Poems MacCarthy, Florence Denis
Poems MacCarthy, Florence Denis
Poems MacCarthy, Florence Denis
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110<br />
Nothing deformed upon its bosom lies,<br />
Nor on its level breast rests aught unsmooth,<br />
But the noble filed flourishes 'neath the skies,<br />
Blooming for ever in perpetual youth.<br />
That glorious land stands higher o'er the sea,<br />
By twelve-fold fathom measure, than we deem<br />
The highest hills beneath the heavens to be.<br />
There the bower glitters, and the green woods gleam.<br />
All o'er that pleasant plain, calm and serene,<br />
The fruits ne'er fall, but, hung by God's own hand,<br />
Cling to the trees that stand for ever green,<br />
Obedient to their Maker's first command.<br />
Summer and winter are the woods the same,<br />
Hung with bright fruits and leaves that never fade;<br />
Such will they be, beyond the reach of flame,<br />
Till Heaven, and Earth, and Time, shall have decayed.<br />
Here might Iduna in her fond pursuit,<br />
As fabled by the northern sea-born men,<br />
Gather her golden and immortal fruit,<br />
That brings their youth back to the gods again.<br />
Of old, when God, to punish sinful pride,<br />
Sent round the deluged world the ocean flood,<br />
When all the earth lay 'neath the vengeful tide,<br />
This glorious land above the waters stood.<br />
Such shall it be at last, even as at first,<br />
Until the coming of the final doom,<br />
When the dark chambers--men's death homes shall burst,<br />
And man shall rise to judgment from the tomb.<br />
There there is never enmity, nor rage,<br />
Nor poisoned calumny, nor envy's breath,<br />
Nor shivering poverty, nor decrepit age,<br />
Nor loss of vigour, nor the narrow death;<br />
Nor idiot laughter, nor the tears men weep,<br />
Nor painful exile from one's native soil,<br />
Nor sin, nor pain, nor weariness, nor sleep,<br />
Nor lust of riches, nor the poor man's toil.