Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE FAITHLESS SHEPHERDS, by JANE FRANCESCA WILDE Poet's Biography First Line: Dead! Dead! Ye are dead while ye live Last Line: You've a name that ye live -- but are dead. Alternate Author Name(s): Speranza; Elgee, Jane Francesca; Wilde, William Robert Wills, Mrs. Subject(s): Ireland; Irish | ||||||||
"Os habent, et non loquuntur: Oculos habent, et non vident." DEAD! DEAD! Ye are dead while ye live; Ye've a name that ye live -- but are dead. Neither counsel nor love did ye give, And your lips never uttered a word While swift ruin downward sped, And the plague raged on undisturbed. Not a throb of true life in your veins, Not a pulse in your passionless heart, Not a thought in the dull, cold brains, Of how ye should bear your part, When summoned the strife to brave, For our Country, with Death and the Grave. Ye have gold for the follies of fashion, And gold for its tinsel glare, But none for the wild, sobbing passion Wrung from the lips of despair. False Shepherds and Guides are ye, For the heart in each bosom is cold As the ice on a frozen sea; And your trappings of velvet and gold Lie heavy and close as a pall, When the steps of the bearers fall On a grave, with measured tread; For ye seem to live -- but are dead. Ye are dead! -- ye are dead! stone by stone The temple is crumbling down; It will fall with a crash of doom, For the night deepens dark in its gloom. But ye look on with vacant stare, Like men lying still in the tomb. Stand forth! face the sun, if ye dare, With your cold eyes unwet by a tear, For your Country laid low on your bier, And say -- have ye stretched forth a hand To raise up our desolate Land? She dies -- but ye flourish and grow In the midst of the deadly maze: Like the palm springing heavenward? -- No, But like weeds in the churchyard fed By the vapours of death below, Breathing round you a poisonous haze. Go! -- go! True life is not so -- For decay lies beneath your tread, And the staff in your hand is a reed -- Too weak for your Country's need; For you seem to live -- but are dead. Ye are dead! -- ye are dead! Fling the clay On the noble names -- noble no more; Leave the sword in the sheath to rust; Let the banners be trailed in the dust; And the memory perish away Of the dead, who are dead evermore; Blot them out from the book writ in gold. Noble neither in deed nor in soul, Are ye worthy to stand in the roll Of the glorified heroes of old? Has Ireland need of such sons? Floating down with a silken sail, On the crimson tide of her life, that runs With a mournful, ceaseless wail, Like rain pouring down from the eaves. And ye laugh when the strangers deride Her trials, the saddest and sorest, And plunge the sword deep in her side; And no kindly heart sighs or grieves For her branches, all bare as a forest, When the autumn wind scatters the leaves. Laugh low with your perfumed breath, For the air is heavy with death. But ye hear not the gliding feet Of the Future, that stands at your door; For the roses lie heavy and sweet, And too thick on your marble floor, And the dead soul is dead to his call. And your eyes are heavy with wine; Ye see not the letters of flame, Traced by a hand divine -- The writing of God on the wall -- "Ye are weighed, and found wanting" -- Oh, shame! Your life is a gilded lie; And the wide world that doom has read, With a shudder and chill of dread; For the judgment of God is nigh, And the universe echoes the cry -- You've a name that ye live -- but are DEAD. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SIGHTSEERS by PAUL MULDOON THE DREAM SONGS: 290 by JOHN BERRYMAN AN IRISH HEADLAND by ROBINSON JEFFERS THE GIANT'S RING: BALLYLESSON, NEAR BELFAST by ROBINSON JEFFERS IRELAND; WRITTEN FOR THE ART AUTOGRAPH DURING IRISH FAMINE by SIDNEY LANIER THE EYES ARE ALWAYS BROWN by GERALD STERN THE FAMINE YEAR by JANE FRANCESCA WILDE A LAMENT by JANE FRANCESCA WILDE A REMONSTRANCE; ADDRESSED TO D. FLORENCE M'CARTHY, M.R.I.A. by JANE FRANCESCA WILDE |
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