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قراءة كتاب Sixteen Poems
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 3
at voyaging the sea.
My loving friends I'll bear in mind,
and often fondly turn
To think of Belashanny,
and the winding banks of Erne.
If ever I'm a money'd man,
I mean, please God, to cast
My golden anchor in the place
where youthful years were pass'd;
Though heads that now are black and brown
must meanwhile gather gray,
New faces rise by every hearth,
and old ones drop away—
Yet dearer still that Irish hill
than all the world beside;
It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam
through lands and waters wide.
And if the Lord allows me,
I surely will return
To my native Belashanny,
and the winding banks of Erne.
I mean, please God, to cast
My golden anchor in the place
where youthful years were pass'd;
Though heads that now are black and brown
must meanwhile gather gray,
New faces rise by every hearth,
and old ones drop away—
Yet dearer still that Irish hill
than all the world beside;
It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam
through lands and waters wide.
And if the Lord allows me,
I surely will return
To my native Belashanny,
and the winding banks of Erne.
ABBEY ASAROE
Gray, gray is Abbey Asaroe,
by Belashanny town,
It has neither door nor window,
the walls are broken down;
The carven-stones lie scatter'd
in briar and nettle-bed;
The only feet are those that come
at burial of the dead.
A little rocky rivulet
runs murmuring to the tide,
Singing a song of ancient days,
in sorrow, not in pride;
The boortree and the lightsome ash
across the portal grow,
And heaven itself is now the roof
of Abbey Asaroe.
by Belashanny town,
It has neither door nor window,
the walls are broken down;
The carven-stones lie scatter'd
in briar and nettle-bed;
The only feet are those that come
at burial of the dead.
A little rocky rivulet
runs murmuring to the tide,
Singing a song of ancient days,
in sorrow, not in pride;
The boortree and the lightsome ash
across the portal grow,
And heaven itself is now the roof
of Abbey Asaroe.
It looks beyond the harbour-stream
to Gulban mountain blue;
It hears the voice of Erna's fall,—
Atlantic breakers too;
High ships go sailing past it;
the sturdy clank of oars
Brings in the salmon-boat to haul
a net upon the shores;
And this way to his home-creek,
when the summer day is done,
Slow sculls the weary fisherman
across the setting sun;
While green with corn is Sheegus Hill,
his cottage white below;
But gray at every season
is Abbey Asaroe.
to Gulban mountain blue;
It hears the voice of Erna's fall,—
Atlantic breakers too;
High ships go sailing past it;
the sturdy clank of oars
Brings in the salmon-boat to haul
a net upon the shores;
And this way to his home-creek,
when the summer day is done,
Slow sculls the weary fisherman
across the setting sun;
While green with corn is Sheegus Hill,
his cottage white below;
But gray at every season
is Abbey Asaroe.
There stood one day a poor old man
above its broken bridge;
He heard no running rivulet,
he saw no mountain-ridge;
He turn'd his back on Sheegus Hill,
and view'd with misty sight
The Abbey walls, the burial-ground
with crosses ghostly white;
Under a weary weight of years
he bow'd upon his staff,
Perusing in the present time
the former's epitaph;
For, gray and wasted like the walls,
a figure full of woe,
This man was of the blood of them
who founded Asaroe.
above its broken bridge;
He heard no running rivulet,
he saw no mountain-ridge;
He turn'd his back on Sheegus Hill,
and view'd with misty sight
The Abbey walls, the burial-ground
with crosses ghostly white;
Under a weary weight of years
he bow'd upon his staff,
Perusing in the present time
the former's epitaph;
For, gray and wasted like the walls,
a figure full of woe,
This man was of the blood of them
who founded Asaroe.
From Derry to Bundrowas Tower,
Tirconnell broad was theirs;
Spearmen and plunder, bards and wine,
and holy abbot's prayers;
With chanting always in the house
which they had builded high
To God and to Saint Bernard,—
where at last they came to die.
At worst, no workhouse grave for him!
the ruins of his race
Shall rest among the ruin'd stones
of this their saintly place.
The fond old man was weeping;
and tremulous and slow
Along the rough and crooked lane
he crept from Asaroe.
Tirconnell broad was theirs;
Spearmen and plunder, bards and wine,
and holy abbot's prayers;
With chanting always in the house
which they had builded high
To God and to Saint Bernard,—
where at last they came to die.
At worst, no workhouse grave for him!
the ruins of his race
Shall rest among the ruin'd stones
of this their saintly place.
The fond old man was weeping;
and tremulous and slow
Along the rough and crooked lane
he crept from Asaroe.
A DREAM
I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night;
I went to the window to see the sight;
All the Dead that ever I knew
Going one by one and two by two.
I went to the window to see the sight;
All the Dead that ever I knew
Going one by one and two by two.
On they pass'd, and on they pass'd;
Townsfellows all, from first to last;
Born in the moonlight of the lane,
Quench'd in the heavy shadow again.
Townsfellows all, from first to last;
Born in the moonlight of the lane,
Quench'd in the heavy shadow again.
Schoolmates, marching as when we play'd
At soldiers once—but now more staid;
Those were the strangest sight to me
Who were drown'd, I knew, in the awful sea.
At soldiers once—but now more staid;
Those were the strangest sight to me
Who were drown'd, I knew, in the awful sea.
Straight and handsome folk; bent and weak, too;
Some that I loved, and gasp'd to speak to;
Some but a day in their churchyard bed;
Some that I had not known were dead.
Some that I loved, and gasp'd to speak to;
Some but a day in their churchyard bed;
Some that I had not known were dead.
A long, long crowd—where each seem'd lonely,
Yet of them all there was one, one only,
Raised a head or look'd my way:
She linger'd a moment—she might not stay.
Yet of them all there was one, one only,
Raised a head or look'd my way:
She linger'd a moment—she might not stay.
How long since I saw that fair pale face!
Ah! Mother dear! might I only place
My head on thy breast, a moment to rest,
While thy hand on my tearful cheek were prest!
Ah! Mother dear! might I only place
My head on thy breast, a moment to rest,
While thy hand on my tearful cheek were prest!
On, on, a moving bridge they made
Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade,
Young and old, women and men;
Many long-forgot, but remember'd then.
Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade,
Young and old, women and men;
Many long-forgot, but remember'd then.
And first there came a bitter laughter;
A sound of tears the moment after;
And then a music so lofty and gay,
That every morning, day by day,
I strive to recall it if I may.
A sound of tears the moment after;
And then a music so lofty and gay,
That every morning, day by day,
I strive to recall it if I may.
THE FAIRIES
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