A Passage
THE world was made when a man was born;
He must taste for himself the forbidden springs,
He can never take warning from old-fashioned things;
He must fight as a boy, he must drink as a youth,
He must kiss, he must love, he must swear to the truth
Of the friend of his soul, he must laugh to scorn
The hint of deceit in a woman's eyes
That are clear as the wells of Paradise.
And so he goes on, till the world grows old,
Till his tongue has grown cautious, his heart, has grown cold,
Till the smile leaves his mouth, and the ring leaves his laugh,
And he shirks the bright headache you ask him to quaff;
He grows formal with men, and with women polite,
And distrustful of both when they're out of his sight;
Then he eats for his palate, and drinks for his head,
And loves for his pleasure,—and 'tis time he was dead!
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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The Celebes
DEAR islands of the Orient,
Where Nature's first of love was spent;
Sweet hill-tops of the summered land
Where gods and men went hand in hand
In golden days of sinless earth!
Woe rack the womb of time, that bore
The primal evil to its birth!
It came; the gods were seen no more:
The fields made sacred by their feet,
The flowers they loved, grown all too sweet,
The streams their bright forms mirrored,
The fragrant banks that made their bed,
The human hearts round which they wove
Their threads of superhuman love—
These were too dear and desolate
To sink to fallen man's estate;
The gods who loved them loosed the seas,
Struck free the barriers of the deep,
That rolled in one careering sweep
And filled the land, as 'twere a grave,
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poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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A Savage
DIXON, a Choctaw, twenty years of age,
Had killed a miner in a Leadville brawl;
Tried and condemned, the rough-beards curb their rage,
And watch him stride in freedom from the hall.
'Return on Friday, to be shot to death!'
So ran the sentence—it was Monday night.
The dead man's comrades drew a well-pleased breath;
Then all night long the gambling dens were bright.
The days sped slowly; but the Friday came,
And flocked the miners to the shooting-ground;
They chose six riflemen of deadly aim,
And with low voices sat and lounged around.
'He will not come.' 'He's not a fool.' 'The men
Who set the savage free must face the blame.'
A Choctaw brave smiled bitterly, and then
Smiled proudly, with raised head, as Dixon came.
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poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Two Lives
TWO youths from a village set out together
To seek their fortune the wide world through;
One cried, 'Hurra for the autumn weather!'
The other sighed, 'Winter is almost due!'
One failed, they said, for he never was thrifty,
Returned to the village, and laughed and loved.
The other succeeded, and when he was fifty
Had millions and fame, and the world approved.
But the failure was happy, his smile a blessing,
The dogs and the children romped at his feet,
While from him who succeeded, tho' much possessing,
The little ones shrank when they chanced to meet.
One purchased respect by his lordly giving:
The other won love by his loving ways;
And if either had doubts of his way of living,
It wasn't the one with the humble days.
They never knew it, but both were teachers
Of deep life-secrets, these village youths—
The one of a school where Facts are preachers—
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poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Farewell
Farewell! Oh how hard and how sad 'tis to speak
That last word of parting—forever to break
The fond ties and affection that cling round the heart
From home and from friends and from country to part.
'Though it grieves to remember, 'tis vain to regret.
The sad word must be spoken, and memory's spell
Now steals o'er me sadly. Farewell! Oh farewell!
Farewell to thy green hills, thy valleys and plains,
My poor blighted country! In exile and chains
Are the sons doomed to linger. Of God who didst bring
Thy children to Zion from Egypt's proud king,
We implore Thy great mercy! Oh stretch forth Thy hand,
And guide back her sons to their poor blighted land.
Never more thy fair face am I destined to see;
E'en the savage loves home, but 'tis crime to love thee.
God bless thee, dear Erin, my loved one, my own,
Oh! how hard 'tis these tendrils to break that have grown
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Her Refrain
Do you love me?' she said, when the skies were blue,
And we walked where the stream through the branches glistened;
And I told and retold her my love was true,
While she listened and smiled, and smiled and listened.
Do you love me?' she whispered, when days were drear,
And her eyes searched mine with a patient yearning;
And I kissed her, renewing the words so dear,
While she listened and smiled, as if slowly learning.
“Do you love me?” she asked, when we sat at rest
By the stream enshadowed with autumn glory;
Her cheek had been laid as in peace on my breast,
But she raised it to ask for the sweet old story.
And I said: 'I will tell her the tale again—
I will swear by the earth and the stars above me!'
And I told her that uttermost time should prove
The fervor and faith of my perfect love;
And I vowed it and pledged it that nought should move;
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Love's Secret
LOVE found them sitting in a woodland place,
His amorous hand amid her golden tresses;
And Love looked smiling on her glowing face
And moistened eyes upturned to his caresses.
'O sweet,' she murmured, 'life is utter bliss!'
'Dear heart,' he said, 'our golden cup runs over!'
'Drink, love,' she cried, 'and thank the gods for this!'
He drained the precious lips of cup and lover.
Love blessed the kiss; but, ere he wandered thence,
The mated bosoms heard this benediction:
“Love lies within the brimming bowl of sense:
Who Jceeps this full has joy—who drains, affliction.”
They heard the rustle as he smiling fled:
She reached her hand to pull the roses blowing.
He stretched to take the purple grapes o'erhead;
Love whispered back, 'Nay, Keep their beauties growing.'
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poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Waiting
HE is coming! he is coming! in my throbbing breast I feel it;
There is music in my blood, and it whispers all day long,
That my love unknown comes toward me! Ah, my heart, he need not steal it,'
For I cannot hide the secret that it murmurs in its song!
O the sweet bursting flowers! how they open, never blushing,
Laying bare their fragrant bosoms to the kisses of the sun!
And the birds—I thought 'twas poets only read their tender gushing,
But I hear their pleading stories, and I know them every one.
'He is coming!' says my heart; I may raise my eyes and greet him;
I may meet him any moment—shall I know him when I see?
And my heart laughs back the answer—I can tell him when I meet him,
For our eyes will kiss and mingle ere he speaks a word to me.
O, I'm longing for his coming—in the dark my arms outreaching;
To hasten you, my love, see, I lay my bosom bare!
Ah, the night-wind! I shudder, and my hands are raised beseeching—
It wailed so light a death-sigh that passed me in the air!
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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The Dead whno Died for Ireland
The dead who died for Ireland!
Oh, these are living words
To nerve the hearts of patriots —
to steel avenging swords —
They thrill the soul when spoken,
and lowly bend the head
With reverence for the memories
of all our martyred dead.
The dead who died for Ireland —
the noble ones — the best,
Who gave their lives for Motherland,
Who poured upon her breast,
In Freedom's cause, the blood she gave —
Who with their dying breath,
Sent prayers to God to heal her woes —
then sealed their love in death.
The dead who died for Ireland,
How hallowed are their graves!
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Grant—1885
BLESSED are Pain, the smiter,
And Sorrow, the uniter!
For one afflicted lies—
A symboled sacrifice—
And all our rancor dies!
No North, no South! O stern-faced Chief,
One weeping ours, one cowled Grief—-
Thy Country—bowed in prayer and tear—
For North and South—above thy bier!
For North and South! O Soldier grim,
The broken ones to weep for him
Who broke them! He whose terrors blazed
In smoking harvests, cities razed;
Whose Fate-like glance sent fear and chill;
Whose wordless lips spake deathless will—
Till all was shattered, all was lost—
All hands dropped down—all War's red cost
Laid there in ashes—Hope and Hate
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poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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