My Native Land
IT chanced to me upon a time to sail
Across the Southern Ocean to and fro;
And, landing at fair isles, by stream and vale
Of sensuous blessing did we ofttimes go.
And months of dreamy joys, like joys in sleep,
Or like a clear, calm stream o'er mossy stone,
Unnoted passed our hearts with voiceless sweep,
And left us yearning still for lands unknown.
And when we found one,—for 'tis soon to find
In thousand-isled Cathay another isle,—
For one short noon its treasures filled the mind,
And then again we yearned, and ceased to smile.
And so it was, from isle to isle we passed,
Like wanton bees or boys on flowers or lips;
And when that all was tasted, then at last
We thirsted still for draughts instead of sips.
I learned from this there is no Southern land
Can fill with love the hearts of Northern men.
[...] Read more
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Ensign Epps, The Color-Bearer
ENSIGN EPPS, at the battle of Flanders,
Sowed a seed of glory and duty
That flowers and flames in height and beauty
Like a crimson lily with heart of gold,
To-day, when the wars of Ghent are old
And buried as deep as their dead commanders.
Ensign Epps was the color-bearer,—
No matter on which side, Philip or Earl;
Their cause was the shell—his deed was the pearl.
Scarce more than a lad, he had been a sharer
That day in the wildest work of the field.
He was wounded and spent, and the fight was lost;
His comrades were slain, or a scattered host.
But stainless and scatheless, out of the strife,
He had carried his colors safer than life.
By the river's brink, without weapon or shield,
He faced the victors. The thick-heart mist
He dashed from his eyes, and the silk he kissed
[...] Read more
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Wheat Grains
AS grains from chaff, I sift these worldly rules,
Kernels of wisdom, from the husks of schools:
I.
Benevolence befits the wisest mind;
But he who has not studied to be kind,
Who grants for asking, gives without a rule,
Hurts whom he helps, and proves himself a fool.
II.
The wise man is sincere: but he who tries
To be sincere, hap-hazard, is not wise.
III.
Knowledge is gold to him who can discern
That he who loves to know, must love to learn.
[...] Read more
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Well's Secret
I KNEW it all my boyhood: in a lonesome valley meadow,
Like a dryad's mirror hidden by the wood's dim arches near;
Its eye flashed back the sunshine, and grew dark and sad with shadow;
And I loved its truthful depths where every pebble lay so clear.
I scooped my hand and drank it, and watched the sensate quiver
Of the rippling rings of silver as the beads of crystal fell;
I pressed the richer grasses from its little trickling river,
Till at last I knew, as friends know, every secret of the well.
But one day I stood beside it on a sudden, unexpected,
When the sun had crossed the valley and a shadow hid the place;
And I looked in the dark water—saw my pallid cheek reflected—
And beside it, looking upward, met an evil reptile face:
Looking upward, furtive, startled at the silent, swift intrusion;
Then it darted toward the grasses, and I saw not where it fled;
But I knew its eyes were on me, and the old-time sweet illusion
Of the pure and perfect symbol I had cherished there was dead.
[...] Read more
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Resurgite!- June, 1877
NOW, for the faith that is in ye,
Polander, Sclav, and Kelt!
Prove to the world what the lips have hurled
The hearts have grandly felt.
Rouse, ye races in shackles!
See in the East, the glare
Is red in the sky, and the warning cry
Is sounding—'Awake! Prepare!'
A voice from the spheres—a hand downreached
To hands that would be free,
To rend the gyves from the fettered lives
That strain toward Liberty!
Circassia! the cup is flowing
That holdeth perennial youth:
Who strikes succeeds, for when manhood bleeds
Each dropp is a Cadmus' tooth.
[...] Read more
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Heart Hunger
THERE is no truth in faces, save in children:
They laugh and frown and weep from nature's keys;
But we who meet the world give out false notes,
The true note dying muffled in the heart.
O, there be woeful prayers and piteous wailing,
That spirits hear, from lives that starve for love!
The body's food is bread; and wretches' cries
Are heard and answered: but the spirit's food
Is love; and hearts that starve may die in agony
And no physician mark the cause of death.
You cannot read the faces; they are masks—
Like yonder woman, smiling at the lips,
Silk-clad, bejeweled, lapped with luxury,
And beautiful and young—ay, smiling at the lips,
But never in the eyes from inner light:
A gracious temple, hung with flowers without—
Within, a naked corpse upon the stones!
[...] Read more
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Rules of the Road
WHAT man would be wise, let him drink of the river
That bears on its bosom the record of time
A message to him every wave can deliver
To teach him to creep till he knows how to climb
Who heeds not experience, trust him not; tell him
The scope of one mind can but trifles achieve:
The weakest who draws from the mine will excel him
The wealth of mankind is the wisdom they leave.
For peace do not hope—to be just you must break it
Still work for the minute and not for the year;
When honor comes to you, be ready to take it;
But reach not to seize it before it is near.
Be silent and safe—silence never betrays you;
Be true to your word and your work and your friend;
Put least trust in him who is foremost to praise you,
Nor judge of a road till it draw to the end.
Stand erect in the vale, nor exult on the mountain;
Take gifts with a sigh—most men give to be paid;
[...] Read more
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Songs that are not sung
DO not praise: a smile is payment more than meet for what is done;
Who shall paint the mote's glad raiment floating in the molten sun?
Nay, nor smile, for blind is eyesight, ears may hear not, lips are dumb;
From the silence, from the twilight, wordless but complete they come.
Songs were born before the singer : like white souls awaiting birth,
They abide the chosen bringer of their melody to earth.
Deep the pain of our demerit: strings so rude or rudely strung,
Dull to every pleading spirit seeking speech but sent unsung;
Round our hearts with gentle breathing still the plaintive silence plays,
But we brush away its wreathing, filled with cares of common days.
Ever thinking of the morrow, burdened down with cares and needs,
Once or twice, mayhap, in sorrow, we may hear the song that pleads;
Once or twice, a dreaming poet sees the beauty as it flies,
But his vision who shall know it, who shall read it from his eyes?
Voiceless he,—his necromancy fails to cage the wondrous bird;
Lure and snare are vain when fancy flies like echo from a word.
Only sometime he may sing it, using speech as 'twere a bell,
Not to read the song but ring it, like the sea-tone from a shell.
Sometimes, too, it comes and lingers round the strings all still and mute,
[...] Read more
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
John Mitchel
I.
DEAD, with his harness on him:
Rigid and cold and white,
Marking the place of the vanguard
Still in the ancient fight.
The climber dead on the hill-side,
Before the height is won:
The workman dead on the building,
Before the work is done!
O, for a tongue to utter
The words that should be said—
Of his worth that was silver, living,
That is gold and jasper, dead!
Dead—but the death was fitting:
His life, to the latest breath,
Was poured like wax on the chart of right,
And is sealed by the stamp of Death!
[...] Read more
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Withered Snowdrops
THEY came in the early spring-days,
With the first refreshing showers
And I watched the growing beauty
Of the little drooping flowers.
They had no bright hues to charm me,
No gay painting to allure;
But they made me think of angels,
They were all so white and pure.
In the early morns I saw them,
Dew-drops clinging to each bell.
And the first glad sunbeam hasting
Just to kiss them ere they fell.
Daily grew their spotless beauty;
But I feared when chill winds blew
They were all too frail and tender,—
And alas! my fears were true.
[...] Read more
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!