Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, YEAR OF SORROW: 1849, by AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

YEAR OF SORROW: 1849, by             Poem Explanation         Poet's Biography
First Line: Once more, through god's high will, and grace
Variant Title(s): Sprin
Subject(s): Ireland


SPRING


ONCE more, through God's high will, and grace
Of hours that each its task fulfils ,
Heart-healing Spring resumes her place,
The valley throngs, and scales the hills.


In vain. From earth's deep heart, o'ercharged,
The exulting life runs o'er in flowers.
The slave unfed is unenlarged;
In darkness sleep a Nation's powers.


Who knows not Spring? Who doubts, when blows
Her breath, that Spring is come indeed?
The swallow doubts not; nor the rose
That stirs, but wakes not; nor the weed.


I feel her near, but see her not;
For these with pain- uplifted eyes
Fall back repulsed, and vapours blot
The vision of the earth and skies.


I see her not; I feel he near,
As, charioted in mildest airs,
She sails through yon empyreal sphere,
And in her arms and bosom bears


That urn of flowers and lustral dews
Whose sacred balm, o'er all things shed,
Revives the weak, the old renews,
And crowns with votive wreaths the dead


Once more the cuckoo's call I hear;
I know, in many a glen profound,
The earliest violets of the year
Rise up like water from the ground.


The thorn, I know, once more is white
And, far down many a forest dale,
The anemones in dubious light
Are trembling like a bridal veil.;


By streams released, that singing flow
From craggy shelf through sylvan glades,
The pale narcissus, well I know,
Smiles hour by hour on greener shades.


The honeyed cowslip tufts once more
The golden slopes; with gradual ray
The primrose stars the rock, and o'er
The wood-path strews its milky way.


From ruined huts and holes come forth
Old men, and look upon the sky.
The Power Divine is on the earth:
Give thanks to God before ye die!


And ye, O children, worn and weak,
Who care no more with flowers to play,
Lean on the grass your cold, thin cheek
And those slight hands, and, whispering, say:
'Stern mother of a race unblest,
In promise kindly, cold in deed,
Take back, O Earth, into thy breast,
The children whom thou wilt not feed.'


SUMMER


Approved by works of love and might,
The Year, consummated and crowned,
Hath scaled the zenith's purple height,
And flings his robe the earth around.


Impassioned stillness, fervours calm,
Brood, vast and bright, o'er land and deep;
The warrior sleeps beneath the palm;
The dark-eyed captive guards his sleep.


The Iberian labourer rests from toil;
Sicilian virgins twine the dance;
Laugh Tuscan vales in wine and oil;
Fresh laurels flash from brows of France.


Far off, in regions of the North,
The hunter drops his winter fur;
Sun- wakened babes their feet stretch forth;
And nested dormice feebly stir.


But thou, O land of many woes!
What cheer is thine? Again the breath
Of proved Destruction o'er thee blows,
And sentenced fields grow black in death.


In horror of a new despair
His blood- shot eyes the peasant strains
With hands clenched fast, and lifted hair,
Along the daily darkening plains.


Why trusted he to them his store?
Why feared he not the scourge to come?'
Fool! turn the page of History o'er
The roll of Statutes-and be dumb!


Behold, O People! thou shalt die!
What art thou better than thy sires?
The hunted deer a weeping eye
Turns on his birthplace, and expires.


Lo! as the closing of a book,
Or statue from its base o'erthrown,
Or blasted wood, or dried- up brook,
Name, race, and nation, thou art gone!


The stranger shall thy hearth possess;
The stranger build upon thy grave.
But know this also- he, not less,
His limit and his term shall have.


Once more thy volume, open cast,
In thunder forth shall sound thy name;
Thy forest, hot at heart, at last
God's breath shall kindle into flame.


Thy brook, dried up, a cloud shall rise,
And stretch an hourly widening hand,
In God's good vengeance, through the skies,
And onward o'er the Invader's land.


Of thine, one day, a remnant left
Shall raise o'er earth a Prophet's rod,
And teach the coasts, of Faith bereft,
The names of Ireland and of God.


AUTUMN
Then die, thou Year-- thy work is done;
The work, ill done, is done at last;
Far off, beyond that sinking sun,
Which sets in blood, I hear the blast


That sings thy dirge, and says: 'Ascend,
And answer make amid thy peers,
Since all things here must have an end,
Thou latest of the famine years.'


I join that voice. No joy have I
In all thy purple and thy gold;
Nor in that ninefold harmony
From forest on to forest rolled;


Nor in that stormy western fire
Which burns on ocean's gloomy bed,
And hurls, as from a funeral pyre,
A glare that strikes the mountain's head;


And writes on low- hung clouds its lines
Of ciphered flame, with hurrying hand:
And flings, amid the topmost pines
That crown the cliff, a burning brand.


Make answer, Year, for all thy dead,
Who found not rest in hallowed earth:
The widowed wife, the father fled,
The babe age-stricken from his birth!


Make answer, Year, for virtue lost;
For courage, proof 'gainst fraud and force,
Now waning like a noontide ghost;
Affections poisoned at their source!


The labourer spurned his lying spade;
The yeoman spurned his useless plough;
The pauper spurned the unwholesome aid
Obtruded once, exhausted now.


The roof-trees fall of hut and hall;
I hear them fall, and falling cry:
'One fate for each, one fate for all!
So wills the Law that willed a lie. '


Dread power of Man! what spread the waste
In circles hour by hour more wide,
And would not let the past be past?
That Law which promised much, and lied.


Dread power of God, Whom mortal years
Nor touch, nor tempt, Who sitt'st sublime
In night of night-oh, bid Thy spheres
Resound, at last, a funeral chime!


Call up at last the afflicted race,
Whom Man, not God, abolished.
Sore, For centuries, their strife; the place
That knew them once shall know no more!


WINTER


Fall, snow, and cease not! Flake by flake
The decent winding- sheet compose;
Thy task is just and pious; make
An end of blasphemies and woes!


Fall, flake by flake! by thee alone,
Last friend, the sleeping draught is given.
Kind nurse, by thee the couch is strown
The couch whose covering is from Heaven.


Descend and clasp the mountain's crest;
Inherit plain and valley deep.
This night on thy maternal breast
A vanquished nation dies in sleep.


Lo! from the starry Temple Gates
Death rides, and bears the flag of peace;
The combatants he separates;
He bids the wrath of ages cease.


Descend, benignant Power!
But, oh, Ye torrents, shake no more the vale!
Dark streams, in silence seaward flow!
Thou rising storm, remit thy wail!


Shake not, to-night, the cliffs of Moher,
Nor Brandon's base, rough sea! Thou Isle,
The Rite proceeds! From shore to shore
Hold in thy gathered breath the while!


Fall, snow in stillness fall, like dew,
On church's roof and cedar's fan;
And mould thyself on pine and yew,
And on the awful face of Man.


Without a sound, without a stir,
In streets and wolds, on rock and mound,
O omnipresent Comforter,
By Thee this night the lost are found!


On quaking moor and mountain moss,
With eyes upstaring at the sky,
And arms extended like a cross,
The long-expectant sufferers lie.


Bend o'er them, white-robed Acolyte!
Put forth thine hand from cloud and mist;
And minister the last sad Rite,
Where altar there is none, nor priest;


Touch thou the gates of soul and sense;
Touch darkening eyes and dying ears;
Touch stiffening hands and feet, and thence
Remove the trace of sins and tears!


And, ere thou seal those filméd eyes,
Into God's urn thy fingers dip,
And lay, ' mid eucharistic sighs,
The sacred wafer on the lip.


This night the Absolver issues forth;
This night the Eternal Victim bleeds.
O winds and woods, O heaven and earth,
Be still this night! The Rite proceeds!






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