Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE KILLARNEY SNAKE, by AUGUSTA DAVIES WEBSTER


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE KILLARNEY SNAKE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Is the time come? Is it to-morrow yet?
Last Line: Is it not come? Is it to-morrow yet?
Alternate Author Name(s): Home, Cecil; Webster, Mrs. Julia Augusta
Subject(s): Animals; Killarney (lakes), Ireland; Legends, Irish; Patrick, Saint (5th Century); Snakes; Serpents; Vipers


IS the time come? is it to-morrow yet?
He said, "To-morrow I will set thee free."
Do holy men their plighted words forget,
Wait I a morrow that shall never be?
I am so weary of this darkness round,
I am so weary of this gurgling sound
While the small waves leaping play
Over my prison and then away,
Chasing those that have gone before,
Chasing them on towards the shore
Where I so fain would be;
Decking it with a fringe of spray,
Resting a moment and then away,
Back to the wide lake-sea,
Ah! they sing so loud, I cannot hear
If the sweet birds are carolling
That trill at morn with a treble chime
From out the shade of the scented lime,
The arching lime-tree by the spring;
But surely the morn must be very near,
I have waited for it so long.
I call to the waters, "Oh, is it time!"
But they bubble on in an unchanged rhyme
Their ceaseless wearisome song.
But he is holy, he will not forget
My morrow comes,--Is it to-morrow yet?
Dimly sometimes I hear the voice of men
Borne floating over me,
But not as they were wont to be,
Their words sound strange and new;
I cry, "Ah, spake he true?"
But they pass and give no answer again:
Ah! I wait and wait till the morrow come,
They pass on gladly and hie them home,
I cannot hie me to mine,
My pleasant home in the hollow root,
Where the loving briony vine
Twines closer and closer each trailing shoot,
Garlands the alder-tree over my head,
And waves a light shade o'er my grassy bed,
And droops its red knots when the winds are still.
And smiling buds at my alder's foot
Smile ever at buds in the flashing rill,
So like I think sometimes they are the same,
And the long waving grass
And the large dock-leaves hid me when men came
And sought to do me ill,
And the green brambles would not let them pass.
For these things loved me, and I loved them too,
But vain their help to hide me from his eye:
I came from sporting by the waters blue
With the light foaming waves that wantoned by,--
They have forgot their playmate now;
I twined me round a sunlit bough
Like a rainbowed creeper wreath,
While down the bright rays beamed
Till all my glory gleamed
Many-hued like the flowers beneath,
And brighter than the golden glare
Of yellow gorses on the heath
That breathed through the sweet air.
And I joyed to be so fair,
Joyed me that all things were so beautiful.
He came so softly that I did not hear,
He spake so softly that I could not fear,
His words of very pleasant hopes were full;
He said he knew a home where I should dwell,
More fair than mine beneath the alder-tree,
And so into this prison lured he me,
Then hurled it in the lake, but as it fell
He said, "To-morrow I will set thee free,"--
Oh, will to-morrow never be?
I sought them not, then wherefore did men come?
They were intruders in my lonely home.
I chose a haunt that was all lone and still,
And fled from theirs and would have done no ill
Had they but left me in my alder stem,
Left me the little grassy spot
They surely needed not.
Was there not room without for them?
Did they grudge me a little grass? ah, why?
Will they not set me free once more?
Shall I never more see the sunny sky?
Shall I sport with the waters blue no more?
I am so weary of their ceaseless sound
Gushing and gurgling over my head,
Beating against my narrow bed;
I am so weary of this darkness round;
When will to-morrow come and set me free?
I do not wait a morn that shall not be,--
Do holy men their plighted words forget?
Surely I do not hope in vain?
I shall be free from this dull prisoned pain.--
Is it not come? Is it to-morrow yet?









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