Death

No more the summer floweret charms,
The leaves will soon be sere,
And Autumn folds his jewelled arms
Around the dying year;
So, ere the waning seasons claim
Our leafless groves awhile,
With golden wine and glowing flame
We 'll crown our lonely isle.

Once more the merry voices sound
Within the antlered hall,
And long and loud the baying hounds
Return the hunter's call;
And through the woods, and o'er the hill,
And far along the bay,
The driver's horn is sounding shrill, -
Up, sportsmen, and away!

No bars of steel or walls of stone
Our little empire bound,
But, circling with his azure zone,
The sea runs foaming round;
The whitening wave, the purpled skies,
The blue and lifted shore,
Braid with their dim and blending dyes...

Apart sweet women (for whom Heaven be blessed),
Comrades, you cannot think how thin and blue
Look the leftovers of mankind that rest,
Now that the cream has been skimmed off in you.
War has its horrors, but has this of good -
That its sure processes sort out and bind
Brave hearts in one intrepid brotherhood
And leave the shams and imbeciles behind.
Now turn we joyful to the great attacks,
Not only that we face in a fair field
Our valiant foe and all his deadly tools,
But also that we turn disdainful backs
On that poor world we scorn yet die to shield -
That world of cowards, hypocrites, and fools.

During the Revolutionary war, a young American lady was murdered, while dressed in her bridal robe, by a party of Indians, sent by her betrothed to conduct her to the village where he was encamped. After the deed was done, they carried her long hair to her lover, who, urged by a frantic despair, hurried to the spot to assure himself of the truth of the tale, and shortly after threw himself, in battle, on the swords of his countrymen. After this event, the Indians were never successful in their warfare, the spectre of their victim presenting itself continually between them and the enemy.


The worn bird of Freedom had furled o'er our land
The shattered wings, pierced by the despot's rude hand,
And stout hearts were vowing, 'mid havoc and strife,
To Liberty, fortune, fame, honor, and life.

The red li...

Shame on this faithless heart! that could allow
Such transport, though but for a moment's space;
Not while, to aid the spirit of the place
The crescent moon clove with its glittering prow
The clouds, or night-bird sang from shady bough;
But in plain daylight: She, too, at my side,
Who, with her heart's experience satisfied,
Maintains inviolate its slightest vow!
Sweet Fancy! other gifts must I receive;
Proofs of a higher sovereignty I claim;
Take from 'her' brow the withering flowers of eve,
And to that brow life's morning wreath restore;
Let 'her' be comprehended in the frame
Of these illusions, or they please no more.

Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old,
This knight so bold,
And o'er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow,
"Shadow," said he,
"Where can it be,
This land of Eldorado?"

"Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied,
"If you seek for Eldorado!"

Through Thy clear spaces, Lord, of old,
Formless and void the dead earth rolled;
Deaf to Thy heaven's sweet music, blind
To the great lights which o'er it shined;
No sound, no ray, no warmth, no breath,
A dumb despair, a wandering death.

To that dark, weltering horror came
Thy spirit, like a subtle flame,
A breath of life electrical,
Awakening and transforming all,
Till beat and thrilled in every part
The pulses of a living heart.

Then knew their bounds the land and sea;
Then smiled the bloom of mead and tree;
From flower to moth, from beast to man,
The quick creative impulse ran;
And earth, with life from thee renewed,
Was in thy holy eyesight good.

As lost and void, as dark and cold
And formless as that earth of old;
A w...

Oft have I brooded on defeat and pain,
The pathos of the stupid, stumbling throng.
These I ignore to-day and only long
To pour my soul forth in one trumpet strain,
One clear, grief-shattering, triumphant song,
For all the victories of man's high endeavor,
Palm-bearing, laureled deeds that live forever,
The splendor clothing him whose will is strong.
Hast thou beheld the deep, glad eyes of one
Who has persisted and achieved?    Rejoice!
On naught diviner shines the all-seeing sun.
Salute him with free heart and choral voice,
'Midst flippant, feeble crowds of spectres wan,
The bold, significant, successful man.

        I scorn the man who builds his fame
        On ruins of another's name:
        As prudes, who prudishly declare
        They by a sister scandaled are;
        As scribblers, covetous of praise,
        By slandering, snatch themselves the bays;
        Beauties and bards, alike, are prone
        To snatch at honours not their own.
        As Lesbia listens, all the whister,
        To hear some scandal of a sister.
        How can soft souls, which sigh for sueings,
        Rejoice at one another's ruins?

        As, in the merry month of May,
        A bard enjoyed the break of day,
        And quaffed the fragrant scents ascending,
        He plucked a blossomed rose, transcending
        All blossoms else; it moved his tongue
        T...

Somewhere is music from the linnets' bills,
And thro' the sunny flowers the bee-wings drone,
And white bells of convolvulus on hills
Of quiet May make silent ringing, blown
Hither and thither by the wind of showers,
And somewhere all the wandering birds have flown;
And the brown breath of Autumn chills the flowers.

But where are all the loves of long ago?
O little twilight ship blown up the tide,
Where are the faces laughing in the glow
Of morning years, the lost ones scattered wide.
Give me your hand, O brother, let us go
Crying about the dark for those who died.

    We're at the world's top now.    The hills around
        Stand proud in order with the valleys deep,
    The hills with pastures drest, with tall trees crowned,
        And the low valleys dipt in sunny sleep.
    A sound brims all the country up, a noise
        Of wheels upon the road and labouring bees
    And trodden heather, mixing with the voice
        Of small lost winds that die among the trees.
    And we are prone beneath the flooding sun,
        So drenched, so soaked in the unceasing light,
    That colours, sounds and your close presence are one,
        A texture woven up of all delight,
    Whose shining threads my hands may not undo,
    Yet one thread runs the whole bright garment through.

On pay-day nights, neck-full with beer,
Old soldiers stumbling homeward here,
Homeward (still dazzled by the spark
Love kindled in some alley dark)
Young soldiers mooning in slow thought,
Start suddenly, turn about, are caught
By a dancing sound, merry as a grig,
Tom Taylor's piccolo playing jig.
Never was blown from human cheeks
Music like this, that calls and speaks
Till sots and lovers from one string
Dangle and dance in the same ring.
Tom, of your piping I've heard said
And seen, that you can rouse the dead,
Dead-drunken men awash who lie
In stinking gutters hear your cry,
I've seen them twitch, draw breath, grope, sigh,
Heave up, sway, stand; grotesquely then
You set them dancing, these dead men.
They stamp and prance with sobbing breath,

The rude wind is singing
The dirge of the music dead;
The cold worms are clinging
Where kisses were lately fed.

By the hearth-stone
She sits alone,
    The long night bearing:
With eyes that gleam
Into the dream
    Of the firelight staring.

Low and more low
The dying glow
    Burns in the embers;
She nothing heeds
And nothing needs---
    Only remembers.

Soul of the leaping flame;
Heart of the scarlet fire,
Spirit that hath for name
Only the name - Desire!

Subtle art thou and strong;
Glowing in sunlit skies;
Sparkling in wine and song;
Shining in women's eyes;

Gleaming on shores of Sleep
Moon of the wild dream-clan
Burning within the deep
Passionate heart of Man.

Spirit we can but name,
Essence of Forms that seem,
Odour of violet flame,
Weaver of Thought and Dream.

Laught of the World's great Heart,
Who shall thy rune recote?
Child of the gods thou art,
Offspring of Day and Night.

Lord of the Rainbow ealm,
Many a shape hast thou
Glory with laurelled helm;
Love with the myrtled brow;

Sanctity, robed in white;
Liberty, proud and cal...

O happy spot! how much the sight of thee
Wakes the endearments of my infancy:
The very trees, through which the wild-winds sigh,
Seem whispering now some joys of youth gone by;
And each spot round, so sacred to my sight,
Hints at some former moment of delight.
Each object there still warmly seems to claim
Tender remembrance of some childish game;
Still on the slabs, before yon door that lie,
The top seems spinning in fond memory's eye;
And fancy's echo still yon field resounds
With noise of blind-man's buff, and fox-and-hounds.
Ah, as left rotting 'neath its mossy crown
The pile stands sacred o'er some past renown,
So thou, dear spot, though doubtless but to me,
Art sacred from the joys possess'd in thee,
That rose, and shone, and set--a sun's sojourn;
As...

    A voice peals in this end of night
            A phrase of notes resembling stars,
    Single and spiritual notes of light.
            What call they at my window-bars?
                The South, the past, the day to be,
                An ancient infelicity.

    Darkling, deliberate, what sings
            This wonderful one, alone, at peace?
    What wilder things than song, what things
            Sweeter than youth, clearer than Greece,
                Dearer than Italy, untold
                Delight, and freshness centuries old?

    And first first-loves, a multitude,
            The exaltation of their pain;
    Ancestral childhood long renewed;
            And midnights of invisible rain;
                And gardens, gardens, night and...

Pardon, old fathers, if you still remain
Somewhere in ear-shot for the story's end,
Old Dublin merchant "free of the ten and four"
Or trading out of Galway into Spain;
Old country scholar, Robert Emmet's friend,
A hundred-year-old memory to the poor;
Merchant and scholar who have left me blood
That has not passed through any huckster's loin,
Soldiers that gave, whatever die was cast:
A Butler or an Armstrong that withstood
Beside the brackish waters of the Boyne
James and his Irish when the Dutchman crossed;
Old merchant skipper that leaped overboard
After a ragged hat in Biscay Bay;
You most of all, silent and fierce old man,
Because the daily spectacle that stirred
My fancy, and set my boyish lips to say,
"Only the wasteful virtues earn the sun";
P...

"Be Still, and know that I am God!"


Be silent, Soul! - though dark thy path and dreary,
    And wild with storm, yet what is that to thee?
Though thou art faint, and desolate, and weary,
    Thy God hath willed thus, - so let it be!
Murmurs the mountain oak when storms assail it,
    And warring tempests wildly shake its form?
Firmer within the earth its root it striketh,
    And gathers strength and vigor from the storm.

Be silent, Soul! - the hand of God is on thee!
    And, as a skillful gard'ner, from the vine
Doth lop away each worthless branch and barren,
    So He would lop each fruitless bough of thine.
Ah! thou art earth-bound, prone, and lowly creeping,
    clinging to things too frail to be thy stay;
Jesus, with watchful care His vineya...