قراءة كتاب Sprays of Shamrock
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 4
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O a song for Joyce’s Country, and the graves of the mightiest men
That ever had birth in Erin! Will their like e’er come again?
Men of the thews of titans, of the strong, unwavering hand,
Who wrested a meagre guerdon from the breast of this lean land!
That comes in the dusk ere dawning, ere the first bright sunrise beam;
A dream of dolor and vastness, of clouds that are swept and swirled
O’er the desolate wastes and waters of a joy-forsaken world!
[p 14]
BALLAD OF PROTESTANT’S LEAP
It was Sir Frederick Hamilton’s men
Were hungry for the fray,
And it was a son of the bog and fen
Would guide them on their way.
By the good book an oath he took,
This glib and open guide,
And so it was over bent and brook
They needs must up and ride.
They rode them fast, they rode them far,
By day’s last fitful flame,
Until, by the light of the evening star,
To a heathery slope they came.
Then spake the guide, with a glint of pride,
With a catch of his breath spake he,
“Ye may fall, if over the crest ye ride,
On the Irish enemy!
“When I drop my cloak by yon stunted oak,
Do ye ply the lash and spurs,
And there ’ll be no one see another sun
Of the popish worshippers!”
He has crept on foot and hand,
And now with a wave his cloak drops he
As a sign to the waiting band.
Oh, it ’s ride, Sir Frederick Hamilton’s men,
Ye men of ire and brawn,
And it ’s smile, ye son of the bog and fen,
To see them urge swift on!
Did they purge with the sword the Irish camp?
Nay, for the story saith
Through the evening dusk, through the evening damp,
They rode to a tryst with death.
It was over a cliff that was black and sheer
To the vale of fair Glencar
That they plunged with frenzied shrieks of fear
’Neath the eye of the mountain star.
Oh, it was Sir Frederick Hamilton’s men
Set forth to smite and slay,
And it was a son of the bog and fen
That guided them on their way!
[p 16]
ETCHING AT NIGHT
I wandered in the streets of Galway-town,
When night had let her dusky curtains down,
And in a doorway, tall and fair and slight,
Framed by an inner beam of golden light,
Beheld a maiden of madonna face,
Pensive and sad, yet with a nameless grace,
Presage, I thought, of the unfolding years,
That hide some things that are too deep for tears!
[p 17]
THE SPECTRAL ROWERS
What is that shimmering line of white
Gliding under the stark midnight—
Gliding—gliding—gliding—gliding—
Where the river gleams when the moon is bright?
There is never a sound save the night bird’s cry,
And the languid water lapsing by—
Lapsing—lapsing—lapsing—lapsing—
Under the arch of a leaden sky.
’T is the winding Garavogue’s spectral crew,
Bound for the port of dreams-come-true—
Rowing—rowing—rowing—rowing—
With a swinging stroke that is firm and true.
Do they ever reach their bourn? may be;
Yet who can say?—not we!—not we!—
Fading—fading—fading—fading—
Ere morn comes over the hills to the sea.
’T is so with all of the visions of man,
Howe’er he strive and howe’er he plan—
Fleeting—fleeting—fleeting—fleeting—
For life, alas, is a narrow span!
[p 18]
TYRCONNELL
They crowned Tyrconnell
On the rock of Doon;
“Hail! hail!” they said,
To that anointed head,
The henchman all;
They led him to the hall;
“Hail! hail! Tyrconnell!”
How the rafters rang!
Clang! clang!
How the blades out-sprang,
Like shimmering lake-water underneath the moon!
They slew Tyrconnell
On the rock of Doon;
“Traitor!” they said,
Of that anointed head,
The henchmen all
Who haled him from the hall;
“Base, base Tyrconnell!”
How the scabbards rang!—
Clang! clang!
As the blades out-sprang,
Like shimmering lake-water underneath the moon!
[p 19]
THE WAY OF THE CROSS
Where the wild sea-mew flocks and flees,
And neither winds nor skies beguile,
Foam-set amid the Irish seas
Is rugged Skellig Michael isle.
Up its escarpments, rough and grim,
To its bleak summit rimmed with moss,
The monks of old with prayer and hymn
Hewed out the weary “Way of the Cross.”
Gone are these holy toilers—gone;
They rest now in their long repose,
From the red dusk to the red dawn,
’Neath the sea-pinks and tangled rose.
But sorrow bides with us and ill,
And stress and sacrifice and loss,
And we must strive to meet them still
Climbing the weary “Way of the Cross.”
