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Denis Florence MacCarthy
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 123 pages of information about Poems.

  Nevermore across the sea
  Will he come to Italy! 
  He was killed in Tripoli,
    Tripoli!

There was nothing more to tell
Of a lad so little known;
He was reckoned “one who fell,”
    That alone. 
Was he wounded?  Did he lie
Long ill-treated by the foe? 
    And not know!

  Yes, he lies beyond the sea! 
  (Can it be that that is he?)
  In the sands of Tripoli,
    Tripoli!

She had asked for nothing more,
But in silence slowly failed,
Dreaming ever of the shore,
    Whence he sailed. 
Till her face, so wan and white,
Flushed at last with sweet surprise,
And a strangely tender light
    Filled her eyes.

  Then for her was “no more sea”! 
  She had found the soul set free
  From the sands of Tripoli,
    Tripoli!

INFLUENCE

We know not what mysterious power
Lies latent in our words and deeds,—­
Sweet as the perfume of a flower,
Strong as the life that sleeps in seeds;
But something certainly survives
The passing of our fleeting lives.

A look, a pressure of the hand,
A sign of hope, a song of cheer,
May journey over sea and land,
Outliving many a sterile year,
To find at last the destined hour
When they shall leap to bud and flower.

We write, we print, then—­nevermore
To be recalled—­our thoughts take flight,
Like white-winged birds that leave the shore,
And scattering, lose themselves in light;
For good or ill those words may be
The arbiters of destiny.

Perchance some fervid plea may find
A heart to rise to its appeal;
Some statement rouse a dormant mind,
Or stir a spirit, quick to feel;
Nay, through some note of gentler tone
Even love may recognize its own.

Fain would I deem not wholly dead
The spoken words of former years,
And every printed page, when read,
A source of smiles, instead of tears;
That friends, whom I shall never see,
May, for a time, remember me.

LEO

I made a journey o’er the sea,
I bade my faithful dog good-bye,
I knew that he would grieve for me,
But did not dream that he would die! 
  And how could I explain
  That I would come again?

At first he mourned, as dogs will mourn
A life-long master they adore,
Till in his mind the fear was born
That he should never see me more.

Ah! then, on every boat intent,
He watched the crowd upon the pier,
While every look and motion meant
“Will he not come?  Is he not here?”

At last he merely raised his head,
To see the steamers passing by,
Then sank again upon his bed,
And heaved a long-drawn, plaintive sigh;
  For how could one explain
  That I would come again?

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