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672                                           Dark Rosaleen

O MY Dark Rosaleen,
 Do not sigh, do not weep!
The priests are on the ocean green,
 They march along the deep.
There’s wine from the royal Pope,
 Upon the ocean green;
And Spanish ale shall give you hope,
 My Dark Rosaleen!
 My own Rosaleen!
Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,
Shall give you health, and help, and hope,
 My Dark Rosaleen!
Over hills, and thro’ dales,
 Have I roam’d for your sake;
All yesterday I sail’d with sails
 On river and on lake.
The Erne, at its highest flood,
 I dash’d across unseen,
For there was lightning in my blood,
 My Dark Rosaleen!
 My own Rosaleen!
O, there was lightning in my blood,
Red lightning lighten’d thro’ my blood.
 My Dark Rosaleen!
All day long, in unrest,
 To and fro, do I move.
The very soul within my breast
 Is wasted for you, love!
The heart in my bosom faints
 To think of you, my Queen,
My life of life, my saint of saints,
 My Dark Rosaleen!
 My own Rosaleen!
To hear your sweet and sad complaints,
My life, my love, my saint of saints,
 My Dark Rosaleen!
Woe and pain, pain and woe,
 Are my lot, night and noon,
To see your bright face clouded so,
 Like to the mournful moon.
But yet will I rear your throne
 Again in golden sheen;
Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,
 My Dark Rosaleen!
 My own Rosaleen!
’Tis you shall have the golden throne,
’Tis you shall reign, and reign alone,
 My Dark Rosaleen!
Over dews, over sands,
 Will I fly, for your weal:
Your holy delicate white hands
 Shall girdle me with steel.
At home, in your emerald bowers,
 From morning’s dawn till e’en,
You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers,
 My Dark Rosaleen!
 My fond Rosaleen!
You’ll think of me through daylight hours,
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,
 My Dark Rosaleen!
I could scale the blue air,
 I could plough the high hills,
O, I could kneel all night in prayer,
 To heal your many ills!
And one beamy smile from you
 Would float like light between
My toils and me, my own, my true,
 My Dark Rosaleen!
 My fond Rosaleen!
Would give me life and soul anew,
A second life, a soul anew,
 My Dark Rosaleen!
O, the Erne shall run red,
 With redundance of blood,
The earth shall rock beneath our tread,
 And flames wrap hill and wood,
And gun-peal and slogan-cry
 Wake many a glen serene,
Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die,
 My Dark Rosaleen!
 My own Rosaleen!
The Judgement Hour must first be nigh,
Ere you can fade, ere you can die,
 My Dark Rosaleen!

673                                             To Amine

VEIL not thy mirror, sweet Amine,
Till night shall also veil each star!
Thou seest a twofold marvel there:
The only face so fair as thine,
The only eyes that, near or far,
Can gaze on thine without despair.

674                                         The Nameless One

ROLL forth, my song, like the rushing river,
 That sweeps along to the mighty sea;
God will inspire me while I deliver
            My soul of thee!
Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whitening
 Amid the last homes of youth and eld,
That once there was one whose veins ran lightning
            No eye beheld.
Tell how his boyhood was one drear night-hour,
 How shone for him, through his griefs and gloom,
No star of all heaven sends to light our
            Path to the tomb.
Roll on, my song, and to after ages
 Tell how, disdaining all earth can give,
He would have taught men, from wisdom’s pages,
            The way to live.
And tell how trampled, derided, hated,
 And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong,
He fled for shelter to God, who mated
            His soul with song.
—With song which alway, sublime or vapid,
 Flow’d like a rill in the morning beam,
Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid—
            A mountain stream.
Tell how this Nameless, condemn’d for years long
 To herd with demons from hell beneath,
Saw things that made him, with groans and tears, long
            For even death.
Go on to tell how, with genius wasted,
 Betray’d in friendship, befool’d in love,
With spirit shipwreck’d, and young hopes blasted,
            He still, still strove;
Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others
 (And some whose hands should have wrought for him,
If children live not for sires and mothers),
            His mind grew dim;
And he fell far through that pit abysmal,
 The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns,
And pawn’d his soul for the devil’s dismal
            Stock of returns.
But yet redeem’d it in days of darkness,
 And shapes and signs of the final wrath,
When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness,
            Stood on his path.
And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow,
 And want, and sickness, and houseless nights,
He bides in calmness the silent morrow,
            That no ray lights.
And lives he still, then? Yes! Old and hoary
 At thirty-nine, from despair and woe,
He lives, enduring what future story
            Will never know.

Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble,
Deep in your bosoms: there let him dwell!
He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble,
            Here and in hell.


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