And now still sad we came to whereA beautiful young man dreamed withinA house of wattles, clay, and skin;One hand upheld his beardless chin,And one a sceptre flashing outWild flames of red and gold and blue,Like to a merry wandering routOf dancers leaping in the air;And men and maidens knelt them thereAnd showed their eyes with teardrops dim,And with low murmurs prayed to him,And kissed the sceptre with red lips,And touched it with their finger-tips.
He held that flashing sceptre up."Joy drowns the twilight in the dew,"And fills with stars night's purple cup,"And wakes the sluggard seeds of corn,"And stirs the young kid's budding horn."And makes the infant ferns unwrap,"And for the peewit paints his cap,"And rolls along the unwieldy sun,"And makes the little planets run:"And if joy were not on the earth,"There were an end of change and birth,"And earth and heaven and hell would die,"And in some gloomy barrow lie"Folded like a frozen fly;"Then mock at Death and Time with glances"And wavering arms and wandering dances.
"Men's hearts of old were drops of flame"That from the saffron morning came,"Or drops of silver joy that fell"Out of the moon's pale twisted shell;"But now hearts cry that hearts are slaves,"And toss and turn in narrow caves;"But here there is nor law nor rule,"Nor have hands held a weary tool;"And here there is nor Change nor Death,"But only kind and merry breath,"For joy is God and God is joy."With one long glance on maid and boyAnd the pale blossom of the moon,He fell into a Druid swoon.
And in a wild and sudden danceWe mocked at Time and Fate and ChanceAnd swept out of the wattled hallAnd came to where the dewdrops fallAmong the foamdrops of the sea,And there we hushed the revelry;And, gathering on our brows a frown,Bent all our swaying bodies down,And to the waves that glimmer byThat sloping green De Danaan sodSang "God is joy and joy is God."And things that have grown sad are wicked,"And things that fear the dawn of the morrow"Or the gray wandering osprey Sorrow."
We danced to where in the winding thicketThe damask roses, bloom on bloom,Like crimson meteors hang in the gloom,And bending over them softly said,Bending over them in the dance,With a swift and friendly glanceFrom dewy eyes: "Upon the dead"Fall the leaves of other roses,"On the dead dim earth encloses:"But never, never on our graves,"Heaped beside the glimmering waves,"Shall fall the leaves of damask roses."For neither Death nor Change comes near us,"And all listless hours fear us,"And we fear no dawning morrow,"Nor the gray wandering osprey Sorrow."
The dance wound through the windless woods;The ever-summered solitudes;Until the tossing arms grew stillUpon the woody central hill;And, gathered in a panting band,We flung on high each waving hand,And sang unto the starry broods:In our raised eyes there flashed a glowOf milky brightness to and froAs thus our song arose: "You stars,"Across your wandering ruby cars"Shake the loose reins: you slaves of God"He rules you with an iron rod,"He holds you with an iron bond,"Each one woven to the other,"Each one woven to his brother"Like bubbles in a frozen pond;"But we in a lonely land abide"Unchainable as the dim tide,"With hearts that know nor law nor rule,"And hands that hold no wearisome tool"Folded in love that fears no morrow,"Nor the gray wandering osprey Sorrow."
O Patric! for a hundred yearsI chased upon that woody shoreThe deer, the badger, and the boar.O Patric! for a hundred yearsAt evening on the glimmering sands,Beside the piled-up hunting spears,These now outworn and withered handsWrestled among the island bands.O Patric! for a hundred yearsWe went a-fishing in long boatsWith bending sterns and bending bows,And carven figures on their prowsOf bitterns and fish-eating stoats.O Patric! for a hundred yearsThe gentle Niam was my wife;But now two things devour my life;The things that most of all I hate;Fasting and prayers.
S. PATRIC
Tell on.
USHEEN
Yes, yes,For these were ancient Usheen's fateLoosed long ago from heaven's gate,For his last days to lie in wait.
When one day by the tide I stood,I found in that forgetfulnessOf dreamy foam a staff of woodFrom some dead warrior's broken lance:I turned it in my hands; the stainsOf war were on it, and I wept,Remembering how the Fenians steptAlong the blood-bedabbled plains,Equal to good or grievous chance:Thereon young Niam softly cameAnd caught my hands, but spake no wordSave only many times my name,In murmurs, like a frighted bird.We passed by woods, and lawns of clover,And found the horse and bridled him,For we knew well the old was over.I heard one say "His eyes grow dim"With all the ancient sorrow of men";And wrapped in dreams rode out againWith hoofs of the pale findrinnyOver the glimmering purple sea:Under the golden evening light.The immortals moved among the fountainsBy rivers and the woods' old night;Some danced like shadows on the mountains,Some wandered ever hand in hand,Or sat in dreams on the pale strand;Each forehead like an obscure starBent down above each hooked knee:And sang, and with a dreamy gazeWatched where the sun in a saffron blazeWas slumbering half in the sea ways;And, as they sang, the painted birdsKept time with their bright wings and feet;Like drops of honey came their words,But fainter than a young lamb's bleat.
"An old man stirs the fire to a blaze,"In the house of a child, of a friend, of a brother"He has over-lingered his welcome; the days,"Grown desolate, whisper and sigh to each other;"He hears the storm in the chimney above,"And bends to the fire and shakes with the cold,"While his heart still dreams of battle and love,"And the cry of the hounds on the hills of old.
"But we are apart in the grassy places,"Where care cannot trouble the least of our days,"Or the softness of youth be gone from our faces,"Or love's first tenderness die in our gaze."The hare grows old as she plays in the sun"And gazes around her with eyes of brightness;"Before the swift things that she dreamed of were done"She limps along in an aged whiteness;"A storm of birds in the Asian trees"Like tulips in the air a-winging,"And the gentle waves of the summer seas,"That raise their heads and wander singing."Must murmur at last 'Unjust, unjust';"And 'My speed is a weariness,' falters the mouse"And the kingfisher turns to a ball of dust,"And the roof falls in of his tunnelled house.
"But the love-dew dims our eyes till the day"When God shall come from the sea with a sigh"And bid the stars drop down from the sky,"And the moon like a pale rose wither away."