English

Dawn; and the Deep was still. From the bright strand,
Meg, shading eyes against the morning sun,
Gazed seaward. After trouble, there was peace.

Smooth, many-coloured as a ring-dove's neck
Stretch'd the still Sea, and on its eastern rim
The dewy light, with liquid yellow beams,
Gleamed like a sapphire. Overhead, soft airs
To feathery cirrus flecked the lightening blue,
Beneath, the Deep's own breathing made a breeze;
And up the weedy beach the blue waves crept,
Falling in one thin line of cream-white foam.

Palinode

All summer neither rain nor wave washes the cormorants
Perch, and their droppings have painted it shining white.
If the excrement of fish-eaters makes the brown rock a snow-mountain
At noon, a rose in the morning, a beacon at moonrise
On the black water: it is barely possible that even men's present
Lives are something; their arts and sciences (by moonlight)
Not wholly ridiculous, nor their cities merely an offense.

Fourscore years have come and gone,
Since the Asrai Mother knelt down and prayed,
Since the boon was gained, and her little one
Found a soul and cast a shade;
And now by the side of the same still Mere,
A mighty Monastery stands,
And morn and even its bell rings clear,
Tinkling over the silver sands;
And the Asrai as they come and go
Hear the sounds in the waters below,
And ever to them the sweet sounds seem

One night she walked with a foot of snow
Thro' a battle-field; and the Moon on high
Swam thro' the film of a starry sky,
And the breath of the Moon, like hoar-frost shed,
Gleamed on the dreadful drifts of dead.
Then she saw him standing amid it all
Living and bloody, ghastly and tall,
With a hand on his moaning horse's mane!
And his face was awful with hate and pain,
And his eyes were mad — for beneath him lay,
Quivering there in the pale moonray,
A wounded foe — while with red right hand
He held in the air a bloody brand

Yet not alone,
For step by step, and stone by stone,
Where'er he rested — fleet as wind,
His Spirit Mother came behind;
Creeping to darkness all the day,
But ever in the cold moonray
Finding his footprints, kissing them,
And often where his raiment hem
Had brushed the warm dew from the grass,
Strewing pale flowers. Thus did she pass
Till brazen city gates by night
She saw him enter. Still and white,
She followed.

Weary to tell and hear

Weary to tell and weary to hear
Were the mortal life for many a year
Of that changeling child; but he grew on earth,
Knowing nought of his mystic birth,
And ever waxed more strong and fair,
With the glory of daylight on eyes and hair.

And the poor pale Mother Spirit smiled
From far away on her happy child,
Thinking, " He thrives, and the golden hours
Fill his lap with their fruit and flowers,
And he feels the sun, and he drinks its light,
Growing on to a mortal's height."
And ever nightly unseen she came

She rises up from the depths of the Mere
And floats away on the surface clear,
Like a swan she sails to the shadowy sands,
And soon on the moonlit earth she stands.
Moonbeam-like in the moonbeams bright,
A space she lingers upon the shore,
Then steals along through the dusky light
Up the hill and across the moor.
She sees a light that flashes afar
Through the dark like a crimson star,
Now it glimmers, and now is gone,
For shadows come and go thereon.

Behold the myriads at the gate
Who from the Old World saw thy light,
Thy hand is strong to bless or smite
These pilgrims, and thy " yea " is fate.

They as our fathers come from far;
From shores where blazes Dante's sun,
And from the bleak dominion
Where fall the lashes of the Czar.

Their strong untiring arms have hewn
A path o'er Alpine mountain-crest,
Them England nurtured at her breast,
And over them rose Erin's moon.

Yet though their necks for menial toil

Nor life nor death had any peace for thee,
Seeing thy mother cast thee forth, a prey
To wind and water, till we bade thee stay
And rest, a pilgrim weary of the sea.
But now it seems that on thine effigy
Thy very host an impious hand would lay:
Go then and wander, praising on thy way
The proud Republic's hospitality!

Yet oft with us wreathed brow must suffer wrong,
The sad Enchanter of the land of Weir
Is still uncrowned, unreverenced, and we fear
The Lords of Gold above the Lords of Song

Surely we stumble toward an evil day,
For us of late is freedom's path too steep,
Her words perverted in our mouths; we keep
Our bondage willing, aye, endure the sway
Of trickster's hands and redder hands that slay:
Yet this no season to lament or weep,
But to arise and with tempestuous sweep
Hurl the false idols from their seat of clay.

Thou whom the people's voice acclaims their own,
Thou their defender, shalt approach the throne
Of the blind goddess with the awful rod,
And she will know thee victor without flaw,