Poems MacCarthy, Florence Denis
Poems MacCarthy, Florence Denis Poems MacCarthy, Florence Denis
138 He would deem it a dream of the night-time, and doubt if the morning had come. At noon, as he lay in the sultriness, under his broad-leafy limes, Far sweeter than murmuring waters came the tone of the Angelus chimes. Pious and tranquil he rose, and uncovered his reverend head, And thrice was the Ave Maria and thrice was the Angelus said, Sweet custom the South still retaineth, to turn for a moment away From the pleasures and pains of existence, from the trouble and turmoil of day, From the tumult within and without, to the peace that abideth on high, When the deep, solemn sound from the belfry comes down like a voice from the sky. And thus round the heart of the old man, at morning, at noon, and at eve, The bells, with their rich woof of music, the net-work of happiness weave, They ring in the clear, tranquil evening, and lo! all the air is alive, As the sweet-laden thoughts come, like bees, to abide in the heart as a hive. They blend with his moments of joy, as the odour doth blend with the flower-- They blend with his light-falling tears, as the sunshine doth blend with the shower. As their music is mirthful or mournful, his pulse beateth sluggish or fast, And his breast takes its hue, like the ocean, as the sunshine or shadows are cast. Thus adding new zest to enjoyment, and drawing the sharp sting from pain, The heart of the old man grew young, as it drank the sweet musical strain. Again at the altar he stands, with Francesca the fair at his side, As the bells ring a quick peal of gladness, to welcome some happy young bride. 'Tis true, when the death bells are tolling, the wounds of his heart bleed anew, When he thinks of his old loving mother, and the darlings that destiny slew;
139 But the tower in whose shade they are sleeping seems the emblem of hope and of love,-- There is silence and death at its base, but there's life in the belfry above. Was it the sound of his bells, as they swung in the purified air, That drove from the bosom of Paolo the dark-wing`ed demons of care? Was it their magical tone that for many a shadowless day (So faith once believed) swept the clouds and the black-boding tempests away? Ah! never may Fate with their music a harsh-grating dissonance blend! Sure an evening so calm and so bright will glide peacefully on to the end. Sure the course of his life, to its close, like his own native river must be, Flowing on through the valley of flowers to its home in the bright summer sea! PART III.--VICISSITUDE AND REST. O Erin! thou broad-spreading valley--thou well-watered land of fresh streams, When I gaze on thy hills greenly sloping, where the light of such loveliness beams, When I rest by the rim of thy fountains, or stray where thy streams disembogue, Then I think that the fairies have brought me to dwell in the bright Tir-na-n-oge.[96] But when on the face of thy children I look, and behold the big tears Still stream down their grief-eaten channels, which widen and deepen with years, I fear that some dark blight for ever will fall on thy harvests of peace, And that, like thy lakes and thy rivers, thy sorrows must ever increase.[97] O land! which the heavens made for joy, but where wretchedness buildeth its throne-- O prodigal spendthrift of sorrow! and hast thou not heirs of thine own? Thus to lavish thy sons' only portion, and bring one sad claimant the
- 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 and 116: 115 Sweetly the rising moonbeams pl
- Page 117 and 118: 117 To Desmond of the flowing strea
- 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: 137 And are bless'd in the name of
- 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
- Page 167 and 168: 167 We must spend the hour that fli
- Page 169 and 170: 169 The last great champion of the
- Page 171 and 172: 171 To be hushed, to be whipt, Its
- Page 173 and 174: 173 March 11th, 1856. 107. It is st
- Page 175 and 176: 175 A glorious wreath my happy hand
- Page 177 and 178: 177 Thine emerald robes are held fo
- Page 179 and 180: 179 Let us seek the wandering May,
- Page 181 and 182: 181 The wing`ed flame to the rosebu
- Page 183 and 184: 183 Of the life that follows this,
- Page 185 and 186: 185 Is with the flowers the time of
- Page 187 and 188: 187 Or following its devious course
139<br />
But the tower in whose shade they are sleeping seems the emblem of hope<br />
and of love,--<br />
There is silence and death at its base, but there's life in the belfry<br />
above.<br />
Was it the sound of his bells, as they swung in the purified air,<br />
That drove from the bosom of Paolo the dark-wing`ed demons of care?<br />
Was it their magical tone that for many a shadowless day<br />
(So faith once believed) swept the clouds and the black-boding tempests<br />
away?<br />
Ah! never may Fate with their music a harsh-grating dissonance blend!<br />
Sure an evening so calm and so bright will glide peacefully on to the<br />
end.<br />
Sure the course of his life, to its close, like his own native river<br />
must be,<br />
Flowing on through the valley of flowers to its home in the bright<br />
summer sea!<br />
PART III.--VICISSITUDE AND REST.<br />
O Erin! thou broad-spreading valley--thou well-watered land of fresh<br />
streams,<br />
When I gaze on thy hills greenly sloping, where the light of such<br />
loveliness beams,<br />
When I rest by the rim of thy fountains, or stray where thy streams<br />
disembogue,<br />
Then I think that the fairies have brought me to dwell in the bright<br />
Tir-na-n-oge.[96]<br />
But when on the face of thy children I look, and behold the big tears<br />
Still stream down their grief-eaten channels, which widen and deepen<br />
with years,<br />
I fear that some dark blight for ever will fall on thy harvests of<br />
peace,<br />
And that, like thy lakes and thy rivers, thy sorrows must ever<br />
increase.[97]<br />
O land! which the heavens made for joy, but where wretchedness buildeth<br />
its throne--<br />
O prodigal spendthrift of sorrow! and hast thou not heirs of thine own?<br />
Thus to lavish thy sons' only portion, and bring one sad claimant the
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