Selected Poetry

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LII, Issue 11, 25 March 1925, Page 32

Selected Poetry

TRUE AND FALSE LOVE OF FREEDOM. They that for freedom feel not love but.lust,. Irreverent, knowing hot her spiritual : : claim, And they, the votaries blind of windy fame, And they who cry, "I will because I must"; They too that launch, screened by her shield august, A bandit's shaft, some private mark their aim; \ sVj And they that make her sacred cause their \ game, From restlessness or spleen or sheer disgust At duteous daysall these, the brood of night, Diverse, by one black note detected stand, Their scorn of every barrier raised by right To awe self-will. Howe'er by virtue banned, By reason spurned, .that act the moment needs Licensed they deem; holy whate'er succeeds. —Aubrey de Vere 93%

THE STORM. Night spun a dusky web o'er moon and stars And spread her sable cloak o'er mead and moor; ' I heard the baying storm break through its bars, ' Then forward rush and charge my fastened door. Like some grim, frenzied mob that bore me spite,. Out in the night the angry tempest howled ; Keen blades of lightning rent the robes of night; Like angry lions .the gruff thunder ';'■ growled. The wailing rain poured down from burdened skies; Around the house the cedars bent and groaned: Strange voices, that I only could-surmise, r,. Across rain-sodden glens and valleys moaned. Safe from the trampling storm that raged ; without, I sat in the dim lamp-light, a mute form; I 'heard the wild winds boisterously shout. And a night bird crying out in the storm. —Patrick Doherty in the Irish U'orld.

Sift THE LITTLE WAVES OF BREFFNY. The grand road from the mountain goes shin- ..,,;. ing to the sea, And there is traffic in it, and many a • ;, horse and cart; But the litle roads of Cloonagh are dearer far, to me, • And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through my heart. ■■,!",

A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o'er the hill,. And there is glory in it arid terror on the wind • . But the haunted air of twilight is very strange and still. And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my mind. The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their way, Shining green and silver with the hidden herring shoal; But the Little Waves of Breffny have drenched my heart in spray, And the Little Waves of Breffny go stumbling through my soul. —Eva Gore Booth, in 'An Anthohyy (f Modern Verse.

WHY I CELEBRATE ST. PATRICK'S DAY (By Patrick Sarsfield Cassidy, in Reply to an American Friend.) [Reprinted by Request.]

I Silly question 'tis you ask me Why I ceebrate the day? I, an exile from an island Full three thousand miles away, Finding here a home and welcome, Swearing fealty and defence To the starry flag of freedom And for ever gone from thence. Why should I, you wondering ask me, Hold such love fee isle so far, Clear across the waste of waters, Cold and distant as a star?

IT. Friend, that island is my mother, From her fertile soil I sprang; Generously my youth she nurtured, And my lullaby she sang. Mark me well, that man's a villain, Mean and cold as clod of earth, In whose heart there's no affection For the land that gave him birth. If of it no tender memories Up before his vision swim, Then the land that gives him shelter Can expect no love from him.

111. 'Tis a light and thoughtless question, Why I love the dear old sod, Where my eyes first looked to heaven, Where my lightsome feet first trod. Must a. man, because he marries, Cease to love and venerate In his heart the dear old mother Sitting sad and desolate? Trust me, friend, the better husband , Always ,is the better son ; Heaven protect the maiden from him Who for mother love has none.

IV. Well I love this broad and.noble Land with love as pure as gold; None the less because my . spirit,. Visits now and then the old. Freely would I r grasp a sabre, , Rally round the flag of stars, - No less ready for the reason That -I'd shiver Ireland's bars. Mingled in the manly bosom Is the love for mother So my love for both lands mingles In the current of my life.

V. Could you doubt our Irish fealty? Call the muster of your dead; Find a field in all your history :' Where no Irish, valor bled; . Where their deeds,no rays of glory Shed around the starry flag,'. From the plains of Angostura . On to Lookouts' highest crag. Ours a nature large and lavish, ' Generous as our mother land; • No cold shallow stream that barely Covers selfishness' sand.

VI. And you ask the shallow question, Why I celebrate the day ? Friend, I celebrate no triumph • Won in battle's bloody fray, Triumph of one kingly despot O'er another at the cost Of a hecatomb of heroes, And perhaps of freedom lost; Nor a victory ignoble Of one faction, class, or creed, ' While a strifedistracted nation Wept the fratricidal deed ! VII.

"lis not these my memory hallows; Friend, it is a sacred cause— ■' 'Tis the bringing to a people • . ■ Christian light and love and laws. Gentle Patrick, the Apostle, Brought no naming battle brand; In his heart of peace the gospel, | And a shamrock in his hand. These the weapons that he wielded,Ireland bowed to Heaven's sway; ' Who'd object but brutish bigot If we celebrate his day.

VIII. Far I've left my mother country, Made this fair young land my bride Both I'll ever love and cherish, ' > And defend whate'er betide. •' From her cliffs let Erin beckon, ' •;'*; And I hasten to her aid; '.£ Let a caitiff strike Columbia— From its scabbard'leaps the blade. ' Ha! I note your eyes approval! ; b~4 With my motives you agree;' : '' ?■s£■ Come then, ' brave and free Columbian, Come and celebrate with me. New York, March- 15, 1880. jf ,;V; : v