Poems MacCarthy, Florence Denis
Poems MacCarthy, Florence Denis Poems MacCarthy, Florence Denis
116 And where are eyes more starry bright?" Then young hearts beat along the board, To praise the maid that each adored, And lips as young would fain disclose The love within; but one arose, Gray as the rocks beside the main,-- Gray as the mist upon the plain,-- A thoughtful, wandering, minstrel man, And thus the aged bard began:-- "O Con, benevolent hand of peace! O tower of valour firm and true! Like mountain fawns, like snowy fleece, Move the sweet maidens of Tirhugh. Yet though through all thy realm I've strayed, Where green hills rise and white waves fall, I have not seen so fair a maid As once I saw by Cushendall.[84] "O Con, thou hospitable Prince! Thou, of the open heart and hand, Full oft I've seen the crimson tints Of evening on the western land. I've wandered north, I've wandered south, Throughout Tirhugh in hut and hall, But never saw so sweet a mouth As whispered love by Cushendall. "O Con, munificent gifts! I've seen the full round harvest moon Gleam through the shadowy autumn drifts Upon thy royal rock of Doune.[85] I've seen the stars that glittering lie O'er all the night's dark mourning pall, But never saw so bright an eye As lit the glens of Cushendall. "I've wandered with a pleasant toil, And still I wander in my dreams; Even from the white-stoned beach, Loch Foyle,
117 To Desmond of the flowing streams. I've crossed the fair green plains of Meath, To Dublin, held in Saxon thrall; But never saw such pearly teeth, As her's that smiled by Cushendall. "O Con! thou'rt rich in yellow gold, Thy fields are filled with lowing kine, Within they castles wealth untold, Within thy harbours fleets of wine; But yield not, Con, to worldly pride Thou may'st be rich, but hast not all; Far richer he who for his bride Has won fair Anne of Cushendall. "She leans upon a husband's arm, Surrounded by a valiant clan, In Antrim's Glynnes, by fair Glenarm, Beyond the pearly-paven Bann; 'Mid hazel woods no stately tree Looks up to heaven more graceful-tall, When summer clothes its boughs, than she, MacDonnell's wife of Cushendall!" The bard retires amid the throng, No sweet applause rewards his song, No friendly lip that guerdon breathes, To bard more sweet than golden wreaths. It might have been the minstrel's art Had lost the power to move the heart, It might have been his harp had grown Too old to yield its wonted tone. But no, if hearts were cold and hard, 'Twas not the fault of harp or bard; It was no false or broken sound That failed to move the clansmen round. Not these the men, nor these the times, To nicely weigh the worth of rhymes; 'Twas what he said that made them chill, And not his singing well or ill.
- Page 65 and 66: 65 No, the great prize shall not by
- Page 67 and 68: 67 Like bees upon the wing on a fin
- Page 69 and 70: 69 And then they braced their two b
- Page 71 and 72: 71 And thus betwixt the twain this
- Page 73 and 74: 73 To fight the fight where my frie
- Page 75 and 76: 75 All these on me in turn shall so
- Page 77 and 78: 77 With such an easy effort that it
- Page 79 and 80: 79 As a huge mill-stone, cracking i
- Page 81 and 82: 81 He to have died and thou to have
- Page 83 and 84: 83 Ah! hapless deed, that still my
- Page 85 and 86: 85 First on the shore, as swift our
- Page 87 and 88: 87 The wave that swallows up the sh
- Page 89 and 90: 89 38. "The plains of Aie" (son of
- Page 91 and 92: 91 This, which it is to be presumed
- Page 93 and 94: 93 Like hooded monks before a dazzl
- Page 95 and 96: 95 I sought the rocky eastern isle,
- Page 97 and 98: 97 At length the long-expected morn
- Page 99 and 100: 99 Hail, spotless Virgin! mildest,
- Page 101 and 102: 101 Knowledge he tracked through ma
- Page 103 and 104: 103 But holding marble basilics and
- Page 105 and 106: 105 Her cold hands chilled the boso
- Page 107 and 108: 107 Bright, even as bright as those
- Page 109 and 110: 109 Rise up to God like morn and ev
- Page 111 and 112: 111 There never falls the rain-clou
- Page 113 and 114: 113 would be always visited and pro
- Page 115: 115 Sweetly the rising moonbeams pl
- Page 119 and 120: 119 If beauty decks with peerless c
- Page 121 and 122: 121 When all who live on Irish grou
- Page 123 and 124: 123 Thus rushed upon the doomed Mac
- Page 125 and 126: 125 Hangs the long leash that binds
- Page 127 and 128: 127 "If, when I reach my home to-ni
- Page 129 and 130: 129 "Thou'st bravely won an Irish b
- Page 131 and 132: 131 MacDonnells was at Glenarm. 85.
- Page 133 and 134: 133 And such was young Paolo! The m
- Page 135 and 136: 135 prayer. At morning when Paolo d
- Page 137 and 138: 137 And are bless'd in the name of
- Page 139 and 140: 139 But the tower in whose shade th
- Page 141 and 142: 141 Burning and withering, its drop
- Page 143 and 144: 143 his soul. For though sweet are
- Page 145 and 146: 145 Still some scenes are yet encha
- Page 147 and 148: 147 Need we say that Maurice loved
- Page 149 and 150: 149 As he sweepeth through the wild
- Page 151 and 152: 151 There's a crowding and a crushi
- Page 153 and 154: 153 100. The lusmore (or fairy cap)
- Page 155 and 156: 155 Advance! Through hope and work
- Page 157 and 158: 157 That can make thee rouse for it
- Page 159 and 160: 159 Still in the battle for Freedom
- Page 161 and 162: 161 Dark was my dream, though many
- Page 163 and 164: 163 Feel life has but one disaster,
- Page 165 and 166: 165 Who all the spring-time of thy
117<br />
To Desmond of the flowing streams.<br />
I've crossed the fair green plains of Meath,<br />
To Dublin, held in Saxon thrall;<br />
But never saw such pearly teeth,<br />
As her's that smiled by Cushendall.<br />
"O Con! thou'rt rich in yellow gold,<br />
Thy fields are filled with lowing kine,<br />
Within they castles wealth untold,<br />
Within thy harbours fleets of wine;<br />
But yield not, Con, to worldly pride<br />
Thou may'st be rich, but hast not all;<br />
Far richer he who for his bride<br />
Has won fair Anne of Cushendall.<br />
"She leans upon a husband's arm,<br />
Surrounded by a valiant clan,<br />
In Antrim's Glynnes, by fair Glenarm,<br />
Beyond the pearly-paven Bann;<br />
'Mid hazel woods no stately tree<br />
Looks up to heaven more graceful-tall,<br />
When summer clothes its boughs, than she,<br />
MacDonnell's wife of Cushendall!"<br />
The bard retires amid the throng,<br />
No sweet applause rewards his song,<br />
No friendly lip that guerdon breathes,<br />
To bard more sweet than golden wreaths.<br />
It might have been the minstrel's art<br />
Had lost the power to move the heart,<br />
It might have been his harp had grown<br />
Too old to yield its wonted tone.<br />
But no, if hearts were cold and hard,<br />
'Twas not the fault of harp or bard;<br />
It was no false or broken sound<br />
That failed to move the clansmen round.<br />
Not these the men, nor these the times,<br />
To nicely weigh the worth of rhymes;<br />
'Twas what he said that made them chill,<br />
And not his singing well or ill.