Poems MacCarthy, Florence Denis
Poems MacCarthy, Florence Denis Poems MacCarthy, Florence Denis
274 Placed on thy son's proud heart above The red rose or the fleur-de-lis? Yes, from these heights the waters beat, I vow to press thy cheek once more, And lie for ever at thy feet, O shamrock of the Irish shore! Boulogne-sur-Mer, March 17, 1865. ITALIAN MYRTLES. [Suggested by seeing for the first time fire-flies in the myrtle hedges at Spezzia.] By many a soft Ligurian bay The myrtles glisten green and bright, Gleam with their flowers of snow by day, And glow with fire-flies through the night, And yet, despite the cold and heat, Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet. There is an island in the West, Where living myrtles bloom and blow, Hearts where the fire-fly Love my rest Within a paradise of snow-- Which yet, despite the cold and heat, Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet. Deep in that gentle breast of thine-- Like fire and snow within the pearl-- Let purity and love combine, O warm, pure-hearted Irish girl! And in the cold and in the heat Be ever fresh, and pure, and sweet. Thy bosom bears as pure a snow As e'er Italia's bowers can boast, And though no fire-fly lends its glow-- As on the soft Ligurian coast--
275 'Tis warmed by an internal heat Which ever keeps it pure and sweet. The fire-flies fade on misty eves-- The inner fires alone endure; Like rain that wets the leaves, Thy very sorrows keep thee pure-- They temper a too ardent heat-- And keep thee ever pure and sweet. La Spezzia, 1862. THE IRISH EMIGRANT'S MOTHER. "Oh! come, my mother, come away, across the sea-green water; Oh! come with me, and come with him, the husband of thy daughter; Oh! come with us, and come with them, the sister and the brother, Who, prattling climb thy ag'ed knees, and call thy daughter--mother. "Oh come, and leave this land of death--this isle of desolation-- This speck upon the sunbright face of God's sublime creation, Since now o'er all our fatal stars the most malign hath risen, When Labour seeks the poorhouse, and Innocence the prison. "'Tis true, o'er all the sun-brown fields the husky wheat is bending; 'Tis true, God's blessed hand at last a better time is sending; 'Tis true the island's aged face looks happier and younger, But in the best of days we've known the sickness and the hunger. "When health breathed out in every breeze, too oft we've known the fever-- Too oft, my mother, have we felt the hand of the bereaver: Too well remember many a time the mournful task that brought him, When freshness fanned the summer air, and cooled the glow of autumn. "But then the trial, though severe, still testified our patience, We bowed with mingled hope and fear to God's wise dispensations; We felt the gloomiest time was both a promise and a warning, Just as the darkest hour of night is herald of the morning.
- Page 223 and 224: 223 And grateful hearts invoked a b
- Page 225 and 226: 225 He slept by the soft Ligurian S
- Page 227 and 228: 227 In words though weak, in hues t
- Page 229 and 230: 229 The Homer of the West. He sings
- Page 231 and 232: 231 'Twas thus he sang, And while t
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- Page 235 and 236: 235 The wit and song, the name and
- Page 237 and 238: 237 In visiting some bower, She sca
- Page 239 and 240: 239 'Tis Love, methought, blind Lov
- Page 241 and 242: 241 Thou by my side, fair vision, u
- Page 243 and 244: 243 Where scarce a flower that now
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- Page 247 and 248: 247 And rob the heavens of stars fo
- Page 249 and 250: 249 What without me were all the po
- Page 251 and 252: 251 RECOLLECTIONS. Ah! summer time,
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- Page 255 and 256: 255 DOLORES. The moon of my soul is
- Page 257 and 258: 257 Of thy young heart's fond ambit
- Page 259 and 260: 259 'Tis Baiae, by a softer blue! G
- Page 261 and 262: 261 The songs melodious, which--a n
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- Page 265 and 266: 265 And the ivy clothes the wall, T
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- Page 269 and 270: 269 DARRYNANE. [Written in 1844, af
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275<br />
'Tis warmed by an internal heat<br />
Which ever keeps it pure and sweet.<br />
The fire-flies fade on misty eves--<br />
The inner fires alone endure;<br />
Like rain that wets the leaves,<br />
Thy very sorrows keep thee pure--<br />
They temper a too ardent heat--<br />
And keep thee ever pure and sweet.<br />
La Spezzia, 1862.<br />
THE IRISH EMIGRANT'S MOTHER.<br />
"Oh! come, my mother, come away, across the sea-green water;<br />
Oh! come with me, and come with him, the husband of thy daughter;<br />
Oh! come with us, and come with them, the sister and the brother,<br />
Who, prattling climb thy ag'ed knees, and call thy daughter--mother.<br />
"Oh come, and leave this land of death--this isle of desolation--<br />
This speck upon the sunbright face of God's sublime creation,<br />
Since now o'er all our fatal stars the most malign hath risen,<br />
When Labour seeks the poorhouse, and Innocence the prison.<br />
"'Tis true, o'er all the sun-brown fields the husky wheat is bending;<br />
'Tis true, God's blessed hand at last a better time is sending;<br />
'Tis true the island's aged face looks happier and younger,<br />
But in the best of days we've known the sickness and the hunger.<br />
"When health breathed out in every breeze, too oft we've known the<br />
fever--<br />
Too oft, my mother, have we felt the hand of the bereaver:<br />
Too well remember many a time the mournful task that brought him,<br />
When freshness fanned the summer air, and cooled the glow of autumn.<br />
"But then the trial, though severe, still testified our patience,<br />
We bowed with mingled hope and fear to God's wise dispensations;<br />
We felt the gloomiest time was both a promise and a warning,<br />
Just as the darkest hour of night is herald of the morning.