The Exiled Emperor
The birds sing to-day.
For to-morrow they will be flown
Many miles across the tossing sea.
Dikt om temaet: exile
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The Song of Fionnuala
Silent, oh Moyle, be the roar of thy water,
Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose,
While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter
Tell's to the night-star her tale of woes.
When shall the swan, her death-note singing,
Sleep, with wings in darkness furl'd?
When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,
Call my spirit from this stormy world?
Sadly, oh Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping,
Fate bids me languish long ages away;
Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping,
Still doth the pure light its dawning delay.
When will that day-star, mildly springing,
Warm our isle with peace and love?
When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,
Call my spirit to the fields above?
Though the Last Glimpse of Erin With Sorrow I See
Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see,
Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me;
In exile thy bosom shall still be my home,
And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.
To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore,
Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more,
I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind
Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind.
And I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it wreathes,
And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes;
Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear
One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.
314. Song—There’ll never be Peace till Jamie comes hame
BY yon Castle wa’, at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, tho’ his head it was grey:
And as he was singing, the tears doon came,—
There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
The Church is in ruins, the State is in jars,
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars,
We dare na weel say’t, but we ken wha’s to blame,—
There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,
But now I greet round their green beds in the yerd;
It brak the sweet heart o’ my faithful and dame,—
There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
Now life is a burden that bows me down,
Sin’ I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;
But till my last moments my words are the same,—
"De Gustibus--"
Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees,
(If our loves remain)
In an English lane,
By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies.
Hark, those two in the hazel coppice--
A boy and a girl, if the good fates please,
Making love, say,--
The happier they!
Draw yourself up from the light of the moon.
And let them pass, as they will too soon,
With the beanflower's boon,
And the blackbird's tune,
And May, and June!
What I love best in all the world
Is a castle, precipice-encurled,
In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine.
128. The Farewell
FAREWELL, old Scotia’s bleak domains,
Far dearer than the torrid plains,
Where rich ananas blow!
Farewell, a mother’s blessing dear!
A borther’s sigh! a sister’s tear!
My Jean’s heart-rending throe!
Farewell, my Bess! tho’ thou’rt bereft
Of my paternal care.
A faithful brother I have left,
My part in him thou’lt share!
Adieu, too, to you too,
My Smith, my bosom frien’;
When kindly you mind me,
O then befriend my Jean!
What bursting anguish tears my heart;
From thee, my Jeany, must I part!
Sonnet XXV: O Why Should Nature
O why should Nature niggardly restrain
That foreign nations relish not our tongue?
Else should my lines glide on the waves of Rhene
And crown the Pyrens with my living song.
But, bounded thus, to Scotland get you forth,
Thence take you wing unto the Orcades;
There let my verse get glory in the North,
Making my sighs to thaw the frozen seas;
And let the Bards within that Irish isle,
To whom my Muse with fiery wing shall pass,
Call back the stiff-neck'd rebels from exile,
And mollify the slaught'ring Gallowglass;
And when my flowing numbers they rehearse,
Let wolves and bears be charmed with my verse.