary, roaming the wide world over, I gave my fickle heart to a new lover. Now they tell me that you are lying dead ; O mountains fall on me and hide my head ! When you lay burning in the throes of fever, He vowed me love by the willow-margined river ; Death smote you there — here was your trust betrayed. darkness, cover me, I am afraid ! Yea, in the hour of your supremest trial 1 laughed with him ! The shadow on the dial Stayed not, aghast at my dread ignorance ; Nor man nor angel looked at me askance. Under the mountains there is peace abiding, Darkness shall be pavilion for my hiding, Tears shall blot out the sin of broken faith. The lips that falsely kissed, shall kiss but Death, ^ B 2 The Seeking of Tir-Na'n-Oge {The Maid). IN the Land of Youth the spiders are weaving their webs in the windless woods. (Fine webs the spiders are weaving.) All in the grey of the twilit morn the dews are falling in fairy floods, On the leafy bough the dove is grieving. Come, come, my share of the world ! To the Land of Youth that is over the hill, Where the spiders are weaving their webs dew-pearled, And the cushat coos while the morn is still. [The Boy). To the Land of Youth was the way but pleasant, sooth, it were good to go. (Sooth, it were good, was the way but pleasant.) But north and south and east and west the dark- winged winds do beat and blow, Nor sun shall light us, nor star, nor crescent. Stay in the dun that is warm and wide. Earth's Winter shall wane and pass. Beltane-day shall come as a bride, And gather daisies from the dewy grass. [The Maid). In the Land of Youth the rose-red apples bloom on the apple boughs. (White at the heart are the rose-red apples.) Droopt and bent are the branches grey where the honeyed breezes drowse, Dreamy shadow the green grass dapples. Come, come, my share of the world ! Earth's Winter is wan and chill. The fruit is ripe there, the bud is curled, In the Land of Youth that is over the hill. [The Boy). To the Land of Youth the way is weary over the hill of Death. (Wild is the way, and long, and weary.) Phantom rain on thy bosom white, phantom wind to snatch at thy breath, Night and mist for our faring eerie. Thy milken feet are tender and weak To climb the hill in the ghostly storm. Keep the rose on thy ruddy cheek, Stay in the dun that is wide and warm. But out on the snow she led him forth : And the winds blew out of the east and the west. And the wind of darkness drew from the north. . . . No man knoweth how fared the guest. God's Poem THIS is God's poem speaking to our hearts, A day in Spring, a clear, soft-breathing day. The skies are shining pearl, a lucent veil Before the hidden sun ; the cool, deep grass Seemeth to hold the light within itself, And in the meadow breaketh rapturously Into gold flame of cowslips, starry fleck Of clustering daisies. Underneath the trees No shadow is, but only dimmer light Than in the open ; and the gentle wind Whispereth softly, lest perchance it break The quiet dreams of the freshly-l)udded leaves. Then in the hush some little, flitting bird Singeth out clear upon his silver pipe, Or wooing doves in shady chestnut trees Murmur in quiet tones of restful love ; And the dear wanderer's " Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! " Falls through the listening spaces of still air. The undulating line of sombre hills Is dark against the luminous, white sky ; My heart hath nigh turned traitor to the blue, For sake of this pale heaven, so wanly pure, So purely white, so whitely beautiful. O come with me, my love, my dearest love ! And let us stray adown the ways of Spring, My heart is singing with the birds to-day. The Dreamer A WIND that dies on the meadows lush, TrembHng stars in the breathless hush !- The maiden's sleeping face doth bloom A sad, white lily in the gloom. Along the limpid horizon borne The first gold breathing of the morn 1 — A lovely dawn of dreams doth creep Athwart the darkness of her sleep. In the dim shadow of the eaves A quiet stir of lifted leaves ! — As in the old, beloved days, She wandereth by happy ways. With half-awakened twitterings, The young birds preen their folded wings ! — She giveth a forget-me-not To him who long ago forgot. Athwart the meadowy, dewy-sweet, A wind comes wandering on light feet ! — For her the wind is from the south, His kiss is kind upon her mouth. 8 In the bird's house of emerald The sun is weaving webs of gold ! — He never coldly went apart ! She 7tever broke her passionate heart ! Pipeth clear from the orchard close A thrush in the bowers of white and rose !- She waketh praying : " God is good, With visions for my solitude." For full delight of birds and flowers The long day spins its golden hours. — She serves the household destinies ; The dream is happy in her eyes. A Caoine for Owen Roe T_J EAVY the housings about his bed, ■■• ^ Cold the clay that will hide his head. The sun was red in the sky at noon, The crescent moon was dim with dread. Through the blind night the banshee cried, The death-watch beat in the wall by his side, The priest had untied his bonds of sin, And every window was open wide. Over and done are the warrior's wars, There is martyr's balm for the martyr's scars ; Brake the prison-bars, and on soaring wing, His soul went singing among the stars. Sing, O Angels, 'twixt stars and space ! Weep, O Lady, your love's dead face. To the keening-place come the women of grief, Keening the Chief of Hy-Nial's race. We bear his body by road and rath, We bear his body by glen and path ; Thrice hath the magpie cursed in his flight. Black is the blight on the aftermath. ID Weird and wild is the wail of woman, Humbled the head of the haughty Roman. Dark the omen and dark the vision, In deep derision outlaughs the foeman. Chant the death-chant, O friars grey ! House the Chief in the holy clay ! Moon, hide away ! Be blind, O Sun ! Christ and country are slain to-day ! II At Nazareth JESUS and His Mother Mary In the ways of Nazareth. Lo! a Httle bird unwary Falleth wounded unto death, At the feet of Mother Mary In the streets of Nazareth. One of many children speaketh : " See, my stone hath brought it down! " How it fluttereth and seeketh. Hiding in the Woman's gown! And it's blood the white hem streaketh, As it were with red stars strewn ! Mother Mary bendeth kindly, Lifteth up the trembling thing With the bright eyes staring blindly, And the blood-drops on each wing. Bright eyes close and dim resignedly, Ceaseth all the fluttering. 12 Daylight hours have wrought their number, Woven out their golden rule ; Shadow lieth, green and umber, Round about the reedy pool ; «' Infant Jesus, wake from slumber, Sun hath set and eve is cool." " Here, where grass is fresh and luscious, Sit thee, whilst the pail I fill From the dark pool by the rushes ; To thy breast hold very still This most luckless of all thrushes Village boys have used so ill." Oh, His eyes are wide with wonder At the cruelty of men ! Pale green rushes bend asunder. Oh, His eyes are dark with pain ! Mary's pail goes dipping under, Oh, His tears fall down Hke rain ! Dripping still from blood-soaked feather To the dimpled baby-throat, Sunlight and the snow together Never were as white, I wot ; Nor the hawthorn in May weather Blowing in the sheltered moat. But the brown head hangeth meekly, And the fluttered heart is numb ; And the brown wing droopeth sleekly, And the mellow throat is dumb. To the frail things and the weakly Hurt and harm are sure to come. 13 Then the blessed Infant Jesus Kisseth it with rudd}' mouth ; Like the lush, dew-laden breezes From the mountains of the south, Soft His kiss ; and oh, it pleases As cool waters in the drouth ! At the heart doth death's dread weight weigh ? This Child's Hand may lift the load. Lo ! the bird is living straightway. Two go down the darkening road, Underneath the village gate-way, Pondering on the things of God. H The Lonely One A YEAR and a day she is in the burying-place, My heart is nigh breaking for a sight of her face. And sometimes I think — may God forgive the sin ! — That in heaven they forget kith and kin. They said : time is kind, this longing pitiful, This agony of wishing will grow faint and dull. They said : time is swift and the years fly like birds. Alas ! alas ! for men's idle words. If the thorn be in the wound, how shall the pain be dulled ? In the midst of the dry wood, how shall the fire be cooled ? And can the birds fly swift if their wings droop with pain, And the night be wild with storm and thick with rain ? Perhaps they speak truth ; but my heart is just as sore As on the day they carried her coffin through the door. 15 Perhaps they speak truth ; but the time is heavy and slow, In the Summer and the Autumn and the snow. My darling, my darling, is the time long to you ? Does your heart never weary beneath the grass and dew ? When the larks awake for morn and the light is in the skies, Are you willing to awaken and arise ? The blackbird is building her nest in the hedge, The little goslings swim at the grey water's edge. The dun kine are pasturing along the headland's brow. And the rook is in the track of the plough. Within your shady garden the rose, red and sweet, Hushes her heart to listen for the fall of your feet. Holding herself in waiting for the gathering of your hand, Poor rose, she does not understand ! Beside your dairy window the woodbines peeping through, Gather up their honey for their morning kiss to you, O honey-suckles, waiting for her at the window- pane, She will never, never, never come again I i6 Ireland in America I'M a Judge in Boston city, I've a countless hoard of dollars ; I go northward in the Summer, I go southward in the snow. I've the smartest fur-trimmed overcoats, the whitest linen collars, I enjoy the best society with Presidents and scholars. And the people shout " God bless him ! " as I go. The lawyers call me Solomon, the merchants call me Croesus ; I'm "most affable" to journalists when I am interviewed ; I can never pass the fashionable, photo-selling places. But I'm smilingly confronted by my daughters' pretty faces. They're exhibited in every attitude. There's a queenly, quiet lady who is hostess at my table. Who is mistress of my household, who is mother of my girls, (Gentle wife !) she dresses finer than the prin- cess in a fable, 17 Oh, the shimmer of her satin and the richness of her sable ! Oh, the glory of her diamonds and her pearls ! I have all that man can wish for, I am honoured and respecfted By the highest and the lowest, by the freeman and the slave, They put me down Vice-President for each new work projedted, For next session of the Congress I am sure to be elecfted — Oh, my lost green land, my land beyond the wave ! Perhaps my eyes are age-dimmed, but I think the dawn was whiter Over Connemara's mountains than behind that eastern range, In the grey grass the young lark sang, with no human to affright her, Yea, in Connemara's mountains even the song- bird's heart was lighter — But in the strange land everything is strange. I remember Summer evenings, when my mother milked the " dhrimmin." When the sun-rays on her white cap fell like rose-light on the snow. How I thought the blue eyes like to Her's, the blessed amongst women. And the red mouth bent and kissed me as the twilight gathered dim in Cool recesses where the fraughans hide and grow. i8 Then we hurry through the gloaming lest the leprechaun belate us, And the sheep-dog runs before us on quick- pattering, eager feet. For the father and the master and the supper all await us, And no diamonds ever glistened like the froth on the potatoes In the three-legged skillet on the fire of peat. Little silver flames go trembling through the blocks of glowing amber, Reach the unlit outer edges, strain beyond am- bitiously. Rise like baby tides of moonlight, creep and fly and spring and clamber, Lo ! the firelight falls and flashes in the dusky, brown-roofed chamber — And the gossoon laughs upon his father's knee ! Then I hear my mother whisper, " Let us bless Him who has blessed us ! " And outside the corn-crake murmurs in the depths of dewy grass, In the dim blue sky the stars come out while we he down and rest us — I've been dreaming ! here I'm sitting by my fire of stiff asbestos. And my footman enters in to light the gas ! ig c — 2 The Year's Children spring. SHE is mild, she is mild ! Creeping up the chilly lanes In the silver of the rains. All her hair is April-wild, But a hint of golden May Hides in tresses blown astray. For the love of this young child Blooms the daffodil And the primrose on the hill. Summer. She is warm, she is warm ! Dancing from the bloomy south, With the red rose on her mouth- With the lovely, tearful charm Of the unconsimi^d dew In her eyes of burning blue. She hath courtiers — a swarm Of the yellow bees To make honey in her trees. 20 A utumn. He is fire, he is fire ! Leaping over the high hills, Where the red lark soars and trills. Burns the berry on the brier, And the gold mist of the wheat Flickers softly round his feet. He shall sate thy heart's desire, Dropping slumber deep From his flowers of rosy sleep. Winter. He is white, he is white ! Sweeping down in spangled snows, (With the diamond and the rose Shimmering through veils of hght.) Filmy, trailing draperies He doth hang upon the trees. In the mystic, middle night He doth flash the stars' Silver-frosted scimitars. 21 Forsaken THIS Autumn gloaming, the clouds gro^vn weary of rainmg, Sweep down behind the hill-tops, misty and blurred. The wind has ceased its monotonous complaining, Thrills through the twilight the sudden song of a bird. Sudden and sweet fall the notes in a silver shower, Dropping out on the silence — a marvellous rain ! Fairer than gleam of sunlight, than fragrance of flower, Than whisper of waves on the strand, flows the beautiful strain. My little bird, dost thou dream of the fair recesses Of green, dim woodlands, where through the Summer day The leaves sway tremulous in the wind's caresses, Where through an emerald maze the sunbeams stray. 22 Dreamer, dost thou forget that the leaves are dying ? That sunbeams hide when skies are misty and sad ? That Winter cometh— dost hear the weird wind sighing The Summer's death-song ? Why is thy heart so glad ? I cannot sing with thee, robin : my heart is aching, One who was here in Summer is not here now, 'Twas a sweet dream to me, ah, but a harsh awaking — Sometimes I feel his hand upon my brow. Just where he laid it once with touch so tender. Looking into my eyes with bitter regret ; My heart went out to him with a swift surrender. Ah, but he found it easy to forget ! Woe, for the love that cannot waver nor wander ! When snows are falling and Winter nights are here, One shall sit by a lonely fireside and ponder On the love that faded out with the fading year. 23 In a Lonely Land VVTHO, weeping, sitteth desolate ? ^^ Who, but the Irish mother Keening her exiled children. In her little, brown-thatched cabin, Where the turf-smoke gathers in a mist, A blue-grey, delicate mist, with a fragrant odour, Shrouding in ghostly way the blackened rafters, She sits and mourns, Keening her departed ones : Ullagone ! Ullagone ! In the Autumn, When the cold wind from the bogland Creeps through the open door and breathes on the peat-blocks. Fanning them into warm ruby, and clear-glowing amber. She thinks of a night in October, When Mary, the youngest and dearest Of three blue-eyed daughters, Stood at the door with tossed tresses, and crim- son lips parted. Holding her apron full of ripe nuts 24 From the hazel bush by the river ; Her sweetheart was laughing beside her She wakes — the lonely mother ! Ullagone ! Ullagone ! Mary went over the seas years ago. Her sweetheart (God rest him !) lies in the churchyard. There were two brave boys : They went one Summer morning ; A lark was singing up in the sky, The meadows were russet-shaded on the surface, And luminous underneath, As if they were on fire with soft, emerald light. The mother saw it all : And saw her sons pass out through the doorway. She caught them to her heart and kissed them, With passionate kisses. Then a ship sailed over the green seas, And over the blue seas, And over the green seas again. Lo ! the emigrants had reached the land of Columbus ! A beautiful land, Where the sun is warm, And the wheat ripens quickly. And the blight never comes. Where the earth is not accurst With the tread of the conquerors' feet. A beautiful land ! But the exiles, yearning for their own green Erin, Love it not Wirrastrue ! The evening is dark, 25 And the wind is very lonely Crying wearily at the window. The woman's heart is sick With the pain of love. Slowly the rain drips through the holes in the thatch. Ah ! there are no strong hands to mend it now. Ullagone ! Ullagone ! For the widowed and childless Weeping in life's November ! Dead leaves falling Are not more hopeless than they. Dead leaves drifting in an icy wind Are not more pitiable. Dead leaves under the snow Are far happier. Oh, the heart of an Irish mother ! It is as true as God, And as sorrowful as Christ ! 26 The Awakening O SPRING will waken the heart of me With the rapture of blown violets ! When the green bud quickens on every tree, The Spring will waken the heart of me, And dews of honey will rain on the lea, Tangling the grasses in silver nets. Yes, Spring will waken the heart of me With the rapture of blown violets ! 27 In Memory of My Father (James Walter Furlong, Who died at Steevens Hospital, Dublin, gth June, 1897.) LYING awake while the hours of darkness creep, So many tears I weep For you, down-stricken in hfe's midmost breath, Brought dying to an ancient, cloistral place That hath grown grey with looking in the face Immutable Death. Such bitter thoughts I have Of you, my father, in the dread death-fight Through the soft passing of a grey June night, While I, in selfish sleep, Had never a tear to weep, Nor never a prayer to save Your fevered mind from futile wanderings Amid irrevocably-past, familiar things, When God had set apart Your happy, pardoned heart For restful housing in a quiet grave. 28 If I had only known ! And surely if I loved you as I ought Some wind of ill had wrecked the rosy thought Sailing the still sea of my morning dreams Like drifting buds upon the summer streams. Ah God ! a heart of stone Had felt the passionate throb of anguished love When those white lips did move, To ask with hard-drawn breath, And voice grown husky with the coming death; *' Give me a pencil, I must do my work ! Is this the second race ? " The shapely hands were busy for a space — Silent and cold and murk, The night no man may work in drew apace. If I had only known ! A stranger held your hands that grey night through, To us, your very own. Who had laid down our lives for love of you, 'Twas given but to reach you when you lay Insentient as the clay That was so cruelly soon to cover you. We could but break our hearts in pity over you. Whenever I pray in orphanhood bereaven To Him of Whom is all paternity, " Our Father, who art in heaven," Cometh — oh, very sweetly ! — unto me The smile that throned itself on your dead brows. I know that Two are listening in God's House. 29 On Patrick's Day ON Patrick's day as I came from Mass, The rain was fresh in the damp, green grass ; But the wind-torn clouds left a rift of blue, And the glistening sunbeams flooded through. The strong, soft wind shook the grey boughs swinging. And the warm, gold light set the robins singing; The rain-clouds dark swept away to the east, As I came from Mass on Patrick's feast. Where the drifted clouds were grey and white Shone the rainbow's arch of gleaming light, Purple and primrose, green and red, It flamed and burned in the sky o'erhead. Then to my God I spake me thus. " Lord, hast thou set this sign for us, That we for sweet Ireland's sake may hope Never again will the cloud-gates ope — " 30 " Loosing the fiercely-falling flood, The blinding rain of tears and blood, That poured on us through the long, dark years, Sick with anguish, and hopes, and fears." " Lord, may we hope, for sweet Ireland's sake, That her pain is past, and her long heart-ache." This was my prayer as I came my way Home from Mass on Patrick's Day. 31 The World's Winter " T^HIS our enlightened age : " the proud words -^ pass Over the lying lips from hearts of brass. Good God ! that white face hidden under the grass ! Silent, beautiful mouth, all marble-pale, Open and speak : before your piteous tale Methinks I see the boasters shrink and quail. Dreaming eyes, will ye wake from your welcome sleep ? Come from your grave, O murdered one, and reap Your vengeance ! Smite the wolves that slay the sheep ! In my lord's country-house rose-scented air Floated through open casements : here and there Cool fountains gleamed and glimmered, silver and fair. You gasped your soul out in the poisonous heat Of a close garret in a filthy street, Far from the winds and waters, fragrant and sweet. 32 When you lay pallid-faced, your strength all spent, Water we gave you for strong nourishment : You drank and smiled, and dying, were content. Many a princely board that day was spread, Where the wines glistened, amber and ruby-red, Yea ! and the very dogs were glutted with bread ! Three days were gone since you had eaten food, The others revelled in their plenitude — Shut fast their doors lest beggars should intrude. The night came up from out the shadowy sea, Creeping over the sad earth noiselessly, And in that night God's pity set you free. " This our enhghtened age." Ah, surely no ! While Christ's Beloved starve and suffer so, In Winter-time the dawn is faint and slow. 33 " My Share of the World I AM jealous: I am true : Sick at heart for love of you, my share of the world ! 1 am cold, oh, cold as stone To all men save you alone. Seven times slower creeps the day When your face is far away, O my share of the world ! Seven times darker falls the night When you gladden not my sight. Measureless my joy and pride W' ould you choose me for your bride, O my share of the world ! For your face is my delight, Morn and even, noon and night. To the dance and to the wake Still 1 go but for your sake, O my share of the world ! just to see your face awhile. Meet your eyes and win your smile. 34 And the gay word on my lip Never lets my secret slip To my share of the world ! Light my feet trip over the green — But my heart cries in the keen ! My poor mother sighs anew When my looks go after you, my share of the world 1 And my father's brow grows black When you smile and turn your back. 1 would part with wealth and ease, I would go beyond the seas, For my share of the world ! I would leave my hearth and home If he only whispered " Come ! " Houseless under sun and dew, I would beg my bread with you, my share of the world ! Houseless in the snow and storm. Your heart's love would keep me warm. 1 would pray and I would crave To be with you in the grave, my share of the world ! 1 would go through fire and flood, I would give up all but God For my share of the world ! 35 D— 2 Home-Coming "DEYOND the Shannon's waters, dark and -*-' sweet, A little town doth nestle at the feet Of a green hill whereon a tree-crowned wood Maketh a still, thrush-haunted solitude. One changeful April day of sun and rain, "V\ ith weak, slow steps you crossed the wild, brown plain, The kmdly hill your innocent child-eyes knew Lifted its emerald head to welcome you. Did it not seem a little time ago Since you were playing 'mid the daisy-snow On green Roscommon slopes, finding the while The whole world's sweetness in your mother's smile. Perchance 'mid the wild grandeur of the west You longed for the Green Land : the fierce unrest Of exile preyed upon you ceaselessly, Urging you over leagues of tossing sea. 36 Perchance you craved in the strange, glorious land To feel upon your brow a mother's hand, To hear a mother's keen above your head In passionate wailing o'er her placid dead. Poor heart, awearying in that distant place, With death's cold lips against your shrinking face ! Surely it was not strange that you should come Over grey wastes of sea to die at home. You journeyed over many a white-ridged wave To sleep your death-sleep in an Irish grave ; And kissed your Irish mother's loving lips Before your light went dark in death's eclipse. Honey-sweet was the breath of the Irish Spring ! Balm of the golden cowslips, blossoming In wind-blown grass, out-floated on the air ; The hawthorn buds were opening everywhere. In the grey hills the larks sang, dawn and dusk ; The gorse-bloom burned its way through the dingy husk ; The first wild rose flushed faint upon the briar For love of amber eves and dawns of fire. The fair Spring wooed you vainly — seven days, And you were lying in the churchyard ways, Where wind-swayed beeches chant a requiem For the dead sleeping at the feet of them. 37 To Spring SWEET Spring ! with shy, soft eyes of heavenly blue ! The wild winds whispered : " She is coming here ! " And laughed aloud for joy ; grey skies grew clear, The little streams woke up to welcome you. The wan, gold primroses, all wet with dew, Along the mossy margin of the mere Crowded in fragrant clusters, and anear, A tangle of white bloom, the wild-fire grew. Now you have come. I hear by murmuring streams Your musical, low laugh, as silvery sweet As the lark's singing in his rapturous dreams. Where violets are thickest, there your feet Have latest passed. The hare-bell's blue surprise Echoes the laughter of your azure eyes. 38 Death and the Girl The Girl. I AM young to die ; it is hard to go from the singing of the thrush in the valleys, I am young to die ; it is hard to turn from the rose that leans at the lattice. The grave is dark and heavy the clay. O the green world in the blooming May ! ' Death. When the mist from the mountain the valley o'er- shadeth, the thrush falleth silent for sorrow. The rose at the lattice is lovely to-day, the rose shall lie withered to-morrow. Gladness shall slumber and grief shall waken, Better forsake than be forsaken ! The Girl. I am young to die ; my mother's kiss is soft as the wind on the meadow, Her nearness is warmth to my frozen heart in thy dread and sombre shadow. Let me live: I would gather a rose that is good, Love's rose on the tree of womanhood. 39 Death. Live/ And God give thee a heart of stone : for love than death is more bitter. Thy wine shall be gall, and as ashes thy bread, and the sea than thy tears shall be sweeter. Thou wilt gather for joyance, O girl forlorn, A cankered rose with a spear-sharp thorn ! 40 Yuletide IN a stable bare, Lo, the great Ones are. Strew the Ivy and the myrtle Round about the Virgin's kirtle ! Ass and oxen mild Breathe soft upon the Child ! Blow the scent of bygone summer On your breath to the New-comer ! Be ye well content To be straitly pent Backwards in the rocky chamber From the angel's wings of amber ! Rapt the seraphs sit, With godly faces lit In a radiance shining solely From the Christ-child, meek and holy. High they chant and clear Of the lovely cheer Ringing down the new evangels Of the mystic, midnight angels. 41 Faring with good will From the misty hill, Every shepherd sacrificeth To the prophet that ariseth. Joseph, Mary's spouse. Prince of David's House, Bendeth low in adorations To the Ruler of the Nations. Who doth sweetly rest On his Mother's breast, Lord of the lightnings and the thunders ! Mary's heart keeps all these wonders. 42 All Souls' Night IN a grave-yard lone Waileth a young maid; With heart-piercing moan Calling on her dead. " Morn, noon, and even, Heavy my hours creep. In your happy Heaven, Do you know I weep ? " " All Souls" night is here, Every spirit is free. Leave God's House of cheer. Travel home to me ! " " Pass by every star Shining like a seraph. Moons that whitest are Shun the tempting thereof." "Be your journey swift. I am waiting, blind. You, my light, shall lift The dark from my mind." 43 *' Hush ! the midnight bell The last chime hath given. Yawneth deepest hell, Opeth highest heaven." *' Some far sigh doth heave Through the murky gloom. Every ghost doth leave Every mouldering tomb — " " Greyly flits and goes Like a wandering mist, When the west wind blows As its will doth list." "01 fear these things ! And mine ears do hark Rustle of phantom wings Passing by on the dark 1 " *' But come you . . . even as these. Heart of me, my own ! Ah, my poor lips freeze Kissing your grave-stone ! " Cock-crow and red dawn. The maid's dead face is gi'ey. All Souls' night is gone. All saints smile to-day. 44 The Bard to his Beloved LO VE of you and hate of you Tears my very heart in two / As you please me or displease, So I burn and so I freeze. I would build your wattled dun With a gold roof like the sun ; I would stain the trellis bars With the silver of the stars. At my bitter heart's behoof I would wreck your radiant roof; Of your twinkling trellises All my anger jealous is. I would give you great-horned rams, Mild-eyed sheep, and milk-white lambs, Fit for any king to own, By the turning of the stone. I would set your rams astray, I would wile your sheep away. With their lambs milk-white exceeding, For the grey wolf's famished feeding. 45 I would guide the oxen meek, And the ploughshare s silver beak O'er your land to make it meet For the sowing of the wheat. I would bHght your team with blain, I would rust your ploughs with rain, In your furrows, deep and brown, I would scatter thistle-down. I would put twelve milking cows On your pastures green to browse ; I would set twelve tubs of cream On your dairy's oaken beam. Blasted by a curse of mine, All your cows should ail and pine ; From your fields I'd skim the dew — Steal the cream away from you. Under your grey apple trees I would hive the honey bees ; Store away in each gold dome Lush, delicious honey-comb. From the boughs of rose and grey I would charm the bees away, Bitter bread might be your share On the days of Easter fare. I would crown your head with gold, Robe you fine in silken fold, Win for you a magic wand From Danaan fairy-land. 46 I would break your golden crown, I would rend your silken gown, I would burn your magic wand From Danaan fairy-land. I would place you on a throne, I would give you all to own, All of me and all of mine : I would make you half-divine. I would leave you in sore want, I would have you hunger-gaunt, I would bring you to my feet In subjecflion most complete. I would lift you to the skies, I would give you paradise ; I would suffer hell's worst dole For the saving of your soul. Wounding coldness to repvove I would wound you in my love. Suppliant still at your heart's gate I do worship in my hate. 47 The Rann of Noma T AM Noma of the nut-brown tresses, ^ My home is a hut in the heart of the wood, Where a fairy footfall the green moss presses, And high in the branches the grey doves brood ; O sweet comes the wind from the far-off nesses, Where the sea is a silver and azure flood ! My father is come of Heremon's stock : He is soft as flour, he is hard as rock. His bloou for his friend, his sword for his foe — Ah, this pagan law ! 'tis a thing of woe. How shall we plead for pardon, we Whose sins are the grains of the sands of the sea, While the ineffaceable words are writ : "The judgment ye give, ye are judged by it." My mother is born of a bardic race, Amergin looks through her mystic eyes, Fergus, the Druid, had such a face. Or Ollav Fodhla, the mighty and wise, Lore and love in her heart abide. She is cunning as Mave and kmd as Bride. 48 The wood-doves feed from her milken hand, She passed the were-wolf by without scathe, That robbed the graves in Emania's land, And scattered the bones in its track of death. Her foster-mother beheld her wraith Walking the meads on the first of May — There is in Erin an ancient faith That whoso is seen hath a long, long day, If she shall be warm when I am cold, Blessed be Christ an hundred-fold ! Outside the door of our wattled house The bee-hives stand in a golden row, And the hum of the bees is murmurous From the rose-red dawn till the sun's last glow. An hundred kine are milked in the dew, An hundred maids do spin in our hall, An hundred flocks on the mountain blue Gather when that our shepherds call, And an hundred Fenians guard us all. I am Noma of the nut-brown tresses, Cathair, my lover is a prince of Saul. No red stag roams through the wildernesses With statelier mien than he treads the hall. His hair is yellow as a leaf in Autumn, His eyes are bright as the stars in frost, Virtue and prayer his mother taught him. His father learned him to lead a host. He is slow to anger, he is swift to pardon. He is loth to meddle in contentious strife, More kind his mouth is, more rich his guerdon To him who saves than who takes a life. 49 £ He is fearless as Dathi in brawl or battle, Single-handed he fought with a score When Brian Mac Art stole Bard Ethell's cattle Brian Mac Art, he stole no more. They say I am not for a warrior's wife, That my heart is craven, my spirit weak. That I shrink from the battle and dread the strife — Verily 'tis a truth they speak, For my heart doth sicken at the sight of blood, And the man turned beast in his savage mood. O Bards, that sing of the clans out-faring, And laud the might of the steady stroke, When brother smites brother with axe unsparing As the hewer hacks at the senseless oak — Ye hear but the wind in the banners singing, Ye hear but the rush of the arrows winging. Ye see but the glint of the shining steel — Your brain cannot think, your heart cannot feel! Columcille, in his passionate youth, Lifted the sword between North and South. Sinning he stood on the bloody heath, The vultures darkened the morning light. Like a wind went the sob of the hard-drawn breath, There were ruddy faces gone ashen white, The hero of the resistless blade Looked on his work — and was afraid ! Long was his penance, long and sore, Banished to lone lona's shore. 50 Strike for the right, if strike you must. But glory not in the pride of war ; The body your stroke hath scattered to dust, You shall answer to God therefor. See that your battle-cause be just ! Cathair knows that I am no coward, The blood of Heremon never ran cold. I chmbed the hill when the thick snow showered To find the lamb that forsook the fold. Waist-high, I forded the roaring river, To bring the priest to a dying man, I tended old Maureen in the plague of fever When she lay forsaken of her own clan. I am Noma of the nut-brown tresses, And I love my lover, the prince of Saul. I would not part with his kind caresses To hold all Erin in willing thrall. One enemy in all Erin I have — The girl who would wile him away from me; Yet even her (for Christ's sake) I would save From death and danger by land or sea. 51 E— 2 The Days o' the Spring THE days o' the Spring do lightly pass, Hey, for the Summer and the red roses ! With opening bud and freshening grass The days o' the Spring do hghtly pass For every lad and every lass, And every bird in the orchard closes. The days o' the Spring do lightly pass, Hey, for the Summer and the red roses ! 53 The King's Mercy JOIN together the fragments •J Of the shattered glass ; Gather the wan, crushed petals Of a rose that was ; Wake the dead from her sleeping Under the grass ! Dim is the rainbow crystal That glistened so, Winter is white on the mountains, The dark broods low. Rose and maiden are dreaming, Shrouded in snow. " I will bind up that which was broken." Sayeth the King. ** The rose shall have reddest budding In a heavenly Spring. I will wake the maid from her sleeping, And the stars shall sing." 53 My King T WORSHIP him the livelong day, -*■ He never turns to look my way, And yet my whole heart's sunshine lies Within his eyes of dusky grey. Those eyes are dreaming evermore Of one sweet woman they adore ; I veil my grief with cunning art, But oh, my heart is very sore ! Soft pink and white that pales and glows, Her face is a delicious rose ! Her eyes where heaven's azure sleeps Are starlit deeps of still repose. The rowan berries blooming south Are not so red as her red mouth, Nor dewier they by woodland ways In Autumn days of dust and drouth. O fair is she, I know of none More beautiful to look upon ; But whom my darling loves 'twere meet That she be sweet as summer dawn. 54 Am I content ? Hath jealousy No sting wherewith to torture me ? Doth my weak soul obey in full Christ's golden rule of charity ? Am I content ? Should sun forsake The wheat in June ? Should Winter wake ? My nightingales have scarcely sung, My heart is over-young to break ! O Fool ! O Heart ! O storm of pain That beateth down my whitening grain ! O harvest-fields left desolate To winds of hate and blasting rain ! 55 Messages GOD loosed His shining flock at even, And every little, gold bird came winging Into the dim, grey heaven, Sailing and singing. Swift and eager in luminous flight Through the breathing dark of the Summer night. Ah, little birds, With gold wings palpitating over the blue, Whither go you, Journeying by airy hill and hollow ? I fain would follow Through the ways of heaven. I, the man bereaven, In whose heart is a wound as of a thousand swords. On your heavenly road You are so high, so high, Can you see my sweetheart's face By the crystal lattices, When the gates of the House of God You go faring by ? Her hair is a mist of light, Her eyes are the eyes of a dove, Her vesture is maiden-white, She is my beautiful love ! 56 I know you will find her, for sure, Walking by INIary's side. My lady, lily-pure ! My saint, all sanctified ! Tell her I bring a daffodil in March To her grave under the larch ; A lily in Summer's prime, A golden leaf in the harvest-time, And red, red berries in the rime, When desolate and chill. The winds moan on the purple hill. Tell her no maiden's face doth pleasure me Save in its dear resembling of hers. For any maiden's voice on land or sea My sad heart never stirs. No rose may blossom on hev dead, young cheek, Out from hey grave no voice shall ever speak. O birds of God ! Tell her I am with nor hope or succour Since the day He took her Into His rest. Yea, the wolf of pain hath gnawed To the very quivering core of the living heart in my breast ! Hie away ! Blue i' the east is the dawn o' the day. And the eagle of the Sun Would reign alone. Out of his road ! Little star-birds, fly home to God ! 57 A Philosopher T^HE corn-crake crooned at night, ■*■ The fox-glove had blown, The hawthorn was white, The first meadow was mown. There were roses in the sun. There were roses in the shade, But the lily stood alone. Like a proud, matchless maid. Along the garden walk Were flecks of gold and grey ; I heard the rooks talk In a tree far away. I had smiled last year For sake of these things, For sun and wine-sweet air. And fluttering of wings. 58 But now — could I find Delight in merry June, While she was lying blind In sleep that came too soon ? With outstretched, brown palms, A beggar from the road, Came asking for an alms, For love of the dear God. Withered he was, and old, But under the white hair His brow was broad and bold, And honest as God's air. Face, an ancient ruin, And eyes, the crevices That let heaven's blue in. No hind was here, I wis. Meat and white bread Were pleasant to his mouth, Milk was sweet as mead, In a hot day's drouth. •• The heavens be your bed ! — " '* God mark you to grace ! — " Another man had said In this beggar's place. 59 But listen to his prayer, Weigh the wisdom of it ! This philosopher Did disdain to covet. For my poor largesse, Spake he in reward : " A taste of happiness, May ye get from the Lord ! " Well might I be content, The vSummer world was fair. His way the old man went. The sun on his white hair. 60 A March Song DEAD is the dark Winter (O the primrose on the hill !) March bloweth his fanfare r the horn o' the daffodil. Rain water in the dykes Is clear as amber glass ; It feedeth the tall spikes Of the high, green grass. Earthward dancing sunbeams Wave their wizard wands, Flaggers into green flames Flicker by the ponds. O but March is kind ! At every road's edge Sways on the warm wind A budding thorn hedge. And the crows have built their nest I' the highest bough of the larch. When the wind is from the west Mild and kind is March ! 6i In the Dargle BY leaning fern and mossy stone The river singetli all alone A musical, sweet monotone. Within its lucent canopies The sunbeam broocleth dreamy-wise, Like to a smile in girlhood's eyes. Athwart the amber and the snow Of quiet pools 'twixt flow and flow, The quiet birds flit to and fro. You cannot hear if that they sing, For the wild waters, murmuring, Weep into silence everything. Weep into silence : I have said. The earthly voice being quieted, I hear the voices of the dead. They lie in happy graves afar, Where no cliff climbeth high to bar The shining of the evening star. 62 There stand the mountains, misty blue, The soft, south heaven leaning to. That holds the cisterns of the dew. And when that dew doth thither sweep To weep for them who cannot weep, Methinks the dreamers smile in sleep. Then, ere the smile hath wholly died Upon their white brows, sandlified ; The dawn stands rosy as a bride, And every bird doth wake for day. (Whether the bough be green or grey, The little birds do sing alway.) O sweet amid the leafy falls That tapestry their magic halls, They pipe their golden madrigals ! O sweet, if that the dead may hear This honeyed speaking, pure and clear. In every day, in every year ! God calleth keeners for His own, The dev/ shall weep when I am stone — Shall rain its pity softly down. And when the pain hath taken root Within a heart, to strike it mute, The bird shall murmur as a lute. 63 PRINTED BY R. FOLKARD AND SON, aa, DEVONSHIRE STREET, QUEEN SQUARE, BLOOMSBURY, LONDON, W.C. This book is DUE on the last date stamped bsiow. REMINGTON RAND INC. 20 213 (533) av UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 373 624 6