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John Keegan - Poems.
[ Source: Tony Delany’s John Keegan page - online; accessed 03.9.2011.]
| “The Sunday Evening Dance” |
The holy mass is ended, and the priest is gone away,
The dinner-hour is over and the youngsters are at play,
The pansy and the wall-flower are blooming all so gay,
And I’ll go out, and wander through the beauties
of the May.
On yonder snowy sloe-bush the cuckoo takes her stand,
She ’speaks’ of flowers and sunshine to our teeming western land;
And down in yonder ’Inch’ where the yellow king-cups blow,
The corn-creak invites me, so I’ll take my hat and go.
Oh, how the hot sun sparkles! but hark! upon the gale,
A silver sound is floating, and below in that green vale,
The village folks are grouping - Oh, God bless you, ‘Thigeen Ruadh,’
But your fiddle squeaks as briskly as it did ten years ago.
And God love our pretty lasses! faith it warms my heart to see,
Their modest rosy faces, and to hear their sinless glee -
And now I’ll go amongst them as I often did before,
Though alas! I’m not so merry as I was in days of yore.
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This is a weary world! sure, but thirty years have shed,
Their cloud-shades and their sun-light over my half silvered head.
But ten short years have vanished since my blood would wildly flow,
When I’d hear the twanging echo of your fiddle, “Thigeen Ruadh.”
But now, my blood is colder, and I smile upon the past,
My step is slow and haughty, and my heart throbs not so fast,
I cannot be so happy as I was ten years ago,
When I wished for nought but half-pence for our fiddler, “Thigeen Ruadh.”
Yet, once more I am amongst you, fair maids and stalwart swains,
My eyes with tears are glist’ning as I hear old “Thigeen’s” strains,
Oh, ask me not to dance, Grace, indeed I cannot go
Though Monanelly’s piper played instead of “Thigeen Ruadh.”
To look upon such men! * * * * *
My heart strings stretch, I will not dance, and with such thoughts upon my brain,
But brothers, when on our old hills, I hear the joyous strain,
Of union, peace and happiness, with bounding heart I’ll go,
And dance as gaily as I danced, when I first saw ‘Thigeen Ruadh. |
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| “Evening Reflections” |
The coy star of Love in the far West is burning,
The heron is home to its lov’d shaw returning,
The moss-rose hangs slumbering on its slender stem,
And the hornet is humming his wild vesper hymn.
How sweet at this bland hour to wander alone,
By yon streamlet’s green side and to hear the gay tone,
Of the children of Summer that on light wings rejoice,
Chaunting day’s requiem with low mystic voice.
And it’s charming to gaze on the deep-blushing sky,
Its fine marble clouds, and its unearthly dye,
To view the red moon stealing up from the East,
And to list to the day-breeze sighing to rest.
But still, though pale sorrow seems far, far away,
Though even inanimate Nature looks gay,
My heart is not gladsome, its throbbings not light,
My musings not pleasant, my reveries not bright.
For this is an hour when Memory will sting
The sensitive heart, and wild Fancy will fling,
Unhidden, - a gloomy, - a painful contrast,
‘Twixt the ideal future, the present, and past.
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Ah! how my heart swells, as in vision I view,
The forms of those who have bid me - ‘Adieu,’ -
Who have passed o’er the dark, interminable sea,
Which laves the bright shores of the regions of day.
Ah! yes my companions, you early have flown,
You friends of my young days - you’ve left me alone,
Alone I must wander at eve thro’ the wild-wood,
To muse on the days and bright scenes of my childhood.
Yon raven, that now seeks his long-haunted oak,
Has a friend - a loved co-mate to echo his croak,
To share in his wanderings, his perils and pains,
And soften his toilings with deep, harsh, fond strains.
But I feel deserted - forsaken - how soon -
Without one kindred spirit with whom to commune,
No congenial compeer to whom I’d disclose,
My wants, or my wishes, my weal, or my woes.
Yet, mayhap, ‘tis as sinful as useless to mourn
For friends, scenes, or days that can never return;
Our joy is not here - it is fixed in yon sky,
For that, and that only, vain mortals should sigh. |
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| “The Dark Girl by the Holy Well” |
| [Prefaced by a long personal note recounting the basis of the poem in his own experience - see online.] |
‘Mother! is that the passing bell?
Or yet the midnight chime?
Or rush of Angels’ golden wings?
Or is it near the time -
The time when GOD, they say, comes down
This weary world upon,
With Holy MARY at His right;
And, at His left, ST. JOHN!
I’m dumb! my heart forgets to throb,
My blood forgets to run;
But vain my sighs - in vain I sob -
GOD’s will must still be done.
I hear but tone of warning bell,
For holy priest or nun;
On Earth, GOD’s face I’ll never see!
Nor MARY! nor ST. JOHN!
Mother! my hopes are gone again;
My heart is black as ever; -
Mother! I say, look forth once more,
And see can you discover
GOD’s glory in the crimson clouds -
See does He ride upon
That perfumed breeze - or do you see,
The VIRGIN, or ST. JOHN!
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Ah, no! ah, no! Well, GOD of Peace,
Grant me thy blessing still;
Oh, make me patient with my doom,
And happy at Thy Will;
And guide my footsteps so on earth,
That, when I’m dead and gone,
My eyes may catch Thy shining eyes,
With MARY! and ST. JOHN!
Yet, mother, could I see thy smile,
Before we part below -
Or watch the silver moon and stars
Where Slaney’s ripples flow;
Oh! could I see the sweet sun shine
My native hills upon,
I’d never love my GOD the less,
Nor MARY, nor ST. JOHN!
But no, ah no! it cannot be,
Yet, mother! do not mourn -
Come, kneel again, and pray to God,
In peace, let us return;
The Dark Girl’s doom must aye be mine -
But Heaven will light me on,
Until I find my way to GOD,
And MARY, and ST. JOHN!’ |
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| “Verses” |
Suggested on viewing an engraving representing the death of “Little Nell,” the heroine of Mr. Dickens’s delightful story, The Old Curiosity Shop.
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All, all are past - thy wanderings and thy woes -
And woe enough to thee poor “Nell,” was given -
And now the holy church-yard’s grim repose
Enshrouds thy stricken form, and pitying Heaven
Has hushed the storm, which long has fiercely driven
Around thy haunted pathway; now, no more,
This heart of mine, in silence shall be riven
At thy misfortunes, for they all, are o’er
Life’s waves may roll in vain, it’s winds in vain may roar.
How chequered thy short span, what chilling sadness
Is woven through it, round it; every scene
Is tinged with gloom, and yet, how strange the gladness
That’s whispered to the heart - for light and sheen,
Hope walks before thee, with seraphic mien,
Fusing with fairy hand, thy lessening chain,
And pointing ever, greatly and serene,
From that gross world whose paths you trod in pain,
To bliss beyond the stars, to Heaven’s own bright domain.
And glad I am to see thee laid at rest
For thou hast caused me many a bitter sigh;
Full many a pang has torn my heaving breast;
And many a tear has dimm’d my burning eye,
Since from thy grotesque home I saw thee fly,
The guardian genius of thy fond grand-sire,
Whose wild career brought blasting misery
On him and thee, and fanned that ruthless fire,
Whose victim both, at last, did mournfully expire.
How chaste, how chastening, how serene and calm
That lifeless form whose spirit soars above;
Those lips which seem as if exhaling balm
By angels wafted from the throne of Love,
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No more the mountain stream or woodland dove
Shall sing the lullaby on flowery bray;
No more thy glowing soul shall yearn to rove,
By sunsets crimson, or by morning’s gray,
No more shall sigh to dwell ’mid sylvan scenes alway.
With ‘punch’ or ‘puppet’ thou no more shalt stray;
In ‘wax-work’ waggon thou no more shalt rest;
Though, en passant, for ever I shall pray
That ‘Mrs. Farley’ may, for aye, be blest;
For when she saw thee hungry and distrest,
And faint and friendless on thy weary way,
What time-bar drum-head formally was drest
With ‘toast’ and ‘tackle’ for her ‘evening tay,’
She gave thee her last cup and kindly bade thee stay.
No more shall Quilp and Sampson Brass conspire
To break the noblest heart that Heaven e’er sent,
For thou art numbered in that blissful choir
Where all are happy - all are innocent,
And even Miss Monflathers, must relent,
All prudish as she was, and coy and steril,
When she shall see the once-despised “Nel Trent” -
That ‘vulgar! shocking!! naughty!!! wicked girl!!!’
Shine bright as molten gold and pure as orient pearl.
Dear “Nell,” through all thy multifarious troubles
In crowded city or on windswept wold,
My thoughts were with thee, and like poor “Kit Nubbles,”
I loved thee, though my love was never told;
But now in the still grave-yard’s sacred mould
Thy ashes rest, and to fair fields on high,
Thy spirit, as thy infant friend foretold,
Is fled to be ‘an angel in the sky’. |
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| “The Sky” |
How delightful to gaze on yon all glorious sky
The home of all the seraphs that bask there on high,
How unearthly and spirit-like are the gay forms
That float through that ether, - Oh where are the storms
And dark clouds of winter? In this sunny hour
The fiend of the blast lies supine in his bower,
So dreary and bleak, far away at the pole
Where round him fierce tempests eternally roll.
And there let him rest, but aloft raise your eyes,
Bathe your souls in the silvery fount of the skies,
Now gaze on the thin clouds of azure and gold
How fantastic the colours and shapes they unfold,
How grandly defined they appear to our view,
Now dazzling with bright gold, now tinged with soft blue,
Ever changing the fairy-framed forms they wore,
Still looking more holy than they did before.
As in transports I gaze on that Heaven-raised doom,
I call up the splendours of old Greece and Rome,
The glories of Israel, the fanes of the East,
But what were they all to the home of the blest?
Ah no - the frail works of poor man can’t compare
With the wonderful deeds of the children of air,
Who silver the black clouds, who ride on the wind,
At whose nod the wild tempests in awe creep behind.
How fair is the sky - how lovely - how bright,
When the white moon is sailing through the ocean of night,
How angelic and splendid the red gold that streaks
Yon rock-studded hill when the morning awakes.
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But the deep blue of eve, or the rose tints of morn
Can’t vie with the nondescript hues that adorn
Yon glorious expanse on this beautiful even,
Were I there I’d ne’er sigh for a holier heaven.
And smiling and gay is the face of our globe;
Arrayed in her sky-bestowed autumnal robe
Of russet, and dark-green, and slow-fading yellow,
How thoughtful she looks - how sober and mellow.
The air too is pregnant with incense and balm,
And the waters are glassy, unrippled and calm;
But from earth and her scenery turn your eyes,
All, all lose their chains in the blaze of the skies.
But I sigh as I think how no far-distant day
Will see thee, dear sky, no more lovely or gay;
When your holiday robes of Cerulean blue,
Must be doff’d for a vest of Cimmerian hue;
When through the dense welkin the cold winds will blow,
And the moist earth will sleep in a blanket of snow;
When air will be wrapped in a deep sombre shroud,
And black vapours roll in a gigantic crowd.
Yet sweet sky, I love thee in each fickle form,
In summer and winter, in sun-shine and storm;
Or smiling or frowning, or gloomy or gay -
Still through your lone mazes my fancy will stray.
When loud thunders shall roar, and blue lightnings flare,
I will dream of the sweet scenes I erst while view’d there;
And (as now) when you smile in your angel-wrought vest,
I will sigh for the HOME where my spirit will rest. |
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