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Happy New Year and Other Verses

<hr class="full" /> A HAPPY NEW YEAR AND OTHER VERSES <ANTIMG src="images/cover.jpg" height-obs="500" alt="" /> <h1>A Happy New Year AND OTHER VERSES</h1> BY C. E. De La POER BERESFORD ETON COLLEGE SPOTTISWOODE & CO., LTD. 1913 TO MY DEAR WIFE Old Place, 1913 <div class="blockquot">My thanks are due to the Editors, “Blackwood’s Magazine,” “Country Life,” “The Londonderry Sentinel,” for their kindness in allowing me to reprint verses that have appeared in their publications. </div> <h2>Contents</h2> <table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> <tr><td> </td><td class="rt">PAGE</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">A Happy New Year</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">1</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">Cradle Song</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">2</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">Queen Tamara’s Castle</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">3</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">Ulster’s Prayer</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">4</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">Dark Donegal</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">5</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">Hy-Brasail</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">7</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">Bálor of the Great Blows</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">9</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">The Garden</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">11</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">A Song of Spring</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">12</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">The Miráge on Kizil Koom</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">13</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">A Dream of Samarkánd</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">15</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">At Santa Sophia, Constantinople</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">21</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">The Hill Cities</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">22</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">Florence from San Miniato</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">23</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">The Thames</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">24</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">In Te, Domine, spero</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">26</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">To Miss X. de C. on her Birthday</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">27</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">Londonderry City Election, 1885</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">28</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">Londonderry City Election, 1913</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">29</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">To M. S.</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">30</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">The Song of Timùr the Lame</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">31</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">Catullus, Carmina xxxi., l. 12 to end</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">32</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">Catullus, Carmina lxxvi. (Si qua recordanti)</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">33</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">The Fisherman’s Dream</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">34</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">The Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers at Pieters’, February, 1900</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">36</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">Senlac</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">39</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="pdd">Christmas-tide</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">46</td></tr> </table> {1}  <h2>A Happy New Year.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> To the young, to the brave and the strong, Before whom the future outspreads As a board all light-handed to sweep, The unknown, and the right and the wrong, A Happy New Year! </div> <div class="stanza"> To the good, to the tender and true, Who have stood by our side on the path Of life’s follies and troubles and cares, The path that we all must pursue, A Happy New Year! </div> <div class="stanza"> For the old, for the frail and the weak, To whom mem’ry calls up in a dream The never attained might have been, We with love and affection bespeak A Happy New Year! {2}</div> </div></div> <h2>Cradle Song. (Imitated from the Russian.)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Sleep! Babyónka,[A] sleep! By thy side Bábochka[B] watches. Round the house the wind blows high, Soars the eagle in the sky, Hark, I hear the woodcock cry. Sleep, my darling, sleep! O’er thy slumbers Saints are watching. </div> <div class="stanza"> Sleep! Babyónka, sleep! Bábochka will rock thy cradle. Wind that rushes through the trees, Eagle soaring o’er the breeze, Woodcock whistling in the reeds,[C] Bring my darling sleep! Babyónka dear, the Saints are watching. </div> <div class="stanza"> Sleep! my darling, sleep! Bábochka Babyónka watches. Wind and eagle, woodcock brown, All of them come rushing down To the cot where baby slumbers. They have brought Babyónka sleep. O’er thy slumbers Saints are watching. {3}</div> </div></div> <h2>Queen Tamara’s Castle. (Translated from Lermontof.)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> In Dariel’s rocky gorges deep, Where Terek’s water madly moves, There is a castle on the steep, The scene of Queen Tamára’s loves. She seemed to play an angel’s part; Black as a demon’s was her heart. </div> <div class="stanza"> The weary traveller from below Looked on Tamára’s window-glow, And gazing on the twinkling light, Went in to sup and pass the night. </div> <div class="stanza"> But as the rays of rosy dawn Gilded the mountains in the morn, Silence fell on Tamára’s halls, And Terek’s madly rushing wave A mangled corpse bore to its grave. {4}</div> </div></div> <h2>Ulster’s Prayer.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> O God, who once in ages past Savedst from the fierce Red Sea And Ramses’ chariots following fast Thy sons who sang to Thee: Turn Thee again, Lord of the Saints, Unto our suppliant side, Who humbly beg Thy help against Those who Thy faith deride. </div> <div class="stanza"> ’Gainst those who that pure faith can turn To dogma harsh and strict, From which all who its errors spurn Are cast off derelict; We, as our fathers prayed before, Fighting for faith and home, Beseech Thee for Thy help once more Against the wiles of Rome. {5}</div> </div></div> <h2>Dark Donegal.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> The ocean is dashing Its waves o’er the strand That shelters Sheep Haven With hillocks of sand. M‘Swyne’s Gun is winding His horn o’er the lea, Atlantic is grinding The dust of the sea. </div> <div class="stanza"> It cuts from the fields, Lough, haven, and bay, And dark Donegal yields To its constant sword-play.[D] Through infinite inlets It pours willy-nilly, Into Ness and Mulroy, Sheep Haven and Swilly.{6} </div> <div class="stanza"> Atlantic was born Bluff, boisterous, coy; It may storm at the Horn When it coos at Mulroy. The ocean is silent, Or noisy or sullen; It may sleep at Melmore, Or rage at Rathmullan. </div> <div class="stanza"> The ghosts of Saldanha[E] Still walk at Port Salon; The bones of the Spaniards Lie deep off the Aran. In spite of these mem’ries, Or because of them all, The breeze carries gladness Over dark Donegal. </div> Dunfanaghy, September 2, 1913. </div> </div> {7} <h2>Hy-Brasail.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Near where Horn its dark head Rears o’er the deep ocean, And the sea-birds whirl round In a constant commotion, Where loving Atlantic Outstretches its arms, Four islands romantic Lie, lost in their charms. </div> <div class="stanza"> The farthest is Tory, Rough, rocky and stern, Inishbeg, Inishbofin, Inishdoe, as you turn Your rapt gaze to the west, Orange, rose-red, or grey, Stretch, three islands at rest In the calm of the bay. </div> <div class="stanza"> And beyond them, most blest Of a realm without guile, In the sunshine and rest Lies Hy-Brasail, the isle Of the angels and saints, So lovely and dim, Where the sea’s white foam breaks On its far distant rim.{8} </div> <div class="stanza"> The peasant who heard of This wonderful isle Set sail to the west With a confident smile. The dream of Hy-Brasail Within his heart burned, He was lost in the sea And never returned. </div> Londonderry, September 10, 1913. </div> </div> {9} <h2>Bálor of the Great Blows.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Have ye read of the past in folios at Dublin Of Firwolgs, and of Pechts, and of red-headed Danes, And Fomors from Tory, who people went troublin’, Stealing woman and child, binding Irish in chains? </div> <div class="stanza"> Well, ’tis of these wild times and Ulster romantic, O’erspread by dark forests through which the elk called, And of rude pagan tribes, some dwarf, some gigantic, That I tell in this rhyme so poor and so bald. </div> <div class="stanza"> In a deep gloomy glen near Muckish’s mountain, Where the mist rolls in clouds and the waterfalls foam, From out of the cloud-rack, as out of a fountain; Himself saw a quare sight as he rode his horse home. </div> <div class="stanza"> In the glen at the mouth of a black souterrain (Where Crocknálarágagh looks down upon Tory, The island where Bálor of the Great Blows did reign) Shane O’Dugan beheld what I tell in my story.{10} </div> <div class="stanza"> A woman as lovely as dead Ethné the Fair, With twelve ladies in waiting all clothed in gold, The Chief, MacKineely, and a boy with red hair, Came out the cave-dwelling and walked o’er the fold. </div> <div class="stanza"> Now the red-pate is changed into Bálor the King, All bent on the murder of brave MacKineely; And although through the valley his daughter’s shrieks ring, He cuts off his head on the stone Clough-an-neely. </div> <div class="stanza"> Fierce King Bálor would fain kill his young grandsons too, But the Princess resolves with her children to fly, And the eldest grows into a young farrier, who Thrusts a red-heated iron in Bálor’s one eye. </div> <div class="stanza"> The wounded King calls to his one grandson, “Asthore!” Whilst forth from the sore wound rushes water like oil, From Falcarragh the whole way right up to Gweedore, Till it forms a lough three times as deep as Lough Foyle! {11}</div> </div></div> <h2>The Garden.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I know a garden sheltered from the north And east by lichened walls and stately trees Facing the south in rows are bursting forth Masses of bright flowers, fertilised by bees; In it from early morn, with spade and hoe, A good man trenches, digs, and plants, that things may grow. </div> <div class="stanza"> I would my mind were like that garden fair— A fruitful soil touched by the spade of God! No weeds of prejudice might grow up there, No tares of ignorance disgrace the sod, But Wisdom, glad of such a soil and ground, Would plant her flowers therein—to scatter fragrance round. </div> 1904 </div> </div> {12} <h2>A Song of Spring.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> It was Spring, joyous Spring, When each bud had just unfolden, From its bursting calyx golden, All the greenery of Spring, When I heard the cuckoo sing, Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo! </div> <div class="stanza"> It was Spring, joyous Spring, When the shepherd on the wold, Having tended well the fold, Saw the meek-eyed ewes well-sheltered ’Gainst the hail and rain that peltered On the downs, in the Spring! </div> <div class="stanza"> It was Spring, joyous Spring, And the black thorn and the white, Breaking forth from out the night And the dark of Winter’s gloom, Raced the chestnuts into bloom With the leaves, in gentle Spring. </div> <div class="stanza"> It was Spring, joyous Spring, When from bush and bough and tree Burst a song of joy to Thee, Who hast made the lark that singeth, And the earth whose produce bringeth Forth in Spring: When I heard the cuckoo sing, Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo! </div> April, 1896. </div> </div> {13} <h2>The Miráge on Kizil Koom.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Where the hot sun o’er Caspian’s reedy shore In a red ball of fire descends in gloom, I trod the desert’s silent, sandy floor, Called by the Turkománs the Kizil Koom. </div> <div class="stanza"> No grass, no flower relieves the rusty sheen, Perhaps an antelope goes rushing through The rare sage-brush; no water there is seen, Save where the fell miráge distracts the view. </div> <div class="stanza"> And that miráge! At first a little cloud, From which green trees and silvery lakes arise, Where white felucca sails deceive the crowd Of weary travellers, and fool their eyes. </div> <div class="stanza"> Ah! what art thou, miráge? What have I seen? “I am the many things of which you dream” “At morn of life, but never hold at e’en.” “I am the hopes with which your fancies teem!” </div> <div class="stanza"> “I am the scholar’s prize, the high degree;” “The sword of steel at side, the fox’s brush;” “The little cross of bronze, the prized V.C.;” “The thundering sound of steeds, the warrior’s rush!{14}” </div> <div class="stanza"> “I am the heart’s desire, the lover bold;” I am the silken gown, the judge’s chair I am the battle won; the book well sold Coronet; Ermine! Castle in the air!” </div> <div class="stanza"> Ah! Kizil Koom, Red Sand, what more dost say In thy miráge to travellers o’er thy floor? “I teach content to those who through the way Of life well spent have passed, and dream no more.” {15}</div> </div></div> <h2>A Dream of Samarkánd.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Between the mountains of Alai And Tian-Shan’s heavenly chain Lies the home of the Zagatai, Fergána’s fruitful plain. First of the towns whose domes and wall Deck that illustrious land Stands the lame Timùr’s capital, His best-loved Samarkánd. </div> <div class="stanza"> I stood inside a shattered room, Stricken by earthquakes rife, That Timùr raised above the tomb Of Ming’s fair daughter-wife. Daughter of China’s Bógdu-Khan, Wife of the great Timùr, Who ’twixt them ruled the vast inland From Red Sea to Amùr. </div> <div class="stanza"> Above an arch a double dome Bites in the clear blue sky (Bramanté’s famous fane at Rome Seems scarce so broad and high).{16} Above the dome a crescent bright Watched sleepy Samarkánd, Asleep to-day, but wide awake When Timùr ruled the land. </div> <div class="stanza"> Sure, such a tomb was never raised By widower to wife! Nor Akhbar brave nor Shah Jehán Did thus weld bricks to life. The Tâj, in marble shining bright By Agra’s sun-baked walls, Must yield the palm for sheer delight To Bibi-Khánim’s halls. </div> <div class="stanza"> The sun shines through the double dome, Lighting its inner skin, It shows the remnant of the stair That upwards led within, From which the muezzin, climbing slow, To shout the evening prayer, Could see the Rigistán below, Shir-Dár and Tilla-Kare. </div> <div class="stanza"> I seemed to see the cliffs at Kesh, Whence came the great Amìr, From whose red rift the Zarafshán Sends forth its waters clear. I seemed to see the Tatar horde, Under Toktámish brave, Beaten and drowning in the ford That crosses Kubán’s wave.{17} </div> <div class="stanza"> I saw the Mogul army move To conquer Hindostán; Its serried, strong divisions prove The master mind of man. Ninety-two thousand fretting steeds Rush down from hill to plain; Timùr descends the khud by ropes, Five times let down again. </div> <div class="stanza"> The Mongols march upon Attock And cross the rivers five, Timùr joins forces at Multán With all his sons alive; His armies then invest Batnir, They come to Delhi’s towers, Mahmud Sultán gives battle there, Timùr his standard lowers. </div> <div class="stanza"> Asia, from Irtish to Ormùz O’er-run by Timùr’s bands, Irán, Turán and Ind had felt The weight of Mongol hands. Aleppo taken by the horde, Timùr fresh laurels culls, And covers Baghdad’s reeking sward With pyramids of skulls. </div> <div class="stanza"> Now on Angóra’s fateful plain The “Lightning” Bayazet Urges his Turks to fight, in vain, ’Gainst Mongol and kismet.{18} ’Twas told that Bayazet was caged Just like a timid deer, But Timùr never warfare waged On captives of his spear. </div> <div class="stanza"> From all these scenes of lust and blood I turn to Samarkánd, Where Zarafshán’s refreshing flood Gives life unto the land. Here Timùr mosque and palace built Around a sheltered pool, Set in a field with arbours gilt, And called it Khân-i-Gùl. </div> <div class="stanza"> Thousands of guests were bid to share The great Amìr’s largesse, The Guilds and Trades were gathered there, The wronged received redress. Here, in his coat of mail of steel, Timùr, ’midst his sepoys, From Russ, and France, and far Castille, Received the Grand Envoys. </div> <div class="stanza"> Six grandsons of the Great Amìr Wed brides of princely rank, Nine times the brides their dresses change, Nine times their handmaids thank.{19} Each time each bride is fresh arrayed, Fall to the ground in showers Rubies and diamonds, which the maid Keeps as her bridal flowers! </div> <div class="stanza"> I see Timùr, one boot, one glove, And with his lint-white hair, Delighted on his chess-board move Fifty-six pieces fair. The blood-red ruby in his ear Trembles before my view, But when his rage the stone shakes there, ’Fore God! the world shakes too. </div> <div class="stanza"> At last the Mogul Emperor Invades far-off Cathay, He starts, the tired conqueror, Marching ten miles a day, Crosses Syr-Dária’s solid stream, And stops at Otrár, when He sees the blade of Àzrael gleam At three-score years and ten. </div> <div class="stanza"> Come with me to the Gùr-Amir, Within whose simple walls Over a six-foot block of jade A horsehair standard falls. Beneath the dark and polished stone Descends a bare brick stair, Leading to Tamerlane’s own tomb, Nor pomp nor state is there.{20} </div> <div class="stanza"> Beneath the fluted, darkened dome, Where dimly seen in gloom, Surrounded by an Arab text, Hangs Timùr’s tattered plume, Outside the simple marble rail Engraved with Timùr’s name, The passing pilgrim cannot fail To muse on Timùr’s fame. {21}</div> </div></div> <h2>At Santa Sophia, Constantinople. (A Fragment.)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> There is the altar, there is the wall, Disfigured by Méhemet’s hand: We should raise the Cross of Christ in the hall Where the Turkish banners stand; And the tones of “Te Deum,” quenched in blood, Should resound again in the land. {22}</div> </div></div> <h2>The Hill Cities.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> All along the line of mountains That begin at Narni’s towers, Stand the grey and brown hill cities, ’Midst the sunshine and the showers. Each a tower of strength itself, Well walled and machicolated, Or for Ghibelline or Guelph, Each ’twixt each interpolated; Now for Kaiser, now for Pope, Narni, Terni, and Spoleto. From its crag or hilly slope Tremi faces Montefalco, By Topino sits Foligno, Assisi of the stony street, Almost at its base is Spello Where the chalk and limestone meet. Here the rain-clouds veil the mountain, Here the sunbeams chase the sleet, And the rivers fill the fountain Grey in proud Perugia’s street. </div> Perugia, April, 1912. </div> </div> {23} <h2>Florence from San Miniato.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Beneath my feet the smokeless city fair: Duomo and Giotto’s noble tower arise Like sentinels o’er Florence! In the air Something, not mist, but silvery vapour, lies. </div> <div class="stanza"> Up a steep hill climbs famous Fiésole From out the dark woods of Domenico, Close to Arno’s bank is Santa Crocé, Where lies at rest great Michael Angelo. </div> <div class="stanza"> And through the landscape, winding softly there, Arno betwixt his buttressed banks doth run Solemn and silent, steely bright and fair, Towards Carrara’s rocks, and setting sun. {24}</div> </div></div> <h2>The Thames.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I love thy banks the best, O silent Thames, At morning time, When fogs steal o’er them, and with ruddy flames The still weak sun Bursts, now and then, at moments through the mist And sudden flies, Leaving the landscape which his beams have kissed, Cold and forlorn; And then, again returning to the fight, The God of morn Dispels the clouds, and bathes in trembling light Thy banks so gay. Or struggling with the clouds, now here, now there, O’erpowers them, and ushers in the day. </div> <div class="stanza"> I love thy banks again, O merry Thames, Ambient and gay, When lowing herds graze in thy meads, or lie With whisk of tail In the long grass, half hidden by the glazed And heated air, And chew the cud half-silent or half-dazed. How deadly still Is the full tide of noon, when beasts and birds Alike repose,{25} And from the sullen shade not e’en a bee Or dragon-fly Breaks the hour’s silence! Then the cirrus clouds, Wind-chas’d and heavy, roll or stagger by. </div> <div class="stanza"> I love thy banks at all times, silver Thames, But certes the least When huge waves suddenly immerse their sides, And from the East, With sound of harp, or flute, and megaphones, Young men and maids On steamers Allah’s Holy Name invoke In raucous tones No Moslem knows, and call me curious names, And drink, and smoke Not nargiléhs, but strong cigars, whose whiff Borne on the air, Shocks my olfactory nerves, and makes me sick, Sick of them all, the Thames, the whole affair! {26}</div> </div></div> <h2>In Te, Domine, spero.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> ’Tis said that as the sinner dies Around him hover shadowy forms, Reflecting in his glassy eyes Some cloudy visions in Death’s storms. </div> <div class="stanza"> When on the hard-fought battle plain Gushes forth hot the bright red blood From out the bullet wound’s blue stain, With throbs that show the arterial flood; </div> <div class="stanza"> The shadowy forms may still be near Just where his body stains the sod, As sure of death but void of fear The man commends his soul to God. </div> <div class="stanza"> The half-forgotten youthful days, His father’s voice, his mother’s tears, Come back to him as whilst he prays Dark Azraël’s rustling wings he hears. </div> <div class="stanza"> Lost and forgotten, far from home (The stretcher-bearers pass him by) He dies alone: no, not alone, The shadowy forms are watching nigh. </div> <div class="stanza"> So ends the sinner. As he dies The shadowy forms (his own good deeds) Are wafted onward to the skies To plead for him in heavenly meads. {27}</div> </div></div> <h2>To Miss X. de C. on her Birthday.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> O’er this your natal day may angels watch and love preside, Your path with flowers be strewn and all betide To make your ways below, in joy begun, Run on through smiling fields till life be done. {28}</div> </div></div> <h2>Londonderry City Election, 1885.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem" style="line-height:1.5em;"> Chas. E. Lewis, Q.C. (C.) 1824. Justin McCarthy (P.) 1795. </div> </div> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> To the black North, to Derry fair, a great “Historian” came, Backed by the strength of all his clan, by Parnell’s mighty name, His was the task, by wiles or force, to wrest the Virgin Crown From the proud city by the Foyle, of siege’s great renown. In vain the Separatist force, for naught their trumpets blown, Derry has shown that she prefers a “history” of her own! </div> Coblentz, December 1885. </div> </div> {29} <h2>Londonderry City Election, 1913.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem" style="line-height:1.5em;"> Hogg (N.) 2699. Colonel Pakenham (C.) 2642. </div> </div> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Flow, Foyle, full of tears, not water, on to the main, Past the wreck of the Boom, past Culmore, past MacGilligan, Take to the ocean, wind-swept and wave-tossed, Our story of pain. </div> <div class="stanza"> Close gates, so heavy and ancient, brave Prentice boys, Shut out the sea, shut off England, shut out the Union. Shut out all links with our Empire, our trade and communion, Our hopes and our joys! </div> <div class="stanza"> Blow, black from the North, cold wind from Malin Head! Take to our comrades in Leinster, in Connacht, in Munster, The tale of our struggle, our work, our disaster Our honour is dead. </div> January 31, 1913. </div> </div> {30} <h2>To M. S. (A Fragment.)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Sappho, your wild songs to the wind, The wild west wind, Recall an island to my mind, All mist-enshrined, Girt round with waves that break with force, Fearful, yet kind. </div> <div class="stanza"> Sappho, your sad songs to the sea, The southern sea, Bring back sweet mem’ries of the waves, The waves to me, And wild swans flying o’er the white Sands, by the sea. </div> <div class="stanza"> Sappho, the finest of your songs, “Hark to the rain!” Sends shivering through and through my heart Its sad refrain, Just as a broken lute-string strikes A soul in pain! {31}</div> </div></div> <h2>The Song of Timùr the Lame. (Imitated from the Persian)</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Listen to me, my nightingale, My darling, my light, and my rose! I am sick of war and carnage, I long for peace and repose. My scimetar’s flash in the light Is not so bright as thy glances, And the beams ’neath thine eyelids bright Shame the flash of my spearmen’s lances. {32}</div> </div></div> <h2>Catullus, Carmina xxxi., l. 12 to end.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> “Salve, o venusta Sirmio, atque hero gaude, Gaudete vos, O Lydiae lacus undae, Ridete quicquid est domi cachinnorum.” </div> <div class="stanza"> “Hail, lovely Sirmio, and rejoice in me, Rejoice, O tumbling Lydian waves, and see In all my home peal out the laughter free!” {33}</div> </div></div> <h2>Catullus, Carmina lxxvi. (Si qua recordanti).</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> “If pleasure can to man have come From his good deeds already done, From sacred faith, from plight maintained, From compact never yet profaned; All these remain in store for thee And fruits of thy lost love shall be. Catullus, for long years to come Thy breast shall be their only home!” * * * * O gods, if ye can pity me Or mortal agony can see, If only once I have been pure, Tear out this cursed plague impure, Which creeping through my frame at rest Has chased all gladness from my breast. * * * * Just gods! for sake of my own weal I pray you that this wound may heal! {34}</div> </div></div> <h2>The Fisherman’s Dream.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Where the light clouds o’er Etna’s summit sleep And the dread winged Harpies vigil keep, Dark as the polished stone the blue wave falls, Weaving a canopy o’er Neptune’s halls. </div> <div class="stanza"> Over his work the tired fisher nods And in his dreams beholds the ancient gods. Whilst gentle sleep his wearied senses numbs, Swift in his trance fair Aphrodite comes; Light falls her footstep on the billowy wave, Softly she smiles upon her willing slave; Blue as the ether in the heights above, Radiant her eyes, all beaming o’er with love; Pink as the coral in the ocean foam, Parted, her lips invite him to her home; And like the algae in the deep sea trove Wavy her tresses in the zephyrs move; Whilst her soft whispers all his fears allay, Thus love’s fair goddess beckons him away. </div> <div class="stanza"> “Come with me, fisher, leave thy dreary toil, Fly from thy cares to Candia’s blessed soil; ’Neath Ida’s mount far from the sun’s fierce rays, In a cool grot we’ll pass the sweltering days,{35} And when the moon shines on the silver sea, Drawn by my doves thou’lt float along with me; Hid in my cave shalt taste all love’s delights, Whilst joyous days succeed the tranquil nights.” </div> <div class="stanza"> Ah! shun her glances, danger lurketh there: Thus did her charms full often slaves ensnare. So young Adonis, who ne’er loved before, Fleeing her wiles, fell to the tusked boar, And Mars, the vengeful, direful, God of War, By Vulcan’s net trapped, all Olympus saw! Rather let Juno, who befriends pure loves, Drive from thy side the siren and her doves. Think of thy home in Baïa’s beauteous bay, Where sits thy wife, thy children joyous play, And of the taper by the Virgin’s shrine Lit as a safeguard for their weal and thine. </div> <div class="stanza"> Frightened he wakes, he starts, he rubs his eyes, Chased by the light the feckless phantom flies: Vanished the temptress, all his senses seem Once more his own; but Santos! what a dream! </div> Ashbrook, 1885. </div> </div> {36} <h2>The Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers at Pieters’, February, 1900.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I stood on the glacis at Pieters’ And read there the word “Inniskilling,” Written red in the blood of soldiers as brave As e’er took Her Majesty’s shilling. I stood ’midst the ghosts of our children, Whose corpses beneath me were lying; And it seemed that I heard o’er the wind of the velt Their voices come solemnly sighing. </div> <div class="stanza"> They were taught from boyhood, these heroes, To fear neither rifle nor cannon; They were taught first by Perry M‘Clintock, Bob Ellis and fiery Buchanan. They rushed like the stream from the mountain, Or the wind o’er the Lakes of Fermanagh, And they fell like the leaves in the cold autumn blast, Or the drops pouring over the fountain. </div> <div class="stanza"> Ah! Mother of God! but I see them Stagger. Thackeray! Davidson! more! And who is the next, thrusting on thro’ the smoke? It is he! ’Tis ma bouchal asthore!{37} His eye has the look of the eagle, His shout tops the musketry’s roar, Ah! now he’ll be in with the bay’net: No, he falls!—He is shot by a Boer. </div> <div class="stanza"> We think of you children of Ulster, All unknown, yet so splendidly brave; And although the remains of our dear ones Lie senseless and cold in the grave, Their mem’ries live now and for ever, Though their bones turn to dust ’neath the sod; For the spirit and soul of the soldier Rise like sweet-smelling incense to God. </div> <div class="stanza"> As I glanced over kopje and stone On the scene of this terrible drama, Past my eyes, other scenes, from the distant black North, Rolled on like a vast panorama. Such sights ere he gasped his last breath Perhaps appeared to the brave Fusilier, As at Thackeray’s word he rushed forward to death With a bound and a heart-stirring cheer! </div> <div class="stanza"> The dark clouds hang over a valley, The brown water rushes down foaming, The light from the cabin-door shines like a spark On the hill in the mists of the gloaming. The heather waves sweet in the wind That sweeps o’er the steep slopes of Sâwel; The crooked-beaked eagle swoops down on the hind, Whilst the cock-grouse lies low for a marvel.{38} </div> <div class="stanza"> For thus, as we come to the entrance Of that lane that knows of no turning, Whether bullets are hissing, or rotten decks breaking, Or fever our wasted frame burning, The sights and the sounds of the home that we love O’er our minds come back hurriedly streaming, And we see in our dreams our long lost ones above, As Azraël’s death-blade is gleaming. * * * * I stood ’midst the ghosts of our children, Whose corpses beneath me were lying; And it seemed that I heard o’er the wind of the velt Their voices come solemnly sighing. </div> Petersburg, October, 1901. </div> </div> {39} <h2>Senlac.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Guillaume, fils naturel d’Arlette, Fit jurer une fois à Bayeux A Harold, le blond comte anglais, Sur les plus précieuses réliques Et aussi devant tous ses preux Toute loyauté et feauté. Harold jura qu’il l’aiderait A prendre à lui la succession (Enfin, donc, quand le temps viendrait) Du roi saxon le fainéant, Qu’il se mettrait de son côté Et de ses forces il l’aiderait. </div> <div class="stanza"> Édouard le Confesseur mourut En grande odeur de saincteté, Le Comte Harold vite accourut (Mil soixante-six, et cinq janvier). Lui roi d’Angleterre fut élu Et par Ealdred couronné. Contre lui bientôt guerre à mort Northumberland a déclaré; Ne voulant point tenter cette guerre, Qui lui allait à contre-cœur, Du Comte Edwin et Comte Morkère Harold épousa la jeune sœur.{40} </div> <div class="stanza"> Guillaume, tout furieux, à Rouen Prépare vite une expédition, Appelle à lui le grand Lanfranc, Evesque lombard, et Hildebrand, Assemble une armée de Français, Flamands, Italiens et Bretons, Et des gens de tous les païs De Pouille, et de Sicile, Normands. Je dis moults barons, moulte canaille, Des hommes sans nom et sans carrière, Les longues lances, la vieille féraille, Sous le grand drapeau de Saint-Pierre. </div> <div class="stanza"> Faut savoir que cette compagnie, Ou plutôt bande d’aventuriers, Dont oncques ne virent France de leur vie, Furent bels et bons nommés Français, Tandis que Danois et Saxons Qu’Harold noblement commandait, Ceux de Sussesse et Saint-Edmond, Reçurent pour eux le nom d’Anglais. Les Français traversèrent La Manche Et descendirent en Angleterre Près d’Hastings, pendant qu’à l’arme blanche Harold tua Tostique, son frère. </div> <div class="stanza"> Parlons donc de l’armée anglaise. Victorieuse à Stamford-le-Pont, Elle poussa fortement vers le camp Ou plutôt position française.{41} S’arrêtant à deux lieues de là, Harold envoya des espions, Qui lui rapportèrent la nouvelle “Plus prêtres que soldats entre Normands.” Rit bien et long le roi anglais: “Ceux que vous vîtes si bien rasés Ne sont ni prêtres ni gens mal-nés, Ce sont de vaillans Chevaliers.” </div> <div class="stanza"> De Conches, de Toarz, Montgomméri A l’extrême gauche étaient rangés; A droite, de Fergert, Améri Poitevins et Bretons commandaient; Au centre, l’Evesque de Bayeux, Grand et majestueux Odon; Puis Guillaume, avec tous ses preux; Ainsi se rangèrent les Normands. Brave Taillefer, le Menestrel, Le premier coup de sabre donnant, Le premier tomba de sa selle, Chantant la chanson de Roland. </div> <div class="stanza"> Fils-Osbert et Montgomméri Attaquèrent sur la droite anglaise, Avec Boulogne et Berri, En partant de la gauche française. De l’autre flanc, Alain Fergert, Barons de Maine et d’Améri Se ruèrent sur la haute terre Retranchée de gros pilotis,{42} Où l’étendard au dragon d’or Flottait dessus les écussons Plantés en ligne, et juste derrière Brillaient les hâches-d’armes des Saxons. </div> <div class="stanza"> Les hommes de Boulogne et de Poix Suivaient le Baron d’Améri Et donnèrent rudement maintes fois Sur la ligne des gros pilotis. Mais sous les coups terribles des hâches Et testes et bras tombaient par terre; A vrai dire n’y avait point de lâches, Car corps-à-corps se fit la guerre. Tout de même dans le vaste fossé Bien des chevaliers sans chevaux De coups de hâche furent assommés, En tâchant de sortir de l’eau! </div> <div class="stanza"> Troublés, et même un peu confus, Les écuyers aux destriers, Voyant ainsi tuer les preux, S’écriaient: “Fuyez donc, fuyez!” Mais le dur évesque de Bayeux Arriva bientôt au galop, “Holà!” dit-il; “splendeur de Dieu! Faites face à l’ennemi, salops!” Donc piquant fort des éperons Et frappant fortement de sa masse, Poussant toujours son cheval blanc, Le brave évesque se faisait place.{43} </div> <div class="stanza"> Le terrible combat rageait Du matin jusques après-midi; Les Normands tous criaient, “Dex aie!” Les Saxons criaient fort aussi. Vu que les flêches de nos archers N’atteignirent point à l’ennemi, Tous derrière leurs remparts courbés, Guillaume à ses gens commanda De tirer haut dans l’air les flêches. Arriva donc comme il pensa, Même sans pratiquer de brêche! </div> <div class="stanza"> Le roi Harold et Gyrt, son frère, Ensemble bravement se battaient En haut du grand rempart de terre De gros pilotis couronné. Une flêche, qui semble tomber du ciel Et dans sa chute descendante vire, Atteignit Harold près de l’œil. Le roi tout hardiment retire De la blessure le bois cassé. Il tombe, se tenant à demi Evanoui sur son bouclier. L’ange gardien des Saxons frémit! </div> <div class="stanza"> Sur toute la ligne des Français Se fit un mouvement en arrière; C’était le moment des Anglais, Qui sautèrent par-dessus barrière.{44} Ils criaient hautement en revanche, “A quoi bon, imbéciles, de fuir? A moins de sauter par La Manche Vous ne reverrez point Saint-Cyr.” Arrive Sieur de Montgomméri, “Frappez, François! à nous le jour; Frappez! frappez! frappez!” il crie: Les coups Normands redoublent d’ardeur! </div> <div class="stanza"> Les Saxons, eux aussi frappent fort, Poussés sur Senlac-la-Colline, Se battaient toujours corps-à-corps, Quoique prévoyant leur ruine. L’on vit d’Auviler et d’Onbac, Saint-Clair, Fils-Ernest, Mortemer, Poussant les premiers vers Senlac, Fils-Ernest tombant mort à terre. Harold trois fois blessé est mort Et Gyrt est tué par Guillaume, Chancelle le fameux dragon d’or, Et tombe, le symbole du royaume. </div> <div class="stanza"> Fut ainsi que tomba le sort! Guillaume rendit grâces à Dieu, Pleura la perte de ses deux frères, Remercia encore ses preux. Il donna au Grand Dieu la gloire Et fit planter les léopards Qui flottèrent avec la victoire Où gisait sale le dragon d’or.{45} D’Harold parmi tous les blessés Fut impossible de connaître corps, Mais Edith la Belle a trouvé Son amant vivant, hélas! mort. </div> <div class="stanza"> J’ai tâché, chers et bons amis, En réduisant ce rondelai En termes tout simples, où il s’agit De coups de lance, et coups d’épée, De faire à tout le monde comprendre, Marins, soldats, hommes, femmes, enfance, Qu’il faut garder et pas rendre Notre souveraine independence! Une île n’est jamais à l’abri D’un coup de main bien préparé: Donc, sans négliger votre marine, Veillez toujours sur votre armée. {46}</div> </div></div> <h2>Christmas-tide.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Silently the snowflakes fall O’er the black and hardened ground; Radiant crystals form a pall, Stretching far and wide around. </div> <div class="stanza"> From the Ice-King’s glitt’ring halls Bitterly the north wind blows; Heap the logs within your walls, All the doors and windows close. </div> <div class="stanza"> Many a hundred years ago, On this very Christmas Day, In a manger mean and low Christ, the son of Mary, lay. </div> <div class="stanza"> Let our ways this Christmas-tide Follow in His steps above! Poor he lived and poor he died, All His doctrine was of love. </div> <div class="stanza"> Ours to soothe the aching heart, Ours to charity bestow, Ours His knowledge to impart To the suffering ones below! </div> <div class="stanza"> May that charity ne’er fail, May those good deeds never cease, Till our bark shall lower sail In the haven where is peace! {47}</div> </div></div> PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO. LTD., ETON COLCHESTER AND LONDON <div class="footnotes">FOOTNOTES: <div class="footnote">[A] Babyónka, baby. </div> <div class="footnote">[B] Bábochka, little woman, mother. </div> <div class="footnote">[C] The sandbanks in the Oka and Volga are strewn with small white shells, and partly covered with sweet-smelling dock leaves; they swarm with landrails and woodcock. (D. Grigorovitch.) </div> <div class="footnote">[D] The Rev. William Hamilton, D.D., born in Londonderry in December 1757, Rector of Clondevaddock, on Mulroy Bay, gives several instances of the encroachment of the sea sand on fertile and inhabited land. The town of Bannow in Wexford was a flourishing borough in the early part of the seventeenth century, while in his day the site was marked only by a few ruins, appearing above heaps of barren sand. Ulster Folk Lore, E. Andrews. </div> <div class="footnote">[E] H.M.S. “Saldanha,” wrecked in Ballymastocker Bay, 1813. </div> </div> <hr class="full" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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