The road-side trees keep murmuringAh, wherefore murmur ye,As in the old days long gone by,Green oak and poplar tree?The well-known faces are all goneAnd the fret lies on me.
THE BALLAD OF FATHER GILLIGAN
The old priest Peter GilliganWas weary night and day;For half his flock were in their beds,Or under green sods lay.
Once, while he nodded on a chair,At the moth-hour of eve,Another poor man sent for him,And he began to grieve.
"I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace,"For people die and die";And after cried he, "God forgive!"My body spake, not I!"
He knelt, and leaning on the chairHe prayed and fell asleep;And the moth-hour went from the fields,And stars began to peep.
They slowly into millions grew,And leaves shook in the wind;And God covered the world with shade,And whispered to mankind.
Upon the time of sparrow chirpWhen the moths came once more,The old priest Peter GilliganStood upright on the floor.
"Mavrone, mavrone! the man has died,"While I slept on the chair";He roused his horse out of its sleep,And rode with little care.
He rode now as he never rode,By rocky lane and fen;The sick man's wife opened the door:"Father! you come again!"
"And is the poor man dead?" he cried,"He died an hour ago,"The old priest Peter GilliganIn grief swayed to and fro.
"When you were gone, he turned and died"As merry as a bird."The old priest Peter GilliganHe knelt him at that word.
"He who hath made the night of stars"For souls, who tire and bleed,"Sent one of His great angels down"To help me in my need.
"He who is wrapped in purple robes,"With planets in His care,"Had pity on the least of things"Asleep upon a chair."
THE TWO TREES
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart,The holy tree is growing there;From joy the holy branches start,And all the trembling flowers they bear.The changing colours of its fruitHave dowered the stars with merry light;The surety of its hidden rootHas planted quiet in the night;The shaking of its leafy headHas given the waves their melody,And made my lips and music wed,Murmuring a wizard song for thee.There, through bewildered branches, goWinged Loves borne on in gentle strife,Tossing and tossing to and froThe flaming circle of our life.When looking on their shaken hair,And dreaming how they dance and dart,Thine eyes grow full of tender care:Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.
Gaze no more in the bitter glassThe demons, with their subtle guile,Lift up before us when they pass,Or only gaze a little while;For there a fatal image grows,With broken boughs, and blackened leaves,And roots half hidden under snowsDriven by a storm that ever grieves.For all things turn to barrennessIn the dim glass the demons hold,The glass of outer weariness,Made when God slept in times of old.There, through the broken branches, goThe ravens of unresting thought;Peering and flying to and froTo see men's souls bartered and bought.When they are heard upon the wind,And when they shake their wings; alas!Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:Gaze no more in the bitter glass.
TO IRELAND IN THE COMING TIMES
Know, that I would accounted beTrue brother of that company,Who sang to sweeten Ireland's wrong,Ballad and story, rann and song;Nor be I any less of them,Because the red-rose-bordered hemOf her, whose history beganBefore God made the angelic clan,Trails all about the written page;For in the world's first blossoming ageThe light fall of her flying feetMade Ireland's heart begin to beat;And still the starry candles flareTo help her light foot here and there;And still the thoughts of Ireland broodUpon her holy quietude.
Nor may I less be counted oneWith Davis, Mangan, Ferguson,Because to him, who ponders well,My rhymes more than their rhyming tellOf the dim wisdoms old and deep,That God gives unto man in sleep.For the elemental beings goAbout my table to and fro.In flood and fire and clay and wind,They huddle from man's pondering mind;Yet he who treads in austere waysMay surely meet their ancient gaze.Man ever journeys on with themAfter the red-rose-bordered hem.Ah, faeries, dancing under the moon,A Druid land, a Druid tune!
While still I may, I write for youThe love I lived, the dream I knew.From our birthday, until we die,Is but the winking of an eye;And we, our singing and our love,The mariners of night above,And all the wizard things that goAbout my table to and fro.Are passing on to where may be,In truth's consuming ecstasyNo place for love and dream at all;For God goes by with white foot-fall.I cast my heart into my rhymes,That you, in the dim coming times,May know how my heart went with themAfter the red-rose-bordered hem.
THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE
O Rose, thou art sick.
TO FLORENCE FARR
Maurteen Bruin
Bridget Bruin
Shawn Bruin
Mary Bruin
Father Hart
A Faery Child
The Scene is laid in the Barony of Kilmacowen, in the County of Sligo, and at a remote time.
Scene. —A room with a hearth on the floor in the middle of a deep alcove to the Right. There are benches in the alcove and a table; and a crucifix on the wall. The alcove is full of a glow of light from the fire. There is an open door facing the audience to the Left, and to the left of this a bench. Through the door one can see the forest. It is night, but the moon or a late sunset glimmers through the trees and carries the eye far off into a vague, mysterious world. MAURTEEN BRUIN, SHAWN BRUIN, and BRIDGET BRUIN sit in the alcove at the table or about the fire. They are dressed in the costume of some remote time, and near them sits an old priest, FATHER HART. He may be dressed as a friar. There is food and drink upon the table. MARY BRUIN stands by the door reading a book. If she looks up she can see through the door into the wood.
BRIDGET
Because I bid her clean the pots for supperShe took that old book down out of the thatch;She has been doubled over it ever since.We should be deafened by her groans and moansHad she to work as some do, Father Hart;Get up at dawn like me and mend and scourOr ride abroad in the boisterous night like you,The pyx and blessed bread under your arm.
SHAWN
Mother, you are too cross.
BRIDGET
You've married her,And fear to vex her and so take her part.
MAURTEEN (to FATHER HART)