The River Liffey
Delicious Liffey! from thy bosoming hills,
What man who sees thee issuing strong and pure,
But with some wistful, fresh emotion fills,
Akin to Nature's own clear temperature?
And, haply, thinks — on this green bank, 'twere sweet
To make one's mansion, some time of the year;
For Health and Pleasure on these uplands meet,
And all the isle's amenities are here.
Hither the merry music of the chase
Floats up the festive borders of Kildare;
And slim-bright steeds extending in the race
Arc yonder seen, and camping legions there.
These coverts hold the wary-gallant fox;
There the parked stag waits his enlarging day;
And there, triumphant o'er opposing rocks,
The shooting salmon quivers through the spray.
The heath, the fern, the honey-fragrant furze
Carpet thy cradling steps: thy middle flow
Laves lawn and oak-wood; o'er thy downward course
Laburnums nod and terraced roses blow.
To ride the race, to hunt, to fowl, to fish,
To do and dare what'er brave youth would do,
A fair fine country as the heart could wish,
And fair the brown-clear river running through.
Such seemest thou to Dublin's youth to-day,
O clear-dark Liffey, 'mid the pleasant land;
With life's delights abounding, brave and gay,
The song, the dance, the softly yielded hand.
The exulting leap, the backward-flying fence,
The whirling reel, the steady levelled gun;
With all attractions for the youthful sense,
All charms to please the manly mind, but one.
For thou, for them, alas! Nor History hast,
Nor even tradition; and the Man aspires
To link his present with his Country's past,
And live anew in knowledge of his Sires.
No rootless colonist of alien earth,
Proud but of patient lungs and pliant limb,
A stranger in the land that gave him birth,
The land a stranger to itself and him.
Yet, though in History's page thou mayst not claim
High places set apart for deeds sublime
That hinge the turnings of the gates of Fame,
And give to view the avenues of time;
Not all inglorious in thy elder day
Art thou, Moy-Liffey; and the loving mind
Might round thy borders many a gracious lay,
And many a tale not unheroic find.
I, from the twilight waste
Where pale tradition sits by Memory's grave,
Gather this wreath, and, ere the nightfall haste
To fling my votive garland on thy wave.
Wave, waft it softly: and when lovers stray
At summer eve by stream and dimpling pool,
Gather thy murmurs into voice and say,
With liquid utterance passionate and full,
Scorn not, sweet maiden, scorn not, vigorous youth,
The lay, though breathing on an Irish home,
That tells of woman-love and warrior-ruth,
And old expectancy of Christ to come.
What man who sees thee issuing strong and pure,
But with some wistful, fresh emotion fills,
Akin to Nature's own clear temperature?
And, haply, thinks — on this green bank, 'twere sweet
To make one's mansion, some time of the year;
For Health and Pleasure on these uplands meet,
And all the isle's amenities are here.
Hither the merry music of the chase
Floats up the festive borders of Kildare;
And slim-bright steeds extending in the race
Arc yonder seen, and camping legions there.
These coverts hold the wary-gallant fox;
There the parked stag waits his enlarging day;
And there, triumphant o'er opposing rocks,
The shooting salmon quivers through the spray.
The heath, the fern, the honey-fragrant furze
Carpet thy cradling steps: thy middle flow
Laves lawn and oak-wood; o'er thy downward course
Laburnums nod and terraced roses blow.
To ride the race, to hunt, to fowl, to fish,
To do and dare what'er brave youth would do,
A fair fine country as the heart could wish,
And fair the brown-clear river running through.
Such seemest thou to Dublin's youth to-day,
O clear-dark Liffey, 'mid the pleasant land;
With life's delights abounding, brave and gay,
The song, the dance, the softly yielded hand.
The exulting leap, the backward-flying fence,
The whirling reel, the steady levelled gun;
With all attractions for the youthful sense,
All charms to please the manly mind, but one.
For thou, for them, alas! Nor History hast,
Nor even tradition; and the Man aspires
To link his present with his Country's past,
And live anew in knowledge of his Sires.
No rootless colonist of alien earth,
Proud but of patient lungs and pliant limb,
A stranger in the land that gave him birth,
The land a stranger to itself and him.
Yet, though in History's page thou mayst not claim
High places set apart for deeds sublime
That hinge the turnings of the gates of Fame,
And give to view the avenues of time;
Not all inglorious in thy elder day
Art thou, Moy-Liffey; and the loving mind
Might round thy borders many a gracious lay,
And many a tale not unheroic find.
I, from the twilight waste
Where pale tradition sits by Memory's grave,
Gather this wreath, and, ere the nightfall haste
To fling my votive garland on thy wave.
Wave, waft it softly: and when lovers stray
At summer eve by stream and dimpling pool,
Gather thy murmurs into voice and say,
With liquid utterance passionate and full,
Scorn not, sweet maiden, scorn not, vigorous youth,
The lay, though breathing on an Irish home,
That tells of woman-love and warrior-ruth,
And old expectancy of Christ to come.
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