Read Ebook: A happy New Year and other verses by Beresford Charles Edward De La Poer

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Ebook has 181 lines and 13754 words, and 4 pages

The peasant who heard of This wonderful isle Set sail to the west With a confident smile. The dream of Hy-Brasail Within his heart burned, He was lost in the sea And never returned.

Londonderry, September 10, 1913.

B?lor of the Great Blows.

Have ye read of the past in folios at Dublin Of Firwolgs, and of Pechts, and of red-headed Danes, And Fomors from Tory, who people went troublin', Stealing woman and child, binding Irish in chains?

Well, 'tis of these wild times and Ulster romantic, O'erspread by dark forests through which the elk called, And of rude pagan tribes, some dwarf, some gigantic, That I tell in this rhyme so poor and so bald.

In a deep gloomy glen near Muckish's mountain, Where the mist rolls in clouds and the waterfalls foam, From out of the cloud-rack, as out of a fountain; Himself saw a quare sight as he rode his horse home.

In the glen at the mouth of a black souterrain Shane O'Dugan beheld what I tell in my story.

A woman as lovely as dead Ethn? the Fair, With twelve ladies in waiting all clothed in gold, The Chief, MacKineely, and a boy with red hair, Came out the cave-dwelling and walked o'er the fold.

Now the red-pate is changed into B?lor the King, All bent on the murder of brave MacKineely; And although through the valley his daughter's shrieks ring, He cuts off his head on the stone Clough-an-neely.

Fierce King B?lor would fain kill his young grandsons too, But the Princess resolves with her children to fly, And the eldest grows into a young farrier, who Thrusts a red-heated iron in B?lor's one eye.

The wounded King calls to his one grandson, "Asthore!" Whilst forth from the sore wound rushes water like oil, From Falcarragh the whole way right up to Gweedore, Till it forms a lough three times as deep as Lough Foyle!

The Garden.

I know a garden sheltered from the north And east by lichened walls and stately trees Facing the south in rows are bursting forth Masses of bright flowers, fertilised by bees; In it from early morn, with spade and hoe, A good man trenches, digs, and plants, that things may grow.

I would my mind were like that garden fair-- A fruitful soil touched by the spade of God! No weeds of prejudice might grow up there, No tares of ignorance disgrace the sod, But Wisdom, glad of such a soil and ground, Would plant her flowers therein--to scatter fragrance round.

A Song of Spring.

It was Spring, joyous Spring, When each bud had just unfolden, From its bursting calyx golden, All the greenery of Spring, When I heard the cuckoo sing, Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!

It was Spring, joyous Spring, When the shepherd on the wold, Having tended well the fold, Saw the meek-eyed ewes well-sheltered 'Gainst the hail and rain that peltered On the downs, in the Spring!

It was Spring, joyous Spring, And the black thorn and the white, Breaking forth from out the night And the dark of Winter's gloom, Raced the chestnuts into bloom With the leaves, in gentle Spring.

It was Spring, joyous Spring, When from bush and bough and tree Burst a song of joy to Thee, Who hast made the lark that singeth, And the earth whose produce bringeth Forth in Spring: When I heard the cuckoo sing, Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!

April, 1896.

The Mir?ge on Kizil Koom.

Where the hot sun o'er Caspian's reedy shore In a red ball of fire descends in gloom, I trod the desert's silent, sandy floor, Called by the Turkom?ns the Kizil Koom.

No grass, no flower relieves the rusty sheen, Perhaps an antelope goes rushing through The rare sage-brush; no water there is seen, Save where the fell mir?ge distracts the view.

And that mir?ge! At first a little cloud, From which green trees and silvery lakes arise, Where white felucca sails deceive the crowd Of weary travellers, and fool their eyes.

Ah! what art thou, mir?ge? What have I seen? "I am the many things of which you dream" "At morn of life, but never hold at e'en." "I am the hopes with which your fancies teem!"

"I am the heart's desire, the lover bold;" I am the silken gown, the judge's chair I am the battle won; the book well sold Coronet; Ermine! Castle in the air!"

Ah! Kizil Koom, Red Sand, what more dost say In thy mir?ge to travellers o'er thy floor? "I teach content to those who through the way Of life well spent have passed, and dream no more."

A Dream of Samark?nd.

Between the mountains of Alai And Tian-Shan's heavenly chain Lies the home of the Zagatai, Ferg?na's fruitful plain. First of the towns whose domes and wall Deck that illustrious land Stands the lame Tim?r's capital, His best-loved Samark?nd.

I stood inside a shattered room, Stricken by earthquakes rife, That Tim?r raised above the tomb Of Ming's fair daughter-wife. Daughter of China's B?gdu-Khan, Wife of the great Tim?r, Who 'twixt them ruled the vast inland From Red Sea to Am?r.

Above an arch a double dome Bites in the clear blue sky . Above the dome a crescent bright Watched sleepy Samark?nd, Asleep to-day, but wide awake When Tim?r ruled the land.

The sun shines through the double dome, Lighting its inner skin, It shows the remnant of the stair That upwards led within, From which the muezzin, climbing slow, To shout the evening prayer, Could see the Rigist?n below, Shir-D?r and Tilla-Kare.

I seemed to see the cliffs at Kesh, Whence came the great Am?r, From whose red rift the Zarafsh?n Sends forth its waters clear. I seemed to see the Tatar horde, Under Tokt?mish brave, Beaten and drowning in the ford That crosses Kub?n's wave.

I saw the Mogul army move To conquer Hindost?n; Its serried, strong divisions prove The master mind of man. Ninety-two thousand fretting steeds Rush down from hill to plain; Tim?r descends the khud by ropes, Five times let down again.

The Mongols march upon Attock And cross the rivers five, Tim?r joins forces at Mult?n With all his sons alive; His armies then invest Batnir, They come to Delhi's towers, Mahmud Sult?n gives battle there, Tim?r his standard lowers.

Asia, from Irtish to Orm?z O'er-run by Tim?r's bands, Ir?n, Tur?n and Ind had felt The weight of Mongol hands. Aleppo taken by the horde, Tim?r fresh laurels culls, And covers Baghdad's reeking sward With pyramids of skulls.

Now on Ang?ra's fateful plain The "Lightning" Bayazet Urges his Turks to fight, in vain, 'Gainst Mongol and kismet. 'Twas told that Bayazet was caged Just like a timid deer, But Tim?r never warfare waged On captives of his spear.

From all these scenes of lust and blood I turn to Samark?nd, Where Zarafsh?n's refreshing flood Gives life unto the land. Here Tim?r mosque and palace built Around a sheltered pool, Set in a field with arbours gilt, And called it Kh?n-i-G?l.

Thousands of guests were bid to share The great Am?r's largesse, The Guilds and Trades were gathered there, The wronged received redress. Here, in his coat of mail of steel, Tim?r, 'midst his sepoys, From Russ, and France, and far Castille, Received the Grand Envoys.

Six grandsons of the Great Am?r Wed brides of princely rank, Nine times the brides their dresses change, Nine times their handmaids thank. Each time each bride is fresh arrayed, Fall to the ground in showers Rubies and diamonds, which the maid Keeps as her bridal flowers!

I see Tim?r, one boot, one glove, And with his lint-white hair, Delighted on his chess-board move Fifty-six pieces fair. The blood-red ruby in his ear Trembles before my view, But when his rage the stone shakes there, 'Fore God! the world shakes too.

At last the Mogul Emperor Invades far-off Cathay, He starts, the tired conqueror, Marching ten miles a day, Crosses Syr-D?ria's solid stream, And stops at Otr?r, when He sees the blade of ?zrael gleam At three-score years and ten.

Come with me to the G?r-Amir, Within whose simple walls Over a six-foot block of jade A horsehair standard falls. Beneath the dark and polished stone Descends a bare brick stair, Leading to Tamerlane's own tomb, Nor pomp nor state is there.

Beneath the fluted, darkened dome, Where dimly seen in gloom, Surrounded by an Arab text, Hangs Tim?r's tattered plume, Outside the simple marble rail Engraved with Tim?r's name, The passing pilgrim cannot fail To muse on Tim?r's fame.

At Santa Sophia, Constantinople.

There is the altar, there is the wall, Disfigured by M?hemet's hand: We should raise the Cross of Christ in the hall Where the Turkish banners stand; And the tones of "Te Deum," quenched in blood, Should resound again in the land.

The Hill Cities.

Perugia, April, 1912.

Florence from San Miniato.

Beneath my feet the smokeless city fair: Duomo and Giotto's noble tower arise Like sentinels o'er Florence! In the air Something, not mist, but silvery vapour, lies.

Up a steep hill climbs famous Fi?sole From out the dark woods of Domenico, Close to Arno's bank is Santa Croc?, Where lies at rest great Michael Angelo.

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