Poems eBook

Denis Florence MacCarthy
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 77 pages of information about Poems.

The Bittern—­monarch of the sad and dreary place,
Mocking the pride and pageant of a ruin’d race,
Whose very name’s forgotten, and whose deeds have left no trace.

The pleasant songs of peace, the lute, the lover’s sigh,
The statesman’s eloquence, the warrior’s battle-cry
Have pass’d,—­and like their echo from the heedless sky,
The lonely Bittern’s note comes sadly floating by.

Oh, melancholy sound!  Shall thus for ever end
The glory and the greatness whither all hopes tend,
And as the Past comes booming shall the Present wend?

No ear to listen to the old and hard-earn’d glory,
That wore the heart out, made the locks grow scant and hoary,
No ear to listen, and no tongue to tell the story!

The Bittern sitteth ’midst the marshes of the Past,
Sitteth amidst the ruins, whilst the hours fleet fast,
And at his own hoarse cry he looketh round aghast.

The hours fleet fast unnoted, and the time is nigh,
When even he on noiseless wings shall soar on high,
Till his deep note is lost amid the azure sky.

GONE.

The night is dark, and evermore
  The thick drops patter on the pane
  The wind is weary of the rain,
And round the thatches moaneth sore;
  Dark is the night, and cold the air;
  And all the trees stand stark and bare,
With leaves spread dank and sere below,
  Slow rotting on the plashy clay,
  In the God’s-acre far away,
Where she, O God! lies cold below—­
            Cold, cold below!

And many a bitter day and night
  Have pour’d their storms upon her breast,
  And chill’d her in her long, long rest,
With foul corruption’s icy blight;
  Earth’s dews are freezing round the heart,
  Where love alone so late had part;
And evermore the frost and snow
  Are burrowing downward through the clay,
  In the God’s-acre far away,
Where she, O God! lies cold below,—­
            Cold, cold below!

Those eyes so full of light are dim;
  And the clear chalice of her youth,
  All sparkling up with love and truth,
Hath Death drain’d keenly from the brim;—­
  No more can mortal ear rejoice
  In the soft music of her voice;
No wistful eye, through tears of woe,
  Can pierce down through the heavy clay,
  In the God’s-acre far away,
Where she, O God! lies cold below,—­
            Cold, cold below.

A star shines, sudden, from the sky—­
  God’s angel cometh, pure and bright,
  Making a radiance through the night,
Unto the place where, mute, I lie,
  Gazing up in rapt devotion,
  Shaken by a deep emotion;
And my thoughts no longer go
  Wandering o’er the plashy clay,
  In the God’s-acre far away,
Where she, O God! lay cold below—­
            Cold, cold below!

Copyrights
Project Gutenberg
Poems from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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