you have flung love's apple by, and I'm to pluck it yet:
But what are fruits of gramarye with druid dews beset?
Oh what are magic fruits to him who meets the Lianansidhe
Or hears athwart the distance dim Fionn's horn blow drowsily!
He follows on forever when all your chase is done He follows after shadows, the King of Ireland's son.
J. B. CLARKE
(Living)
EMAN-AC-KNUCK TO EVA
N the white hawthorn's bloom, in purpling streak,
I see the fairy-ring of morning break,
On the green valley's brow the golden glows,
Kissing the crimson of the opening rose,
Knits with her thousand smiles its damask dyes,
And laughs the season on our hearts and eyes.
Rise, Eva, rise! fair spirit of my breast,
In whom I live, forsake the down of rest.
Lovelier than morn, carnationed in soft hues,
Sweeter than rifled roses in the dews
Of dawn divinely weeping-and more fair
Than the coy flowers fann'd by mountain air;
More modest than the morning's blushing smile.
Rise, Eva, rise! pride of our Western Isle
The sky's blue beauties lose their sunny grace
Before the calm, soft splendours of thy face.
Thy breath is sweeter than the apple bloom,
When spring's musk'd spirit bathes it in perfume;
The rock's wild honey steeps thy rubied lip—
Rise, Eva, rise! I long these sweets to sip.
The polish'd ringlets of thy jetty locks
Shame the black raven's on the sun-gild rocks;
Thy neck can boast a whiter, lovelier glow,
Than the wild cygnet's silvery plume of snow.
And from thy bosom, the soft throne of bliss,
The witch of love, in all her blessedness,
Heaves all her spells, wings all her feathered darts,
And dips her arrows in adoring hearts.
Rise, Eva, rise! the sun sheds his sweet ray,
Am'rous to kiss thee-rise, my love! we'll stray
Across the mountain, on the blossomy heath,
The heath-bloom holds for thee its odorous breath.
From the tall crag, aspiring to the skies,
I'll pick for thee the strings of strawberries;
The yellow nuts, too, from the hazel-tree
Soul of my heart !—I'll strip to give to thee:
As thy red lips the berries shall be bright,
And the sweet nuts shall be as rife and white
And milky, as the love-begotten tide
That fills thy spotless bosom, my sweet bride.
Queen of the smile of joy! shall I not kiss
Thee in the moss-grown cot, bless'd bower of bliss
Shall not thy rapturous lover clasp thy charms,
And fold his Eva in his loving arms
Shall Inniscather's wood again attest
Thy beauties strain'd unto this burning breast? Absent how long! Ah! when wilt thou return? When shall this wither'd bosom cease to mourn?
Eva, why stay so long? why leave me lone,
In the deep valley, to the cold gray stone
Pouring my plaints? O come, divinest fair!
Chase from my breast the demon of despair.
The winds are witness to my deep distress,
Like the lone wanderer of the wilderness,
For thee I languish and for thee I sigh-
My Eva, come, or thy poor swain shall die!
And didst thou hear my melancholy lay?
And art thou coming, love? My Eva! say?
Thou daughter of a meek-eyed dame, thy face
Is lovelier than thy mother's, in soft grace.
O yes! thou comest, Eva! to my sight
An angel minister of heavenly light :-
The sons of frozen climes can never see
Summer's bright smile so glad as I see thee:
Thy steps to me are lovelier than the ray
That rose night's cheek with the blush of day.
JOSEPH IGNATIUS CONSTANTINE
First recited by the author at the Annual Dinner of the New York Friendly Sons of St. Patrick, March 17, 1905, at which President Roosevelt was the guest.
HEN the cresset of war blazed over the land,
And a call ran fierce thro' the West,
Saying "Rough Riders, come to the roll of the drum,"
They came with their bravest and best, With a clatter of hoofs and a stormy hail Sinewy, lean, tall and brown;
Hunters and fighters and men of the trail,
From hills and plains, from college and town; With the cowboys' yell and the redman's whoop, Sons of thunder and swingers of steel;
And, leading his own Arizona troop,
Rode glad and fearless "Bucky" O'Neill.
In the ranks there was Irish blood galore,
As it ever is sure to be
When the Union flag is flung to the fore,
And the fight is to make men free.
There were Kellys and Murphys and Burkes and Doyles
Copyright by J. I. C. Clarke. By permission.
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