Sadness

What large, dark hands are those at the window
Lifted, grasping in the yellow light
Which makes its way through the curtain web
        At my heart to-night?

Ah, only the leaves! So leave me at rest,
In the west I see a redness come
Over the evening's burning breast -
        For now the pain is numb.

The woodbine creeps abroad
Calling low to her lover:
    The sunlit flirt who all the day
    Has poised above her lips in play
    And stolen kisses, shallow and gay
    Of dalliance, now has gone away
    - She woos the moth with her sweet, low word,
And when above her his broad wings hover
Then her bright breast she will uncover
And yield her honey-drop to her lover.

Into the yellow, evening glow
Saunters a man from the farm be...

Sleep a little, a little little, for there is nothing at all to fear, Diarmuid grandson of Duibhne; sleep here soundly, Diarmuid to whom I have given my love. It is I will keep watch for you, grandchild of shapely Duibhne; sleep a little, a blessing on you, beside the well of the strong field; my lamb from above the lake, from the banks of the strong streams.

Let your sleep be like the sleep in the North of fair comely Fionnchadh of Ess Ruadh, the time he took Slaine with bravery as we think, in spite of Failbhe of the Hard Head.

Let your sleep be like the sleep in the West of Aine daughter of Galian, the time she went on a journey in the night with Dubhthach from Dorinis, by the light of torches.

Let your sleep be like the sleep in the East of Deaghadh the proud, the brave fighter, the time he took Coinch...

The age is too diffusive.    Time and Force
    Are frittered out and bring no satisfaction.
    The way seems lost to straight determined action.
    Like shooting stars that zig-zag from their course
    We wander from our orbit's pathway; spoil
The role we're fitted for, to fail in twenty.
Bring empty measures, that were shaped for plenty,
    At last as guerdon for a life of toil.
There's lack of greatness in this generation
    Because no more man centres on one thought.
    We know this truth, and yet we heed it not:
The secret of success is Concentration.

    What can lambkins do
    All the keen night through?
Nestle by their woolly mother
    The careful ewe.

    What can nestlings do
    In the nightly dew?
Sleep beneath their mother's wing
    Till day breaks anew.

    If in a field or tree
    There might only be
Such a warm soft sleeping-place
    Found for me!

A BUNCH of Christmas Roses, dear,
    To greet my fairest child,
I plucked them in my garden where
    The drifting snow lay piled.

I cannot bring thee violets dear,
    Or cowslips growing wild,
Or daisy chain for thee to wear,
    For thee to wear, my child.

For all the grassy meadows near
    Are clad with snow, my child;
Through all the days of winter drear
    No ray of sun has smiled.

I plucked this bunch of verses, dear,
    From out my garden wild,
I plucked them in the winter drear
    For you, my fairest child,
Your wet and wintry hours to cheer,
    They're Christmas Roses, child.

The Greatest Day that ever dawned,--
It was a Winter's Morn.

The Finest Temple ever built
Was a Shed where a Babe was born.

The Sweetest Robes by woman wrought
Were the Swaths by the Baby worn.

And the Fairest Hair the world has seen,
--Those Locks that were never shorn.

The Noblest Crown man ever wore,--
It was the Plaited Thorn.

The Grandest Death man ever died,--
It was the Death of Scorn.

The Sorest Grief by woman known
Was the Mother-Maid's forlorn.

The Deepest Sorrows e'er endured
Were by The Outcast borne.

The Truest Heart the world e'er broke
Was the Heart by man's sins torn.

When wit and genius meet their doom
In all-devouring flame,
They tell us of the fate of Rome,
And bid us fear the same.


O’er Murray’s loss the muses wept,
They felt the rude alarm,
Yet bless’d the guardian care that kept
His sacred head from harm.


There Memory, like the bee that’s fed
From Flora’s balmy store,
The quintessence of all he read
Had treasured up before.


The lawless herd, with fury blind,
Have done him cruel wrong;
The flowers are gone—but still we find
The honey on his tongue.

We, three men of commerce,
Striving wealth to raise,
See but little promise
In the coming days;
Though our hearts are brittle,
Hardened near to stone,
We can think a little
Of the seasons flown.

Lily days and rose days:
Youthful days so bright;
We were fools in those days,
Let’s be fools to-night.

We, three men of commerce,
Men of business we,
Gave but little promise
Of what we would be
When we wandered urchins,
Foes of law and rule,
Fearing only birchings
And the village school.

Lily days and rose days,
Boyhood’s days so bright;
We were fools in those days,
Let’s be fools to-night.

We, three men of commerce,
Men of business we,
Gave but little promise
Of ability
When we lived ...

Spirit of eternal motion!
Ruler of the stormy ocean,
Lifter of the restless waves,
Rider of the blast that raves
Hoarsely through yon lofty oak,
Bending to thy mystic stroke;
Man from age to age has sought
Thy secret--but it baffles thought!

    Agent of the Deity!
Offspring of eternity,
Guider of the steeds of time
Along the starry track sublime,
Founder of each wondrous art,
Mover of the human heart;
Since the world's primeval day
All nature has confessed thy sway.

    They who strive thy laws to find
Might as well arrest the wind,
Measure out the drops of rain,
Count the sands which bound the main,
Quell the earthquake's sullen shock,
Chain the eagle to the rock,
Bid the sun his heat assuage,
The mountain torre...

I stood beside a hill
Smooth with new-laid snow,
A single star looked out
From the cold evening glow.

There was no other creature
That saw what I could see
I stood and watched the evening star
As long as it watched me.

"Be with us by day, by night,
    O lover, O friend;
Hold before us thy light
    Unto the end!

"See, all these children of ours
    Starved and ill-clad.
Speak to thy heart's lily-flowers,
    And make them glad!

"Our wives and daughters are here,
    Knowing wrong and shame's touch
Bid them be of good cheer
    Who have loved much.

"And we, we are robbed and oppressed,
    Even as thine were.
Tell us of comfort and rest,
    Banish despair!

"Be with us by day, by night,
    O lover, O friend;
Hold before us thy light
    Unto the end!"

In the days that are gone, by this sweet-flowing water,
    Two lovers reclined in the shade of a tree;
She was the mountain-king's rosy-lipped daughter,
    The brave warrior-chief of the valley was he.
Then all things around them, below and above,
Were basking as now in the sunshine of love--
    In the days that are gone, by this sweet-flowing stream.

In the days that are gone, they were laid 'neath the willow,
    The maid in her beauty, the youth in his pride;
Both slain by the foeman who crossed the dark billow,
    And stole the broad lands where their children reside;
Whose fathers, when dying, in fear looked above,
And trembled to think of that chief and his love,
    In the days that are gone, by this sweet flowing stream.

Some fairy spirit with his wand,
    I think, has hovered o'er the dell,
And spread this film upon the pond,
    And touched it with this drowsy spell.

For here the musing soul is merged
    In moods no other scene can bring,
And sweeter seems the air when scourged
    With wandering wild-bees' murmuring.

One ripple streaks the little lake,
    Sharp purple-blue; the birches, thin
And silvery, crowd the edge, yet break
    To let a straying sunbeam in.

How came we through the yielding wood,
    That day, to this sweet-rustling shore?
Oh, there together while we stood,
    A butterfly was wafted o'er,

In sleepy light; and even now
    His glimmering beauty doth return
Upon me, when the soft winds blow,
    And lilies towar...

Strange that the city thoroughfare,
Noisy and bustling all the day,
Should with the night renounce its care,
And lend itself to children's play!

Oh, girls are girls, and boys are boys,
And have been so since Abel's birth,
And shall be so till dolls and toys
Are with the children swept from earth.

The self-same sport that crowns the day
Of many a Syrian shepherd's son,
Beguiles the little lads at play
By night in stately Babylon.

I hear their voices in the street,
Yet 't is so different now from then!
Come, brother! from your winding-sheet,
And let us two be boys again!

    *        *        *        *        *        *

They come!--Be firm--in silence rally!
The long-knives our retreat have found!
Hark!--their tramp is in the valley,
And they hem the forest round!
The burdened boughs with pale scouts quiver,
The echoing hills tumultuous ring,
While across the eddying river
Their barks, like foaming war-steeds, spring!
The blood-hounds darken land and water;
They come--like buffaloes for slaughter!

See their glittering ranks advancing,
See upon the free winds dancing
Pennon proud and gaudy plume.
The strangers come in evil hour,
In pomp, and panoply, and power!
But, while upon our tribes they lower,
Think they our manly hearts will cower
To meet a warrior's doom?

Right they forget while strengt...

While fauour fed my hope, delight with hope was brought,
Thought waited on delight, and speech did follow thought;
Then grew my tongue and pen records vnto thy glory,
I thought all words were lost that were not spent of thee,
I thought each place was darke but where thy lights would be,
And all eares worse than deaf that heard not out thy storie.

I said thou wert most faire, and so indeed thou art;
I said thou wert most sweet, sweet poison to my heart;
I said my soule was thine, O that I then had lyed;
I said thine eyes were starres, thy breast the milken way,
Thy fingers Cupids shafts, thy voyce the angels lay:
And all I said so well, as no man it denied.

But now that hope is lost, vnkindnesse kils delight;
Yet thought and speech do liue, though metamorphos'd qu...

I heard this day, as I may no more,
The world's heart throb at my workshop door.
The sun was keen, and the day was still;
The township drowsed in, a haze of heat.
A stir far off on the sleepy hill,
The measured beat of their buoyant feet,
And the lilt and thrum
Of a little drum,
The song they sang in a cadence low,
The piping note of a piccolo.

The township woke, and the doors flew wide;
The women trotted their boys beside.
Across the bridge on a single heel
The soldiers came in a golden glow,
With throb of song and the chink of steel,
The gallant crow of the piccolo.
Good and brown they were,
And their arms swung bare.
Their fine young faces revived in me
A boyhood's vision of chivalry.

The lean, hard regiment tramping down,

Weep, weep, weep and weep,
    For pauper, dolt, and slave!
Hark! from wasted moor and fen,
Feverous alley, stifling den,
Swells the wail of Saxon men -
    Work! or the grave!

Down, down, down and down,
    With idler, knave, and tyrant!
Why for sluggards cark and moil?
He that will not live by toil
Has no right on English soil!
    God's word's our warrant!

Up, up, up and up!
    Face your game and play it!
The night is past, behold the sun!
The idols fall, the lie is done!
The Judge is set, the doom begun!
    Who shall stay it?

On Torridge, May 1849.