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قراءة كتاب Sea Spray: Verses and Translations
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اللغة: English
Sea Spray: Verses and Translations
الصفحة رقم: 4
live
With those that Davis’ clarion blew,
But all the best we have to give
To Mother Erinn and to you.
[2] “Poems and Ballads of Young Ireland, 1888.”
Clear as air, the western waters
evermore their sweet unchanging song
Murmur in their stony channels
round O’Conor’s sepulchre in Cong.
evermore their sweet unchanging song
Murmur in their stony channels
round O’Conor’s sepulchre in Cong.
Crownless, hopeless, here he lingered;
felt the years go by him like a dream,
Heard the far-off roar of conquest
murmur faintly like the singing stream.
felt the years go by him like a dream,
Heard the far-off roar of conquest
murmur faintly like the singing stream.
Here he died, and here they tomb’d him,
men of Fechin, chanting round his grave.
Did they know, ah, did they know it,
what they buried by the babbling wave?
men of Fechin, chanting round his grave.
Did they know, ah, did they know it,
what they buried by the babbling wave?
Now above the sleep of Rury
holy things and great have passed away;
Stone by stone the stately Abbey
falls and fades in passionless decay.
holy things and great have passed away;
Stone by stone the stately Abbey
falls and fades in passionless decay.
Darkly grows the quiet ivy,
pale the broken arches glimmer through;
Dark upon the cloister-garden
dreams the shadow of the ancient yew.
pale the broken arches glimmer through;
Dark upon the cloister-garden
dreams the shadow of the ancient yew.
Through the roofless aisles the verdure
flows, the meadow-sweet and foxglove bloom;
Earth, the mother and consoler,
winds soft arms about the lonely tomb.
flows, the meadow-sweet and foxglove bloom;
Earth, the mother and consoler,
winds soft arms about the lonely tomb.
Peace and holy gloom possess him,
last of Gaelic monarchs of the Gael,
Slumbering by the young, eternal
river-voices of the western vale.
last of Gaelic monarchs of the Gael,
Slumbering by the young, eternal
river-voices of the western vale.
Ruraidh O’Conchobhar, last High King of Ireland, spent the closing fifteen years of his life in the monastery of St. Fechin at Cong, Co. Mayo. His grave is still shown in that most beautiful and pathetic of Irish ruins. Some accounts have it that his remains were afterwards transferred to Clonmacnois by the Shannon.
There are veils that lift, there are bars that fall,
There are lights that beckon and winds that call—
Goodbye!
There are hurrying feet, and we dare not wait;
For the hour is on us, the hour of Fate,
The circling hour of the flaming Gate—
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!
There are lights that beckon and winds that call—
Goodbye!
There are hurrying feet, and we dare not wait;
For the hour is on us, the hour of Fate,
The circling hour of the flaming Gate—
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!
Fair, fair they shine through the burning zone,
Those rainbow gleams of a world unknown—
Goodbye!
And oh, to follow, to seek, to dare,
When step by step in the evening air
Floats down to meet us the cloudy stair—
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!
Those rainbow gleams of a world unknown—
Goodbye!
And oh, to follow, to seek, to dare,
When step by step in the evening air
Floats down to meet us the cloudy stair—
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!
The cloudy stair of the Brig o’ Dread
Is the dizzy path that our feet must tread—
Goodbye!
O all ye children of Nights and Days
That gather and wonder and stand at gaze,
And wheeling stars in your lonely ways—
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!
Is the dizzy path that our feet must tread—
Goodbye!
O all ye children of Nights and Days
That gather and wonder and stand at gaze,
And wheeling stars in your lonely ways—
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!
The music calls and the Gates unclose,
Onward and upward the wild way goes—
Goodbye!
We die in the bliss of a great new birth.
O fading phantoms of pain and mirth,
O fading loves of the old green Earth,
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!
Onward and upward the wild way goes—
Goodbye!
We die in the bliss of a great new birth.
O fading phantoms of pain and mirth,
O fading loves of the old green Earth,
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!
Into the West, where o’er the wide Atlantic
The lights of sunset gleam,
From its high sources in the heart of Erinn
Flows the great stream.
The lights of sunset gleam,
From its high sources in the heart of Erinn
Flows the great stream.
Yet back in stormy cloud or viewless vapour
The wandering waters come,
And faithfully across the trackless heaven
Find their old home.
The wandering waters come,
And faithfully across the trackless heaven
Find their old home.
But ah, the tide of life that flows unceasing
Into the luring West
Returns no more, to swell with kindlier fulness
The Mother’s breast!
Into the luring West
Returns no more, to swell with kindlier fulness
The Mother’s breast!
On reading a Dublin newspaper in the train,
April 16, 1904
Night falls: the emerald pastures turn to grey,
Young stars appear, a mystic beauty thrills
The dusk above the line of far-off hills,
Where late the splendours of the end of Day,
Sad and majestic, flamed and passed away.
In dust and thunder speeding to the Sea
The train flies on, yet eve’s serenity,
Great and untroubled, holds the world in sway.
Young stars appear, a mystic beauty thrills
The dusk above the line of far-off hills,
Where late the splendours of the end of Day,
Sad and majestic, flamed and passed away.
In dust and thunder speeding to the Sea
The train flies on, yet eve’s serenity,
Great and untroubled, holds the world in sway.
Then, turning from that realm of lofty life,
Again my eyes upon the printed page
Fall, and again I hear but cries of rage,
Brawlers and bigots, every word a knife;
While Thought, the fair land’s fairest heritage,
Lies drowned in clamour of ignoble strife.
Again my eyes upon the printed page
Fall, and again I hear but cries of rage,
Brawlers and bigots, every word a knife;
While Thought, the fair land’s fairest heritage,
Lies drowned in clamour of ignoble strife.
We’ve cleared the station—free at last
From darkness, din, and worry;
By red-brick villas, shady roads
And garden-plots we hurry.
And now green miles of pasture-land
Flit by, with budding hedges,
From darkness, din, and worry;
By red-brick villas, shady roads
And garden-plots we hurry.
And now green miles of pasture-land
Flit by, with budding hedges,