Verses

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VERSES

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The Path of Life

THE PATH OF LIFE.

In the springtime once I wandered 'mid fair flowers of golden hue; Wonder-eyed I gazed around me in those fields where all was new, And a path stretched long before me, soft with moss and blossoms white, While the birds, so sweetly singing, filled my soul with fresh delight. Down the path, with song and laughter, came three maidens hand in hand, By their side a shadow glided that I could not understand: For I scarce could see it coming, yet I knew that it was there, Like a cloud upon the brightness of a sky that was all fair— Maids more beauteous than the blossoms of the flowers which deck the lea,

Maids more joyous than the happy birds that flit from tree to tree. ‘Tell me who thou art,’ I pleaded, ‘thou with eyes of peace and love?’ ‘I am Hope,’ she softly whispered, pointing with white hand above. ‘Who art thou whose fair cheek flushes, 'neath the kiss of health, so red, Thou with restless limbs and slender?’—‘I am Youth,’ she gladly said. ‘Who art thou,’ I questioned further, ‘thou with glance of merriment?’ ‘We are sisters three,’ she answered, ‘Hope, Youth, Joy, from Heaven sent.’ Then the dim lips of the shadow moved—I heard a faint voice call: ‘On! on! Time must never linger; Death, the king, is end of all.’

So along the path we wandered—oh! the bliss of those short hours! Youth and Hope and Joy together 'mid the everblooming flowers That on life's smooth path were glowing soft beneath my naked feet, Till I envied nought in Heaven, thinking here my lot complete.

As I raised the flowering branches that across my path would stray, Lo! I found amidst the blossoms at my feet Love sleeping lay. ‘Wake!’ I cried, ‘my soul would know thee. Stranger, wake! my heart is thine.’ At my call he woke and, rising, laid his burning hand in mine. ‘Thou art Love,’ I said, ‘and fairer than all things that God hath made; Joy itself must have an ending, Youth is only born to fade, And alone Love is immortal, faithful Love can never die— Death's dark gates for him are open. Death himself must let him by.’ Then my heart grew chill, for nigh me once again I heard that call: ‘On! on! Time can never linger; Death, the king, is end of all.’

So along the path we wandered, pausing oft for sweet caress, Till my heart felt overflowing with its wealth of happiness; But lo! on the path before us briars mingled with the moss,

And the flowers died on the branches, but I did not feel their loss. What cared I, with Love beside me, if the sun should hide its light? He was summer, he was sunshine, by his side there was no night. Rougher grew the path before us, and the hedges lost their bloom, Stretching out their thorny branches like long fingers in the gloom. Then Love lingered slow behind me, saying, ‘Dear, I cannot stay, For my feet are weary toiling o'er this rough and thorny way, For the flowerless branches wound me—for the sun has ceased to shine, And I dread the growing darkness strange with shapes I can't define.’ So I watched them quick departing; Joy and Love went side by side. ‘O my Love, why hast thou left me?’ in my grief I sadly cried; ‘Love braves all and fears no evil, Love gives all unselfishly, There's no darkness, there's no danger, there's but Love where Love can be.

Love makes smooth the roughest pathway, Love makes bloom the budless bough— Youth and Hope thou takest with thee: must I lonely wander now? And the way so steep before me, wanting thee I could not climb; No! I'll trace our happy footprints backwards o'er the path of Time.’ But alas I how vain my hoping— on my ears those dread words fall: ‘On! on! Time knows no returning; Death is king and end of all.’

Lone I journeyed on, and Sorrow rose with pale cheeks by my side, Weeping oft that Love had left me, sighing oft that Youth had died; And a dread shape strode before me, with wild eyes and streaming hair, Then my heart grew cold with anguish, for I knew this was Despair. But some hand from out the darkness drew her back into the night, And the sky grew fair, for Heaven shed upon my path its light. ‘Hope!’ I cried, ‘thou hast returned; bring'st thou back my Love to me?’

‘No!’ she said, ‘thy Love was worthless, he has gone and set thee free. On Life's path two flowers are blooming, one grows gaudy, bright, and tall, But the other fair and lowly—oft a heedless foot will fall Crushing down each snowy petal that had sprung from Heaven's seed: Thou hast passed the purer blossom by to pluck the flaunting weed. Thou hast sought for sun and sunshine, where to seek thou didst not know, For thou'st caught the vague reflection here upon the earth below. If the true sun thou art seeking, thou must turn thine eyes above— Thou hast feared Death as he followed—he would give thee Life and Love. Mourn not Love that proved so worthless, there's a purer Love on high— Mourn not Joy, for Joy is living, yea, a Joy that cannot die. Mourn not Youth, for Death would lead thee on where years can never be— As a grain of sand thy life is on that shore—Eternity.

On! and weary not in going, let thy heart obey that call; On! for Earth holds nought to mourn for—on! for Death gives life to all.’

Man's Discontent

MAN'S DISCONTENT.

White feet half hid in violets, small hands in a burden fair, A burden of Spring's first blossoms she wove for her neck and hair Into wreaths, as she paused a moment on the threshold of maidenhood. O my child love! hesitating, there I met her as she stood. So I stayed till I grew weary—man's discontent, I ween— Then I thought I longed for Summer, with trees for ever green. I tired of primrose blossoms and the budding boughs of spring, And the chirp! chirp! of this year's birds that had not learned to sing. I thought her soft arms too slender, and the smooth young cheek too clear,

And the April eyes that loved me too ready with smile or tear, Too ready to read my wishes in mine that she might obey Ere I spoke; so in the springtime I went from her arms away.

I sought my love and I found her, when Summer days were long, All the hedges bright with blossoms and musical with song, But the eyes that saw me coming no answer to mine would speak; The lids drooped till the lashes lay dark on her crimson cheek, The hands I clasped for a moment would but struggle to be free, As I tried to win her to speak of love, of herself, of me. ‘Hark! the young birds,’ she only said; ‘dost hear them sing in the wood?’ Love's rosy wings had brushed her eyes as she passed to maidenhood. So I stayed, but soon grew weary—man's discontent, I ween— And I longed for Autumn colours, not trees for ever green.

Cried I: ‘Its sky at sunset is far more fair than this.’ Then I thought, my love's cheek flushes too ready 'neath my kiss, That the gentle voice replying spoke love too timidly, And the shy hands culling blossoms had no caress for me. I tired of roses' perfume and the song the wild-birds sung, So I left her in the noon-time, when Summer yet was young.

‘Neath the sunset skies of Autumn, all the heath-clad hills flushed red; Sweet the lark his matins singing in the blue sky over-head, And the languid breeze was perfumed by a rose's stolen breath; 'Twas the last white bud of Summer that escaped the hand of death, And my sweet, I feared to meet her for my yesterday of scorn; Then I flung myself beside her as she knelt amid the corn. She only said: ’To red and gold grew the green young leaf of Spring. The rose filled the dead cowslip's throne; now poppy reigns a king.‘

Then she sighed, with blue eyes tearful and quivering lips that smiled, ‘And to womanhood's perfection came the promise of the child. But the rose and cowslip withered, and the poppy's death is nigh, For the changing leaf that lingers there remains nought but to die. Through the bitter winds of Winter let me shelter by thy side; Prithee, stray not with the Autumn, O my love ! unsatisfied.’

So I stayed, but soon grew weary—man's discontent, I ween— Of the woods all clad in splendour, rarest red, and gold, and green; Of the hands that toiling for me pressed the red juice from the vine, And brought the fragrant peaches that I might not trouble mine; Of the fawn-like eyes that watched me, ever speaking of their love; Of the neck I once thought softer than the white breast of a dove. So I rose up from my resting ere the Autumn days were dead,

And the oak, and beech, and chestnut had not yet their bright leaves shed; While the birds were singing gaily from their shelter in the thorn, Still the sleep-bestowing poppies lit their red lamps in the corn.

I sought my love in the Winter, for I sorrowed for the past, And in the long nights of thinking I knew my own heart at last; That mine were the imperfections that I seemed in her to find, That happiness ever beside me made me to sorrow grow blind, How I of God's gifts grew weary—man's discontent, I ween— That to-day sighs for to-morrow, then to weep for what had been. She was sleeping when I found her, O my love! in one hand lay Spring's young buds and Summer roses with their fair bloom passed away; But the poison-breathing poppy on her lip was lying red, Ah! the sleep-bestowing poppy had left me but the dead;

The calm eyes gazing heavenwards could not see the love mine bore, And the pale brow 'neath my kisses still its marble colour wore; Till the snow that was not whiter hid the silent face from me— Hid the lips that could not answer and the eyes that could not see. Flake by flake came down and hid her from the cold sky overhead. Thus, having all, I lost all, ere the Winter days had fled.

Spring Song—To Ireland

SPRING SONG—TO IRELAND.

Weep no more, heart of my heart, no more! The night has passed and the dawn is here, The cuckoo calls from the budding trees, And tells us that Spring is near.

Sorrow no more, beloved, no more; For see, sweet emblem of hope untold! The tears that soft on the shamrocks fall There turn to blossoms of gold.

Winter has gone with his blighting breath, No more to chill thee with cold or fear. The brook laughs loud in its liberty, Green buds on the hedge appear.

Weep no more, life of my heart, no more! The birds are carolling sweet and clear; The warmth of Summer is in the breeze. And the Spring—the Spring is here.

Daisies

DAISIES.

Blossomed too soon, little daisies of Spring! Leaving the sheltering arms of the earth, The white tears of Winter unshed in the sky. And weary-eyed Sorrow to welcome your birth.

See, 'twas cold Winter that woke you from sleep. Breathed upon you with Summer's warm breath, Kissed your eyes open with lips of the Spring, Waked you too early—to winter and death.

Where is the promise he whispered to you— The warmth of the sunshine, the cool of the breeze. The perfume of thorns all heavy with bloom. The linnet's sweet song from his shade in the trees?

Bird-songs are silent, and branches are bare; The snow makes a crown on the heights of the hill; And your stricken blossoms lie crushed on the ground. For the warm breath that wooed you to life groweth chill.

Cover, white snowflakes, the spot where they lie, Scarce living the length of a winter's short noon. Oh! cover them whitely that no one may find The grave of my daisies that blossomed too soon.

The Old Violon

THE OLD VIOLON.

‘Going, going!’ the voice was loud, And, rising, silenced the chattering crowd. ‘Going! going! shall it be gone?’ The auctioneer held up an old violon. ‘The mute though tarnished is silver still, The aged strings have not lost their skill.’ They laughed in scorn as he praised the case. The ebon nuts and the polished face— Jokingly betted together that none Could draw a tune from the old violon. When lo ! from out of their midst appeared A man of countenance strange and weird, With gentle touch laid his thin hand on The polished face of the old violon. ‘Thou scorned, thou worthless,’ the stranger said ‘Wake, heart of music, art thou too dead?’ As though some spirit long slept awoke, A faint, low sigh from his fingers broke.

He took the bow in his trembling hand, So old was he that he scarce could stand, And still as death grew the auction hall. For fear and silence fell over all. They knew, as they watched in awed surprise. He read their hearts with his piercing eyes, And graven there in the long ago Each story that sprang from beneath his bow. He sang of love, and then years of pain Rolled back—they dreamt they were young again; The wife looked up to her husband's face. And once more saw there the manly grace That won her love when her heart was young (Ah! 'twas the past that the violon sung); And he, looking back, saw that once more The faded cheek was as fresh as of yore; Out from his eyes beamed the old love light, And taking her hand, he pressed it tight. The violon rang through the hall once more— A mother cried for the babe she bore. And stretching her empty arms out wide, She felt no longer her wish denied; The downy head lay upon her breast. The tiny hands her pale cheek caressed. To her lonely heart joy and comfort fell From those wordless lips that can plead so well.

The violon's song rang loud and clear: They saw a garden all fair appear, Perfumed with roses and blossoms white, Lifting their heads to the sun's hot light. A statue stood there amidst them all— A cry of wonder went down the hall— For at its base, kneeling all alone, Pressing warm lips to the feet of stone, Raising soft hands to the face above, A maiden was breathing her soul in love. Gold-hearted lilies and roses sweet She culled and laid at the statue's feet, But touching the stone each flower would die. The maid arose with a mournful cry. And glanced in fear round the garden fair: It was weeds and thorns that flourished there. ‘O love,’ she cried, ‘I am sore afraid— The night has come and my blossoms fade.’ Raising her arms to the stony face, The statue fell at her slight embrace; Down at her feet her idol lay— An empty shell was this broken day. Amidst the fragments she sought to find Her god of Beauty, her love so kind. Her faith, her hopes, that were scattered all; Her cry was echoed within the hall;

Therein one young face so pale it grew, That those who saw it her story knew.

Then of the present the violon sang. No words it gave them yet as it rang; Each heart gave words to the wondrous lay: ‘The living present is ours to-day.’ And now they shudder and hold their breath, The violon's song is the song of death— Death in most cruel and dreadful guise— The god of war rose before their eyes. The clash of arms filled the auction hall, Blood seemed around and over all, Each woman shrank to her husband's side, He clenched his hand as he rose and cried. The cry of battle, the eagle's cry, That sights his quarry from far on high, For his heart beat quick with the lust for blood; He fain would seek in that ruddy flood To quench that fierce, unsatiable thirst With which man and beast are alike accurst.

And now a moment, so strange and still They seemed enchained to the violon's will— So silent all that an echo flew From the sobbing breath that a strong man drew-

When sudden there broke a fearful cry That seemed to quiver across the sky, A cry of some soul, it was to those Who heard it, a soul in life's last throes, A cold, passing breath from death's black wings, A crash of discord o'er broken strings; And what had been was now no more, Silence and death seemed to cloud them o'er; The past, the present, all men may see. But no man knoweth what is to be. Again they start with a new surprise. No minstrel is there to their wildered eyes, From whence he came or whither he fled. Or of the living, or of the dead. Their wondering hearts have never known. The violon lay on the desk alone. Fearing to lose, yet afraid to win. Their voices rise, and above their din— ‘Going! going! 'tis gone! 'tis gone; A rare Stradivarius this old violon. Behold!’ and the auctioneer thought to raise It high in his hand as he sung its praise— With a faint, low sob, like a passing bell, To dust 'neath his hand the violon fell.

Innocence

INNOCENCE.

White rose must die all in the youth and beauty of the year, Though nightingale should sing the whole night through, Though summer breezes woo, She will not hear.

Too delicate for the sun's kiss so hot and passionate. Or for the rude caresses of the wind, She dropped and pined — They mourned too late.

Birds carol clear : ‘Summer has come,’ they say, ‘O joy of living on a summer's day!’ White rose must die all in the youth and beauty of the year.

King and Father

KING AND FATHER.

Mountains and vales, how ye quake 'neath His tread— Wake from your slumbers, He calls, O ye dead! Tremble, great trees, bowing down 'neath His breath; Lay by thy scythe, at His bidding. King Death! The sun in the heavens grows pale at His wrath. And the stars, at a glance, disappear from their path. God, at Thy feet, then, awe-stricken we fall— Lord of the universe, Maker of all!

Earth's secret treasures lie bare to Thy sight, Nor hidden from Thee the dark deeds of the night; The lion grows timid, fawns low at Thy feet; The waves from the shore at Thy bidding retreat. Thou speakest—the monarch's proud ruling is o'er; His power and his riches avail him no more, Endless Thy greatness—of Thee are all things; Endless Thy glory, O King of all Kings!

When mountains belched forth their red flames to the sky, And Heaven's forked tongues thundered back in reply; When the sun, in his horror, recoiled at the sight, And earth hid her brow in the darkness of night; When stars into dust fell, and vanished in space, And but man, in his blindness, laughed up in Thy face— Endless Thy mercy. Thy strong hand was still— O Crucified Lord upon Calvary's hill!

Yet, Thou forgettest all. Father above, Remembering nought but Thine infinite love: Stretching those wounded Hands out to our aid; Telling us tenderly, "Be not afraid !" Ready to help us, if only we call— Nothing too weak for Thee, nothing too small; Ready to hear, when we kneel on the sod; Thou our Redeemer, our Father, our God!

The Highway to Fame

THE HIGHWAY TO FAME.

In every man this world doth hold Two selves are cast in that human mould. If he hearken but to the voice of one, Then heaven is his when his work is done ; But if to the other his ear doth turn, Despair in his heart shall for ever burn.

I and my other self one day Woke from sleep on the world's highway. Women and men bore us company, But never a child did I chance to see. I pitied young faces so pale and wan I saw in the crowd, as we hurried on. I pitied old faces, so eager they Lest they be last on the great highway. Another road we have met at last — We paused a moment ere it we passed. Few turned their feet the strange road upon. Though the way was fair God's sun shone on.

The path was rough, but the hedges' bloom Sent forth a sweet and a rare perfume. If the thorns wounded your naked feet, The birds' songs were in your ear full sweet. Did you close your eyes in black despair, You oped on the hills—and God was there. Did you weep with fear when the night came on, The face of Hope in the darkness shone. ‘O stay,’ I cried, ‘for a moment stay— Till I pluck from the hedge a wild-rose spray. Hark, the sweet birds! For a moment stay— No song I hear on the world's highway, But cries of women and men alway.’

My other self thus replied to me: ‘Then the hill of Fame you will never see, Nor hear the songs so wondrous there’— And I passed the road that I deemed so fair. Suspicion, envy, and jealousy, I oft in my neighbours' eyes could see. Alas! in my heart the serpent grew— I smiled lest others should see it too. A woman staggered, and falling cried As I paused a moment by her side: ‘Too late, too late! I am lost for aye, I have passed God's road on the great highway I have missed the treasure that lies before,

And glimpse of Heaven Til see no more.’ I laid my hand her cold brow upon, But my other self in my ear said: ‘On! For those behind will help her through.’ I stepped in her place, but that cry I knew Was the last she gave, ere she silent lay 'Neath the cruel feet on the great highway.

A cottage door, as we passed, stood wide; A mother sat with her babe inside, And her eyes beamed love as she kissed the child, That raised its arms in its sleep and smiled: In the fields that bordered the great highway Children dropped, as we passed, their play. I raised a bright guinea for them to see— A golden king-cup they held to me. A sapphire's gleam from my finger fell— They gathered a bunch of the blue speedwell. A string of pearls I raised again— Laughing, they turned to their daisy chain. A youth and a maiden I next did see; I cried in my heart, ‘He will envy me.’ He smiled as he kissed the white hand that lay In his, and I sighed on the great highway. Is it worth all I lose and I leave behind, That treasure I seek, which I may not find?

I saw a man in my path, and he Stood still as we came, and he looked at me. Oh, sorrow's home was that face divine; Oh, the infinite love as his eyes met mine! An oaken cross on his shoulders lay— I paused a moment, then turned away. For my other self thus had cried to me: ‘'Tis but a phantom you chance to see. Look! Even now it has ceased to stay ’Neath the hurrying feet on the great highway.‘

So I was first in the weary race, As, aged and worn, we toiled apace. Each man bowed low at my feet and came To crown me king on the Hill of Fame, And king of them all I reigned alone. Yet I shuddered oft on my golden throne. The ground had grown not earth nor stones, For the hill was raised of dead men's bones. I fear my subject's untiring praise, For his hand the while with his dagger plays. My other self whispers: ‘O joy! for see, Men and women all worship thee. Thy flattered ear to their praise incline; Endless glory and wealth are thine; Such fame, such worship, no man hath known.’

Ah me! I sigh on my golden throne.

Little White Rose

LITTLE WHITE ROSE.

Little white rose that I loved, I loved, Roisin ban, Roisin ban! Fair my bud as the morning's dawn. I kissed my beautiful flower to bloom, My heart grew glad for its rich perfume— Little white rose that I loved.

Little white rose that I loved grew red, Roisin ruad, Roisin ruad! Passionate tears I wept for you. Love is more sweet than the world's fame— I dream you back in my heart the same, Little white rose that I loved!

Little white rose that I loved grew black, Roisin dub, Roisin dub! So I knew not the heart of you. Lost in the world's alluring fire, I cry in the night for my heart's desire, Little white rose that I loved!

Time and the Lady

TIME AND THE LADY.

Haste, maiden, haste! the spray has come to budding, The dawn creeps o'er the heavens gold and fair. Come, see the bud ere breaking, the languid day awaking. ‘A moment. Time, until I bind my hair.’

Come, maiden, come! the bud has burst to blossom, The sun has kissed the earth and found it sweet. Come, lest you lose, adorning, the beauty of the morning. ‘A moment, Time, a moment, till I eat.’

Come, maiden, come! ripe fruits are on the branches, The evening star is glowing in the blue; The breeze's breath grows colder. Come ere the day is older! ‘A moment till I sip—I'm then with you.’

Quick, maiden, quick! Death's hand has stripped the leafing; Night frees her clouding hair from bonds that keep. Quick! lest you're lost for ever, in the gloom to find me never. ‘A moment. Time, a moment, till I sleep.’

A Rose Will Fade

A ROSE WILL FADE.

You were always a dreamer, Rose, red Rose, As you swung on your perfumed spray, Swinging, and all the world was true, Swaying, what did it trouble you? A rose will fade in a day.

Why did you smile to his face, red Rose, As he whistled across your way? And all the world went mad for you. All the world it knelt to woo. A rose will bloom in a day.

I gather your petals, Rose, red Rose, The petals he threw away. And all the world derided you; Ah ! the world, how well it knew A rose will fade in a day.

Who Is He?

WHO IS HE?

Who is he, dying so hard? Hard is it to die— Die in the warmth of June, Bird and bee in tune— Die in the singing time. When all the world's in rhyme. Hard it is to die.

He is Hope lying so low, Dull it is to lie— Lie, and the hounds full cry Give music to each sigh— Lie, and the antlered stag Leaps light from crag to crag. Weary 'tis to lie.

Is there never a one to weep? Weep, for Hope is dead. Dead, and a body so fair. Never a woman to care?

Untuneful is laughter and mirth; Hide him, then, under the earth. Well it were to be dead.

Here comes one weeping so hard: Woeful 'tis to weep. Tears on the cheek of youth. Where smiles should be in truth; Tears in the eyes of love. Angels should weep above, When the young are sad below. Better were death than woe; Hard it is to weep.

All Souls' Night

ALL SOULS' NIGHT.

[There is a superstition in some parts of Ireland that the dead are allowed to return to earth on the 2nd of November (All Souls' Night), and the peasantry leave food and fire for their comfort, and set a chair by the hearth for their resting before they themselves retire to bed.]

O Mother, mother, I swept the hearth, I set his chair and the white board spread, I prayed for his coming to our kind Lady when Death's sad doors would let out the dead; A strange wind rattled the window-pane, and down the lane a dog howled on. I called his name and the candle flame burnt dim, pressed a hand the door-latch upon. Deelish! Deelish! my woe forever that I could not sever coward flesh from fear. I called his name and the pale Ghost came; but I was afraid to meet my dear.

O mother, mother, in tears I checked the sad hours past of the year that's o'er, Till by God's grace I might see his face and hear the sound of his voice once more; The chair I set from the cold and wet, he took when he came from unknown skies Of the land of the dead, on my bent brown head I felt the reproach of his saddened eyes; I closed my lids on my heart's desire, crouched by the fire, my voice was dumb. At my clean-swept hearth he had no mirth, and at my table he broke no crumb. Deelish! Deelish! my woe forever that I could not sever coward flesh from fear. His chair put aside when the young cock cried, and I was afraid to meet my dear.

The Fairies

THE FAIRIES.

The fairies, the fairies, the mischief-loving fairies. Have stolen my loved one, my darling, and my dear; With charms and enchantments they lured and waylaid him. So my love cannot comfort and my presence cannot cheer.

The fairies, the fairies, I'll love no more the fairies; I'll never sweep the hearth for them or care the fairy thorn, I'll skim no more the yellow cream nor leave the perfumed honey; But I'll drive the goats for pasture to their greenest rath each morn.