DEIRDRE'S FAREWELL TO ALBA. ANONYMOUS (FROM THE GAELIC). Deirdré, wife of Naise, the son of Usna, returning with her husband to Emania in Erin, laments for Alba (Scotland), her adopted country. Both the original and the translation are anonymous. The poem is exceptionally beautiful. Alas! and alas, my sorrow! The pain that hath no relief, Alas! for the dreadful morrow To dawn on our day of grief!- Oh land in the orient glowing, The last of thy smiles hath shone On us, for Fate's wind is blowing, And the wave of our doom speeds on, And a blight from the westward cometh, and the bloom of our life is gone! Oh land of the morn-bright mountains With the pine-woods whispering o'er, Ah! naught but my lord, my lover, could lure me from thy green shore! Sweet is it in Daro's valley To list to the falling rill, To the breeze in the woodland alley, And the goshawk's note from the hill; To the cuckoo's voice and the cooing And the throstle's song in the thicket, and the lark's from the morning sky. Under the summer arbor By the fresh sea-breezes fanned, Where the waters of Drayno's harbor Sing over the silver sand, Happy from morn till even We've watched the sea-birds play, And the ocean meeting the heaven, In the distance far away, And the gleam of the white-sailed galleys, and the flash of the sunlit spray! In Masan the green, the blooming, How happy our days did pass ; Many its flowers perfuming And studding like gems the grass: And the flower that waits for the swallow, With the hyacinth blue and the primrose, laughed in the breezy wold. In Eta of sunny weather, 'Neath our happy home-porch hid, On venison sweet from the heather And flesh of the mountain kid, On game from the forest cover And fish from the crystal stream, We feasted till eve was over, And the moon with her silver gleam Soared o'er the dusky pine-woods out from the realm of dream. O land of the East! O Giver Of freedom from sore distress! O home of pleasure and promise When I see thy shores fade from us, I sigh in my misery, And send my voice o'er the waters crying, farewell to thee! THE MYSTERY OF LIFE. BY JOHN GAMBOLD, A BISHOP AMONG THE MORAVIAN BRETHREN, WHO DIED IN 1771. So many years I've seen the sun, And called these eyes and hauds my own, A thousand little acts I've done, And childhood have and manhood known; Oh what is life ?-and this dull round So many airy draughts and lines, And warm excursions of the mind, Have filled my soul with great designs, While practice grovelled far behind; Oh what is thought?-and where withdraw The glories which my fancy saw? So many tender joys and woes Have on my quivering soul had power; Plain life with heightening passions rose, The boast or burden of their hour: THE SONG OF THE FORGE. ANONYMOUS (BRITISH-19TH CENTURY). Clang, clang! the massive anvils ring; Say, brothers of the dusky brow, What are your strong arms forging now? Clang, clang!-we forge the coulter now,- Sweet Mary, mother, bless our toil! Clang, clang!—our coulter's course shall be On many a sweet and sheltered lea, By many a streamlet's silver tide; Amid the song of morning birds, Amid the low of sauntering herds, Amid soft breezes, which do stray Through woodbine hedges and sweet May, Along the green hill's side. When regal Autumn's bounteous hand We bless, we bless the plough. Clang, clang!—again, my mates, what glows 'Mid stormy winds and adverse tides: Anxious no more, the merchant sees Say on what sands these links shall sleep, Fathoms beneath the solemn deep? By Afric's pestilential shore? By many an iceberg, lone and hoar,By many a palmy western isle, Basking in spring's perpetual smile? By stormy Labrador? Say, shall they feel the vessel reel, The crashing broadside makes reply; Hurrah!-cling, clang!-once more, what glows, The furnace's red breath? Clang, clang!-a burning torrent, clear And brilliant, of bright sparks, is poured Around and up in the dusky air, As our hammers forge the Sword. The Sword!-a name of dread; yet when The war-drums roll, the trumpets sound,How sacred is it then! Whenever for the truth and right As that where fell Leonidas; Still, still, whene'er the battle word SUNRISE COMES TO-MORROW. ANONYMOUS (BRITISH-19TH CENTURY). True it is that clouds and mist Blot the clear, blue weather; True that lips that once have kissed Come no more together: True that when we would do good, Evil often follows; True that green leaves quit the wood, Dwell with pale dejections; Over crushed affections; True that man his queen awaits- True, the rich despise the poor, And the poor desire Food still from the rich man's door, Fuel from his fire; True that, in this age of ours, There are none to guide us— True the plaint; but, if more true, If an Eden fade from view, Evil comes, and evil goes, But it moves me never; Buds and blossoms ever. Winter still succeeds to Spring, But fresh springs are coming; I have loved with right good-will, And the weak may try them— But I still adore him, That he casts before him. What if cherished creeds must fade? Nor can Truth deceive us. Let in light the holy light! Brothers, fear it never; Darkness smiles, and wrong grows right: Let in light forever! Let in light! When this shall be Hear it, lords and ladies!- Glad am I, and glad will be; For my heart rejoices I will hope, and work, and love, While the stars are bright above, On the grass their shadows:- Cuckoos shouting o'er us; Clouds, with white or crimson hood, Pacing right before us: Who, in such a world as this, Could not heal his sorrow? Welcome this sweet sunset bliss-Sunrise comes to-morrow! WHERE ARE YE? ANONYMOUS (BRITISH-19TH CENTURY). Where are ye with whom in life I started, Where art thou, in youth my friend and brother- Where is she whose looks were love and gladness- She is gone, and since that hour of sadness Where am I? Life's current faintly flowing, Brings the welcome warning of release; Struck with death!-ah! whither am I going? All is well-my spirit parts in peace! |