Sixteen Poems | Page 2

white cascade?from the Harbour to Belleek,?And every pool where fins may rest,?and ivy-shaded creek;?The sloping fields, the lofty rocks,?where ash and holly grow,?The one split yew-tree gazing?on the curving flood below;?The Lough, that winds through islands?under Turaw mountain green;?And Castle Caldwell's stretching woods,?with tranquil bays between;?And Breesie Hill, and many a pond?among the heath and fern,--?For I must say adieu--adieu?to the winding banks of Erne!
The thrush will call through Camlin groves?the live-long summer day;?The waters run by mossy cliff,?and banks with wild flowers gay;?The girls will bring their work and sing?beneath a twisted thorn,?Or stray with sweethearts down the path?among the growing corn;?Along the river-side they go,?where I have often been,?Oh, never shall I see again?the happy days I've seen!?A thousand chances are to one?I never may return,--?Adieu to Belashanny,?and the winding banks of Erne!
Adieu to evening dances,?when merry neighbours meet,?And the fiddle says to boys and girls,?'Get up and shake your feet!'?To 'seanachas' and wise old talk?of Erin's days gone by--?Who trench'd the rath on such a hill,?and where the bones may lie?Of saint, or king, or warrior chief;?with tales of fairy power,?And tender ditties sweetly sung?to pass the twilight hour.?The mournful song of exile?is now for me to learn--?Adieu, my dear companions?on the winding banks of Erne!
Now measure from the Commons down?to each end of the Purt,?Round the Abbey, Moy, and Knather,--?I wish no one any hurt;?The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane,?the Mall, and Portnasun,?If any foes of mine are there,?I pardon every one.?I hope that man and womankind?will do the same by me;?For my heart is sore and heavy?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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
On, on, a moving bridge they made?Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade,?Young and old, women and