English

THE GATHERING

I

Time rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore,
Who danced our infancy upon their knee,
And told our marvelling boyhood legends store
Of their strange ventures happed by land or sea,
How are they blotted from the things that be!
How few, all weak and withered of their force,
Wait on the verge of dark eternity,

Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances!
Honored and blessed be the ever-green Pine!
Long may the tree, in his banner that glances,
Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!
Heaven sent it happy dew,
Earth lend it sap anew,
Gayly to bourgeon and broadly to grow,
While every Highland glen
Sends our shout back again,
"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;
When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on the mountain,

THE ISLAND

I

At morn the black-cock trims his jetty wing,
'T is morning prompts the linnet's blithest lay,
All Nature's children feel the matin spring
Of life reviving, with reviving day;
And while you little bark glides down the bay,
Wafting the stranger on his way again,
Morn's genial influence roused a minstrel gray,
And sweetly o'er the lake was heard thy strain,

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;
Dream of battled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle's enchanted hall,
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more:
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armour's clang, or war-steed champing,

THE CHASE

Harp of the North! that mouldering long hast hung
On the witch-elm that shades Saint Fillan's spring,
And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung,
Till envious ivy did around thee cling,
Muffling with verdant ringlet every string, —
O Minstrel Harp, still must thine accents sleep?
Mid rustling leaves and fountains murmuring,
Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence keep,

III. WE TRAVEL LIKE OTHER PEOPLE

We travel like other people but return to nothing. Traveling was the clouds' way.
We buried our loved ones in the clouds' darkness, among the trunks of trees;
We said to our wives: Bear children from us for hundreds of years, so that we may complete this departure
Toward a single hour of homeland, one span of the impossible.
We travel in psalm wagons, rest in the tent of prophets, we emerge from gypsies' words.
We measure space by the hoopoe's beak, or sing to repel from us the distances, wash out the moon's light.

II. WE MOVE ON TO A COUNTRY

We move on to a country not of our flesh. Its chestnut trees are not part of our bone marrow.
Its stones are not goats in the song of mountains, its pebble eyes are not lilies of the valley.
We move on to a country that suspends no singular sun over us.
For us the women of legend clap their hands: a sea for us and a sea against us.
If wheat and water are cut off from you, then eat our love and drink our tears.
Black handkerchieves for the poets. A line of marble statues will raise our voices up

I. EARTH SCRAPES US

Earth scrapes us, pressing us into the last narrow passage, we have to dismember ourselves to pass,
Earth squeezes us. Wish we were its wheat, to die and live again. Wish it were our mother,
Our mother would be merciful to us. Wish we were images of stones that our dreams carry
Like mirrors. We have seen the faces of those who will be killed defending the soul to the last one of us.
We wept for the birthday of their children. We have seen the faces of those who will throw

In time to come, if such a crime should be
As Parricide, (foul villany!)
A Clove of Garlick would revenge that evil;
(Rare dish for Plough-men, or the Devil!)
Accursed root! how does it jounce and claw!
It works like Rats-bane in my maw.
What Witch contriv'd this strat'gem for my breath!
Poison'd at once, and stunk to death;
With this vile juice Medaea (sure) did noint
Jason (her Love) in every joint;
When untam'd Bulls in yokes he led along,
This made his manhood smell so strong;

Pettius no more I verses write;
My bosom glows with fiercer fire;
No more I sing, no more delight
To handle the melodious lyre.
Venus, the sacred Sisters dispossest,
Invades my soul, and rages in my breast.

Thrice has December strip'd the tree
And thrice deform'd the verdant year
Since from Inachia's charms set free
I first forsook the scornfull fair.
I then (my cheeks still glow with shame) was grown
The sport of boys, and scandall of the town.

No feasts could e'er my cares dispell;