Poems (Elgee, 1907)/William Carleton
WILLIAM CARLETON.died, January 30th, 1869.
UR land has lost a glory! Never more, Tho' years roll on, can Ireland hope to seeAnother Carleton, cradled in the lore. Of our loved Country's rich humanity. The weird traditions, the old, plaintive strain, The murmured legends of a vengeful past,When a down-trodden people strove in vain To rend the fetters centuries made fast;These, with the song and dance and tender tale, Linked to our ancient music, have swept onAnd died in far-off echoes, like the wail Of Israel's broken Harps in Babylon.No hand like his can wake them now, for he Sprang from amidst the people: bathed his soulIn their strong passions, stormy as the sea, And wild as skies before the thunder-roll.
Yet, was he gentle; with divinest art And tears that shook his nature over much,He struck the key-note of a people's heart, And all the nation answered to his touch,Even as he swayed them, giving smiles for gloom, And childlike tenderness for hate that kills—As rain clouds threat'ning with a weight of doom Flash sudden, silver light upon the hills.
But, he had faults—men said. Oh, fling them back, These cold deductions, marring praise with blame;When earthquakes rend the rocks they leave a track For central fires issuing forth in flame;And by the passionate heat of gifted minds The ruddest stones are crystallised to gemsOf glorious worth, such as a poet binds Upon his brow, right royal diadems!
Like the great image of the Monarch's dream, Genius lifts up on high the head of gold,And cleaves with iron limbs Time's mighty stream, Tho' all too deep the feet may press earth's mould.Yet, by his gifts made dedicate to God In noblest teachings of each gentle grace,Through every land that Irishmen have trod We claim for him the homage of our race.
With pen of light he drew great pictures when Nothing but scorn was ours; and without fearHe flung them down before the face of men, Saying, in words the whole world paused to hear:So brave, so pure, so noble, grand, and true Is this, our Irish People. Thus he gaveHis fame to build our glory, and undo The taunts of ages,—strong to lift and save
So, with a nation's gratitude we vow In every Irish heart a shrine shall beTo The Great Peasant, on whose deathless brow Rests the star-crown of immortality.The kings of mind, unlike the kings of earth, Can bear their honours with them to illumeThe grave's dark vault; so Carleton passes forth, As through triumpal arches, to the tomb!