IRELAND

(DECEMBER 1, 1890)

In the wild and lurid desert, in the thunder-travelled ways,
’Neath the night that ever hurries to the dawn that still delays,
There she clutches at illusions, and she seeks a phantom goal
With the unattaining passion that consumes the unsleeping soul: 
And calamity enfolds her, like the shadow of a ban,
And the niggardness of Nature makes the misery of man: 
And in vain the hand is stretched to lift her, stumbling in the gloom,
While she follows the mad fen-fire that conducts her to her doom.

THE LUTE-PLAYER

She was a lady great and splendid,
  I was a minstrel in her halls. 
A warrior like a prince attended
  Stayed his steed by the castle walls.

Far had he fared to gaze upon her. 
  “O rest thee now, Sir Knight,” she said. 
The warrior wooed, the warrior won her,
  In time of snowdrops they were wed. 
I made sweet music in his honour,
  And longed to strike him dead.

I passed at midnight from her portal,
  Throughout the world till death I rove: 
Ah, let me make this lute immortal
  With rapture of my hate and love!

“AND THESE—­ARE THESE INDEED THE END”

And these—­are these indeed the end,
  This grinning skull, this heavy loam? 
Do all green ways whereby we wend
  Lead but to yon ignoble home?

Ah well!  Thine eyes invite to bliss;
  Thy lips are hives of summer still. 
I ask not other worlds while this
  Proffers me all the sweets I will.

THE RUSS AT KARA

O King of kings, that watching from Thy throne
  Sufferest the monster of Ust-Kara’s hold,
  With bosom than Siberia’s wastes more cold,
And hear’st the wail of captives crushed and prone,
And sett’st no sign in heaven!  Shall naught atone
  For their wild pangs whose tale is yet scarce told,
  Women by uttermost woe made deadly bold,
In the far dungeon’s night that hid their moan? 
Why waits Thy shattering arm, nor smites this Power
  Whose beak and talons rend the unshielded breast,
    Whose wings shed terror and a plague of gloom,
  Whose ravin is the hearts of the oppressed;
Whose brood are hell-births—­Hate that bides its hour,
    Wrath, and a people’s curse that loathe their doom?

LIBERTY REJECTED

About this heart thou hast
  Thy chains made fast,
And think’st thou I would be
  Therefrom set free,
And forth unbound be cast?

The ocean would as soon
  Entreat the moon
Unsay the magic verse
  That seals him hers
From silver noon to noon.

She stooped her pearly head
  Seaward, and said: 
“Would’st thou I gave to thee
  Thy liberty,
In Time’s youth forfeited?”