Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy

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POEMS

BY

DENIS FLORENCE MAC CARTHY

DUBLIN

M. H. GILL AND SON,
50 UPPER SACKVILLE STREET

1882

M. H. GILL AND SON, PRINTERS, DUBLIN

Memorial to Denis Florence MacCarthy.

A Committee of friends and admirers of the late Denis Florence MacCarthy
has been formed for the purpose of perpetuating in a fitting manner the
memory of this distinguished Irish poet. Among the contributors to the
Memorial Fund are Cardinal Newman, Cardinal MacCabe, Cardinal MacClosky;
Most Rev. Dr. M'Gettigan, Most Rev. Dr. Croke, Most Rev. Dr. Butler, and
many of the Irish Clergy; Lord O'Hagan, the Marquis of Ripon, Archbishop
Trench, Judge O'Hagan, Sir. C. G. Duffy, Aubrey de Vere, Sir Samuel
Ferguson, and Dr. J. K. Ingram.

Subscriptions will be received by the Lord Mayor, Mansion House,
Dublin; by Dr. James Brady, 38 Harcourt-st; Mr. W. L. Joynt, D. L.,
43 Merrion-square; Rev. C. P. Meehan, SS. Michael and John's; or by
any Member of the Committee.

PREFACE.

This volume contains, besides the poems published in 1850 and 1857,[1]
the odes written for the centenary celebrations in honour of O'Connell
in 1875, and of Moore in 1879. To these are added several sonnets and
miscellaneous poems now first collected, and the episode of "Ferdiah"
translated from the 'Tain Bo Chuailgne.'

Born in Dublin,[2] May 26th, 1817, my father, while still very young,
showed a decided taste for literature. The course of his boyish reading
is indicated in his "Lament." Some verses from his pen, headed "My
Wishes," appeared in the "Dublin Satirist," April 12th, 1834. This was,
as far as I can discover, the earliest of his writings published. To
the journal just mentioned he frequently contributed, both in prose and
verse, during the next two years. The following are some of the
titles:--"The Greenwood Hill;" "Songs of other Days" (Belshazzar's
Feast--Thoughts in the Holy Land--Thoughts of the Past); "Life,"
"Death," "Fables" (The Zephyr and the Sensitive Plant--The
Tulip and the Rose--The Bee and the Rose); "Songs of Birds"
(Nightingale--Eagle--Phoenix--Fire-fly); "Songs of the Winds," &c.

On October 14th, 1843, his first contribution ("Proclamation Songs," No.
1) appeared in the Dublin "Nation." "Here is a song by a new recruit,"
wrote Mr., now Sir, Charles Gavan Duffy, "which we should give in our
leading columns if they were not preoccupied." In the next number I
find "The Battle of Clontarf," with this editorial note: "'Desmond' is
entitled to be enrolled in our national brigade." "A Dream" soon
follows; and at intervals, between this date and 1849--besides many
other poems--all the National songs and most of the Ballads included in
this volume. In April, 1847, "The Bell-Founder" and "The Foray of Con
O'Donnell" appeared in the "University Magazine," in which "Waiting for
the May," "The Bridal of the Year," and "The Voyage of Saint Brendan,"
were subsequently published (in January and May, 1848). Meanwhile, in
1846, the year in which he was called to the bar, he edited the "Poets
and Dramatists of Ireland," with an introduction, which evinced
considerable reading, on the early religion and literature of the Irish
people. In the same year he also edited the "Book of Irish Ballads," to
which he prefixed an introduction on ballad poetry. This volume was
republished with additions and a preface in 1869. In 1853, the poems
afterwards published under the title of "Underglimpses" were chiefly
written.[3]

The plays of Calderon--thoroughly national in form and matter--have met
with but scant appreciation from foreigners. Yet we find his genius
recognized in unexpected quarters, Goethe and Shelley uniting with
Augustus Schlegel and Archbishop Trench to pay him homage. My father
was, I think, first led to the study of Calderon by Shelley's glowing
eulogy of the poet ("Essays," vol. ii., p. 274, and elsewhere). The
first of his translations was published in 1853, the last twenty years
later. They consist[4] of fifteen complete plays, which I believe to be
the largest amount of translated verse by any one author, that has ever
appeared in English. Most of it is in the difficult assonant or vowel
rhyme, hardly ever previously attempted in our language. This may be a
fitting place to cite a few testimonies as to the execution of the work.
Longfellow, whom I have myself heard speak of the "Autos" in a way that
showed how deeply he had studied them in the original, wrote, in 1857:
"You are doing this work admirably, and seem to gain new strength and
sweetness as you go on. It seems as if Calderon himself were behind you
whispering and suggesting. And what better work could you do in your
bright hours or in your dark hours that just this, which seems to have
been put providentially into your hands." Again, in 1862: "Your new
work in the vast and flowery fields of Calderon is, I think, admirable,
and presents the old Spanish dramatist before the English reader in a
very attractive light. Particularly in the most poetical passages you
are excellent; as, for instance, in the fine description of the
gerfalcon and the heron in 'El Mayor Encanto.' I hope you mean to add
more and more, so as to make the translation as nearly complete as a
single life will permit. It seems rather appalling to undertake the
whole of so voluminous a writer; nevertheless, I hope you will do it.
Having proved that you can, perhaps you ought to do it. This may be
your appointed work. It is a noble one."[5] Ticknor ("History of
Spanish Literature," new edition, vol. iii. p. 461) writes thus:
"Calderon is a poet who, whenever he is translated, should have his very
excesses and extravagances, both in thought and manner, fully
reproduced, in order to give a faithful idea of what is grandest and
most distinctive in his genius. Mr. MacCarthy has done this, I
conceive, to a degree which I had previously supposed impossible.
Nothing, I think, in the English language will give us so true an
impression of what is most characteristic of the Spanish drama; perhaps
I ought to say, of what is most characteristic of Spanish poetry
generally."

Another eminent Hispaniologist (Mr. C. F. Bradford, of Boston) has
spoken of the work in similar terms. His labours did not pass without
recognition from the great dramatist's countrymen. He was elected a
member of the Real Academia some years ago, and in 1881 this learned
body presented him with the medal struck in commemoration of Calderon's
bicentenary, "in token of their gratitude and their appreciation of his
translations of the great poet's works."

In 1855, at the request of the Marchioness of Donegal, my father wrote
the ode which was recited at the inauguration of the statue of her son,
the Earl of Belfast. About the same time, his Lectures on Poetry were
delivered at the Catholic University at the desire of Cardinal Newman.
The Lectures on the Poets of Spain, and on the Dramatists of the
Sixteenth Century, were delivered a few years later. In 1862 he
published a curious bibliographical treatise on the "Memoires of the
Marquis de Villars." In 1864 the ill-health of some of his family his
leaving his home near Killiney Hill[6] to reside on the Continent. In
1872, "Shelley's Early Life" was published in London, where he had
settled, attracted by the facilities for research which its great
libraries offered. This biography gives an amusing account of the young
poet's visit to Dublin in 1812, and some new details of his adventures
and writings at this period. My father's admiration for Shelley was of
long standing. At the age of seventeen he wrote some lines to the
poet's memory, which appeared in the "Dublin Satirist" already
mentioned, and an elaborate review of his poetry in an early number of
the Nation. I have before alluded to Shelley's influence in directing
his attention to Calderon. The centenary odes in honour of O'Connell
and Moore were written, in 1875 and 1879, at the request of the
committees which had charge of these celebrations. He returned to
Ireland a few months before his death, which took place at Blackrock,
near Dublin, on April 7th,[7] in the present year. His nature was most
sensitive, but though it was his lot to suffer many sorrows, I never
heard a complaint or and unkind word from his lips.

From what has been said it will be evident that this volume contains
only a part of his poetical works, it having been found impossible to
include the humorous pieces, parodies, and epigrams, without some
acquaintance with which an imperfect idea would be formed of his genius.
The same may be said of his numerous translations from various languages
(exclusive of Calderon's plays). Of those published in 1850, "The
Romance of Maleca," "Saint George's Knight," "The Christmas of the
Foreign Child," and others have been frequently reprinted. He has since
rendered from the Spanish poems by Juan de Pedraza, Antonio de Trueba,
Garcilaso de la Vega, Gongora and "Fernan Caballero," whom he visited
when in Spain shortly before her death, and whose prose story, "The Two
Muleteers," he has also translated. To these must be added, besides
several shorter ballads from Duran's Romancero General, "The Poem of the
Cid," "The Romance of Gayferos," and "The Infanta of France." The last
is a metrical tale of the fourteenth or fifteenth century, presenting
analogies with the "Thousand and One Nights," and probably drawn from an
Oriental source. His translations from the Latin, chiefly of mediaeval
hymns, are also numerous.

In inserting the poem of "Ferdiah" I was influenced by its subject as
well as by the wish of friends. A few extracts appeared in a magazine
several years ago, and it was afterwards completed without any view to
publication. It follows the present Irish text[8] as closely as the
laws of metre will allow. Since these pages were in the printer's hands
Mr. Aubrey de Vere has given to the world his treatment of the same
theme,[9] adorning as usual all that he touches. As he well says: "It
is not in the form of translation that an ancient Irish tale of any
considerable length admits of being rendered in poetry. What is needed
is to select from the original such portions as are at once the most
essential to the story, and the most characteristic, reproducing them in
a condensed form, and taking care that the necessary additions bring out
the idea, and contain nothing that is not in the spirit of the
original." (Preface, p. vii.) The "Tale of Troy Divine" owes its form,
and we may never know how much of its tenderness and grace, to its
Alexandrian editor. However, the present version may, from its very
literalness, have and interest for some readers.

Many of the earlier poems here collected have been admirably rendered
into French by the late M. Ernest de Chatelain.[10] The Moore Centenary
Ode has been translated into Latin by the Rev. M. J. Blacker, M. A.

My thanks are due to the Rev. Matthew Russell, S. J., for his kind
assistance in preparing this book for the press, and to the Publishers
for the accuracy and speed with which it has been produced.

I cannot let pass this opportunity of expressing my gratitude for the
self-sacrificing labours of the committee formed at the suggestion of
Mr. William Lane Joynt, D. L., to honour my father's memory, and for the
generous response his friends have made to their appeal.[11]

JOHN MAC CARTHY

Blackrock, Dublin, August, 1882.

1. "Ballads, Poems, and Lyrics, Original and Translated:" Dublin, 1850.
"The Bell-Founder, and other Poems," "Underglimpses, and other Poems:"
London, 1857. A few pieces which seemed not to be of abiding interest
have been omitted.

2. At 24 Lower Sackville-street. The house, with others adjoining, was
pulled down several years ago. Their site is now occupied by the
Imperial Hotel.

3. The subjective view of nature developed in these Poems has been
censured as remote from human interest. Yet a critic of deep insight,
George Gilfillan, declares his special admiration for "the joyous,
sunny, lark-like carols on May, almost worthy of Shelley, and such
delicate, tender, Moore-like 'trifles' (shall I call them?) as 'All
Fool's Day.' The whole" he adds, "is full of a beautiful poetic spirit,
and rich resources both of fancy and language." I may be permitted to
transcribe here an extract from some unpublished comments by Sir William
Rowan Hamilton on another poem of the same class. His remarks are
interesting in themselves, as coming from one illustrious as a man of
science, and, at the same time, a true poet--a combination which may
hereafter become more frequent, since already in the vast regions of
space and time brought within human ken, imagination strives hard to
keep pace with established fact. In a manuscript volume now in the
Library of Trinity College, Dublin, he writes, under date, May, 1848:--

"The University Magazine for the present month contains a poem which
delights one, entitled 'The Bridal of the Year.' It is signed 'D. F. M.
C.,' as is also a shorter, but almost a sweeter piece immediately
following it, and headed, 'Summer Longings.'"

Sir William goes through the whole poem, copying and criticising every
stanza, and concludes as follows:--

"After a very pretty ninth stanza respecting the 'fairy
phantoms' in the poet's 'glorious visions seen,' which the
author conceives to 'follow the poet's steps beneath the
morning's beam,' he burst into rapture at the approach of the
Bride herself--

"'Bright as are the planets seven--
with her glances
She advances,
For her azure eyes are Heaven!
And her robes are sunbeams woven,
And her beauteous bridesmaids are
Hopes and wishes--
Dreams delicious--
Joys from some serener star,
And Heavenly-hued Illusions gleaming from afar!'

"Her eyes 'are' heaven, her robes 'are' sunbeams, and with these
physical aspects of the May, how well does the author of this ode (for
such, surely, we may term the poem, so rich in lyrical enthusiasm and
varied melody) conceive the combination as bridesmaids, as companions to
the bride; of those mental feelings, those new buddings of hope in the
heart which the season is fitted to awaken. The azure eyes glitter back
to ours, for the planets shine upon us from the lovely summer night; but
lovelier still are those 'dreams delicious, joys from some serener
star,' which at the same sweet season float down invisibly, and win
their entrance to our souls. The image of a bridal is happily and
naturally kept before us in the remaining stanzas of this poem, which
well deserve to be copied here, in continuation of these notes--the
former for its cheerfulness, the latter for its sweetness. I wish that
I knew the author, or even that I were acquainted with his name.--Since
ascertained to be D. F. MacCarthy."

4. The following are the titles and dates of publication: In 1853,
"The Constant Prince," "The Secret in Words," "The Physician of his own
Honour," "Love after Death," "The Purgatory of St. Patrick," "The Scarf
and the Flower." In 1861, "The Greatest Enchantment," "The Sorceries of
Sin," "Devotion of the Cross." In 1867, "Belshazzar's Feast," "The
Divine Philothea" (with Essays from the German of Lorinser, and the
Spanish of Gonzales Pedroso). In 1870, "Chrysanthus and Daria, the Two
Lovers of Heaven." In 1873, "The Wonder-working Magician," "Life is a
Dream," "The Purgatory of St. Patrick" (a new translation entirely in
the assonant metre). Introductions and notes are added to all these
plays. Another, "Daybreak in Copacabana," was finished a few months
before his death, and has not been published.

5. When the author of "Evangeline" visited Europe for the last time in
1869, they met in Italy. The sonnets at p. 174 [To Henry Wadsworth
Longfellow] refer to this occasion.

6. The "Campo de Estio," described in the lines "Not Known."

7. A fortnight after that of Longfellow. His attached friend and early
associate, Thomas D'Arcy M'Gee, perished by assassination at Ottawa on
the same day and month fourteen years ago.

8. Edited by his friend Br. W. K. Sullivan, President of Queen's
College, Cork, who, I may add, has in preparation a paper on the "Voyage
of St. Brendan," and on other ancient Irish accounts of voyages, of
which he finds an explanation in Keltic mythology. The paper will
appear in the Transactions of the American Geographical Society.

9. "The Combat at the Ford" being Fragment III. of his "Legends of
Ireland's Heroic Age." London, 1882.

10. In his "Beautes de la Poesie Anglaise, Rayons et Reflets," &c.

11. The first meeting was held on April 15th, at the Mansion House,
Dublin, under the presidency of the Lord Mayor, the Right Hon. Charles
Dawson, M. P.

CONTENTS.

Preface

BALLADS AND LYRICS.

Waiting for the May [Summer Longings]
Devotion
The Seasons of the Heart
Kate of Kenmare
A Lament
The Bridal of the Year
The Vale of Shanganah
The Pillar Towers of Ireland
Over the Sea
Oh! had I the Wings of a Bird [Home Preference]
Love's Language
The Fireside
The Banished Spirit's Song
Remembrance
The Clan of MacCaura
The Window
Autumn Fears
Fatal Gifts
Sweet May
FERDIAH: an Episode from the Tain Bo Cuailgne
THE VOYAGE OF ST. BRENDAN
THE FORAY OF CON O'DONNELL
THE BELL-FOUNDER
ALICE AND UNA

NATIONAL POEMS AND SONGS.

Advance!
Remonstrance
Ireland's Vow
A Dream
The Price of Freedom
The Voice and Pen
"Cease to do Evil--Learn to do Well"
The Living Land
The Dead Tribune
A Mystery

SONNETS.

"The History of Dublin"
To Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
To Kenelm Henry Digby
To Ethna [Dedicatory Sonnet]

UNDERGLIMPSES.

The Arraying
The Search
The Tidings
Welcome, May
The Meeting of the Flowers
The Progress of the Rose
The Bath of the Streams
The Flowers of the Tropics
The Year-King
The Awaking
The Resurrection
The First of the Angels
Spirit Voices

CENTENARY ODES.

O'Connell (August 6th, 1875)
Moore (May 28th, 1879)

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

The Spirit of the Snow
To the Bay of Dublin
To Ethna
"Not Known"
The Lay Missioner
The Spirit of the Ideal
Recollections
Dolores
Lost and Found
Spring Flowers from Ireland
To the Memory of Father Prout
Those Shandon Bells
Youth and Age
To June
Sunny Days in Winter
The Birth of the Spring
All Fool's Day
Darrynane
A Shamrock from the Irish Shore
Italian Myrtles
The Irish Emigrant's Mother [The Emigrants]
The Rain: a Song of Peace

Poems.

BALLADS AND LYRICS.

WAITING FOR THE MAY.

Ah! my heart is weary waiting,
Waiting for the May--
Waiting for the pleasant rambles,
Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles,
With the woodbine alternating,
Scent the dewy way.
Ah! my heart is weary waiting,
Waiting for the May.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing,
Longing for the May--
Longing to escape from study,
To the young face fair and ruddy,
And the thousand charms belonging
To the summer's day.
Ah! my heart is sick with longing,
Longing for the May.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May--
Sighing for their sure returning,
When the summer beams are burning,
Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying,
All the winter lay.
Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May.

Ah! my heart is pained and throbbing,
Throbbing for the May--
Throbbing for the sea-side billows,
Or the water-wooing willows,
Where in laughing and in sobbing
Glide the streams away.
Ah! my heart is pained and throbbing,
Throbbing for the May.

Waiting sad, dejected, weary,
Waiting for the May.
Spring goes by with wasted warnings,
Moon-lit evenings, sun-bright mornings;
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary
Life still ebbs away:
Man is ever weary, weary,
Waiting for the May!

DEVOTION.

When I wander by the ocean,
When I view its wild commotion,
Then the spirit of devotion
Cometh near;
And it fills my brain and bosom,
Like a fear!

I fear its booming thunder,
Its terror and its wonder,
Its icy waves, that sunder
Heart from heart;
And the white host that lies under
Makes me start.

Its clashing and its clangour
Proclaim the Godhead's anger--
I shudder, and with langour
Turn away;
No joyance fills my bosom
For that day.

When I wander through the valleys,
When the evening zephyr dallies,
And the light expiring rallies
In the stream,
That spirit comes and glads me,
Like a dream.

The blue smoke upward curling,
The silver streamlet purling,
The meadow wildflowers furling
Their leaflets to repose:
All woo me from the world
And its woes.

The evening bell that bringeth
A truce to toil outringeth,
No sweetest bird that singeth
Half so sweet,
Not even the lark that springeth
From my feet.

Then see I God beside me,
The sheltering trees that hide me,
The mountains that divide me
From the sea:
All prove how kind a Father
He can be.

Beneath the sweet moon shining
The cattle are reclining,
No murmur of repining
Soundeth sad:
All feel the present Godhead,
And are glad.

With mute, unvoiced confessings,
To the Giver of all blessings
I kneel, and with caressings
Press the sod,
And thank my Lord and Father,
And my God.

THE SEASONS OF THE HEART.

The different hues that deck the earth
All in our bosoms have their birth;
'Tis not in the blue or sunny skies,
'Tis in the heart the summer lies!
The earth is bright if that be glad,
Dark is the earth if that be sad:
And thus I feel each weary day--
'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!

In vain, upon her emerald car,
Comes Spring, "the maiden from afar,"
And scatters o'er the woods and fields
The liberal gifts that nature yields;
In vain the buds begin to grow,
In vain the crocus gilds the snow;
I feel no joy though earth be gay--
'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!

And when the Autumn crowns the year,
And ripened hangs the golden ear,
And luscious fruits of ruddy hue
The bending boughs are glancing through,
When yellow leaves from sheltered nooks
Come forth and try the mountain brooks,
Even then I feel, as there I stray--
'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!

And when the winter comes at length,
With swaggering gait and giant strength,
And with his strong arms in a trice
Binds up the streams in chains of ice,
What need I sigh for pleasures gone,
The twilight eve, the rosy dawn?
My heart is changed as much as they--
'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!

Even now, when Summer lends the scene
Its brightest gold, its purest green,
Whene'er I climb the mountain's breast,
With softest moss and heath-flowers dress'd,
When now I hear the breeze that stirs
The golden bells that deck the furze,
Alas! unprized they pass away--
'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!

But when thou comest back once more,
Though dark clouds hang and loud winds roar,
And mists obscure the nearest hills,
And dark and turbid roll the rills,
Such pleasures then my breast shall know,
That summer's sun shall round me glow;
Then through the gloom shall gleam the May--
'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!

KATE OF KENMARE.

Oh! many bright eyes full of goodness and gladness,
Where the pure soul looks out, and the heart loves to shine,
And many cheeks pale with the soft hue of sadness,
Have I worshipped in silence and felt them divine!
But Hope in its gleamings, or Love in its dreamings,
Ne'er fashioned a being so faultless and fair
As the lily-cheeked beauty, the rose of the Roughty,[12]
The fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare!

It was all but a moment, her radiant existence,
Her presence, her absence, all crowded on me;
But time has not ages and earth has not distance
To sever, sweet vision, my spirit from thee!
Again am I straying where children are playing,
Bright is the sunshine and balmy the air,
Mountains are heathy, and there do I see thee,
Sweet fawn of the valley, young Kate of Kenmare!

Thine arbutus beareth full many a cluster
Of white waxen blossoms like lilies in air;
But, oh! thy pale cheek hath a delicate lustre
No blossoms can rival, no lily doth wear;
To that cheek softly flushing, thy lip brightly blushing,
Oh! what are the berries that bright tree doth bear?
Peerless in beauty, that rose of the Roughty,
That fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare!

O Beauty! some spell from kind Nature thou bearest,
Some magic of tone or enchantment of eye,
That hearts that are hardest, from forms that are fairest,
Receive such impressions as never can die!
The foot of the fairy, though lightsome and airy,[13]
Can stamp on the hard rock the shapes it doth wear;
Art cannot trace it, nor ages efface it:
And such are thy glances, sweet Kate of Kenmare!

To him who far travels how sad is the feeling,
How the light of his mind is o'ershadowed and dim,
When the scenes he most loves, like a river's soft stealing,
All fade as a vision and vanish from him!
Yet he bears from each far land a flower for that garland
That memory weaves of the bright and the fair;
While this sigh I am breathing my garland is wreathing,
And the rose of that garland is Kate of Kenmare!

In lonely Lough Quinlan in summer's soft hours,
Fair islands are floating that move with the tide,
Which, sterile at first, are soon covered with flowers,
And thus o'er the bright waters fairy-like glide.
Thus the mind the most vacant is quickly awakened,
And the heart bears a harvest that late was so bare,
Of him who in roving finds objects of loving,
Like the fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare!

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