Lady Jane Wilde: Verses about Warning

“De profundis clamavi ad te Domine.”
BY our looks of mute despair,
By the sighs that rend the air,
From lips too faint to utter prayer,
Kyrie Eleison.

By the last groans of our dying,
Echoed by the cold wind’s sighing
On the wayside as they’re lying,
Kyrie Eleison.

By our fever‐stricken bands
Lifting up their wasted hands
For bread throughout the far‐off lands,
Kyrie Eleison.

Miserable outcasts we,
Pariahs of humanity,
Shunned by all where’er we flee,
Kyrie Eleison.

For our dead no bell is ringing,
Round their forms no shroud is clinging,
Save the rank grass newly springing,
Kyrie Eleison.

Golden harvests we are reaping,
With golden grain our barns heaping,
But for us our bread is weeping,
Kyrie Eleison.

Death‐devoted in our home,
Sad we cross the salt sea’s foam,
But death we bring where’er we roam,
Kyrie Eleison.

Whereso’er our steps are led,
They can track us by our dead,
Lying on their cold earth bed,
Kyrie Eleison.

We have sinned—in vain each warning
Brother lived his brother scorning,
Now in ashes see us mourning,
Kyrie Eleison.

Heeding not our country’s state,
Trodden down and desolate,
While we strove in senseless hate,
Kyrie Eleison.


We have sinned, but holier zeal
May we Christian patriots feel,
Oh! for our dear country’s weal,
Kyrie Eleison.

Let us lift our streaming eyes
To God’s throne above the skies,
He will hear our anguish cries,
Kyrie Eleison.

Kneel beside me, oh! my brother,
Let us pray each with the other,
For Ireland, our mourning mother,
Kyrie Eleison.

Air Guniver roam'd in the sunset light,
Through wood and wold,
In sweet dreams of love, but her heart was bright
As proven gold.
Yet ever a voice to the maiden spoke,
Beware—beware of the false men‐folk!

Fair Guniver fished by a lonely stream,
With silken line,
And smiled to see in the silvery gleam
Her image shine.
Yet ever a voice still whispered there,
My child, of the false men‐folk false-men folk beware!

Lo! a Merman rose from the sedgy reeds,
With glittering eyes,
And a mantle of pale‐green ocean weeds
Draped kingly‐wise;
And wreath'd with the mist of his flowing hair,
Was a crown of the river‐lotus fair.

Sweet Guniver, said he, in tones that fell
So low and clear,
Like music that breathes from the caverned shell
In the listner's ear:
I've gazed on thy beauty down deep in the sea,
And my heart pines away for the love of thee.

Yet I ask thee to grant but one demand,
Oh! let me rest
My burning lips on thy snow‐white hand,
One instant blest:
And dream not of harm, for a Merman's truth
Is pure as a maiden's in stainless youth.

Fair Guniver, heed not the tongues that tell
Of man's vain wile,
For our artless souls, thou knowest full well,
Disdain all guile.
Is it much to ask for thy hand to rest
One moment, in love, on thy throbbing breast?

'Tis a gentle prayer, she answered, to sue
For one alone;
So, beautiful Merman, here take the two
Within thine own;
And if, as thou sayest, my hand can bless,
Place both to thy lips in one love caress.

He took her white hands, and he drew her down,
With laughter hoarse;
But the fishermen weep, for they look upon
Fair Guniver's corse.
And still, by her lone grave, the same voice spoke,
Beware—oh! beware of the false men‐folk!

It was the lark—not the nightingale
Poured forth her notes of warning;
Upwards she flew from the sun‐lit vale,
Awoke by the light of the morning.
The day, the day is bright!

The night
Hath fled that in darkness bound ye;
Fling ye the myrtle of love aside,
And grasp the sword whate'er may betide
For the Foemen are gathering round ye!
It was the lark—not the nightingale
Arouse ye from apathy's slumber!
Few and dull do your watchfires pale,
But they soon shall the stars outnumber.
Awake, awake to life!

The strife
For God and your right advances;
Leave the white arms of weeping beauty,
The van of the battle's your post of duty,
Where glitter the Foeman's lances!
It was the lark—not the nightingale
The gate of the morning uncloses;
She sings of the thundering cannon's hail
She sings of the battle's roses;
On the warrior's breast

They rest
The crimson roses that free the world!
Up, then, in Liberty's cause ye are sent
Let the wide heavens be but one warrior's tent
When the banner of Freedom's unfurled.
It was the lark—not the nightingale
Leave, then, O youth, thy dreaming!
As dashes the torrent adown the vale,
O'er all barriers wildly streaming,
So of thy young heart's blood,

The flood
Pour down on the thirsty land;
And Liberty's cause, that would else have died,
Will bloom afresh from that crimson tide;
So pledge ye your heart and hand.
It was the lark—not the nightingale
Who chanted a Nation's rise;
Borne on the wings of the morning gale,
It peals through the azure skies.
Liberty's torch is bright!

The light
May mock our tyrant's scorning,
For millions of hearts will be kindled ere noon;
And the freedom we dream'd of in darkness, full soon
We'll achieve in the light of the morning!

Undiné by the lonely shore,
In lonely grief, is pacing;
The vows her perjured lover swore
No more with hope retracing.
Yet none in beauty could compare
With ocean's bright‐haired daughter.
Her cheek is like the lotus fair
That lieth on the water;

Her eye is like the azure sky,
The azure deep reflecteth;
Her smile, the glittering lights on high,
The glittering wave collecteth.
Her robe of green with many a gem
And pearl of ocean shineth,
And round her brow a diadem
Of rosy coral twineth.

Like diamonds scattered here and there,
The crystal drops are glistening
Amid her flowing golden hair,
As thus she paceth listening
Listening through the silver light,
The light that lover loveth;
Listening through the dark midnight,
But still no lover cometh.

An earthly love her heart enthralls,
She loves with earth's emotion;
For him she left her crystal halls
Beneath the crystal ocean.
Abjured them since he placed that day
The gold ring on her finger,
Though still the sparkling diamond spray
Around her robe would linger.

And she hath gained a human soul,
The soul of trusting woman;
But love hath only taught her dole,
Through tears she knows the human.
So from her sisters far apart,
Her lonely path she taketh,
With human sorrow in the heart
That human love forsaketh.

She weaves a crown of dripping reeds,
On which the moon shines ghastly
'A wedding crown my lover needs,
My pale hands weave it fastly.'
She treads a strange and solemn dance,
The waves around her groaning,
And mingles, with prophetic sense,
Her singing with their moaning.

'My bridegroom, nought can save thee now,
Since plighted troth is broken
The fatal crown awaits thy brow,
The fatal spell is spoken.
Thou'rt standing by another bride,
Before the holy altar
A shadowy form at thy side
Will make thy strong heart falter.

'To her, within the holy church,
Thy perjured vows art giving;
But never shalt thou cross the porch
Again amidst the living.
I wait thee 'neath the chill cold waves,
While marriage‐bells are tolling;
Our bridal chant, 'neath ocean's caves,
Be ocean's billows rolling.'

The bridegroom, in his pride of youth,
Beside the fair bride standeth
'Now take her hand to plight thy troth,'
The solemn Priest commandeth.
But lo! a shadowy form is seen
Betwixt the bridal greeting,
A shadowy hand is placed between,
To hinder theirs from meeting.

The priest is mute, the bridegroom pale
He knows the sea‐nymph's warning;
The fair bride trembles 'neath 'neth her veil,
The bridal's turned to mourning.
No more within the holy church,
Love's holy vows are giving;
They bear the bridegrom from the porch
The dead amidst the living!