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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO DUFFY IN PRISON by THOMAS D'ARCY MCGEE

First Line: TWAS BUT LAST NIGHT I TRAVERSED THE ATLANTIC'S FURROW'D FACE


'TWAS but last night I traversed the Atlantic's furrow'd face
The stars but thinly colonised the wilderness of space
A white sail glinted here and there, and sometimes o'er the swell.
Rang the seaman's song of labour or the silvery night-watch bell;
I dreamt I reached the Irish shore and felt my heart rebound
From wall to wall within my breast, as I trod that holy ground;
I sat down by my own hearth-stone, beside my love again
I met my friends, and him the first of friends and Irish men.
I saw once more the dome-like brow, the large and lustrous eyes;
I mark'd upon the sphinx-like face the cloud of thoughts arise,
I heard again that clear quick voice that as a tiumpet thrill'd
The souls of men, and wielded them even as the speaker will'd
I felt the cordial-clasping hand that never feigned regard.
Nor ever dealt a muffled blow, or nicely weighed reward
My friend ! my friend ! -oh, would to God that you were here with me
A-watching in the starry West for Ireland's liberty!


Oh, brothers, I can well declare, who read it like a scroll,
What Roman characters were stamp'd upon that Roman soul.
The courage, constancy and love-the old-time faith and truth -
The wisdom of the sages-the sincerity of youth
Like an oak upon our native hills, a host might camp there-under,
Yet it bare the song-birds in its core, amid the storm and thunder
It was the gentlest, firmest soul that ever, lamp-like, showed
A young race seeking freedom up her misty mountain road.


Like a convoy from the flag-ship our fleet is scattered far.
And you, the valiant Admiral, chained and imprisoned are
Like a royal galley's precious freight flung on sea-sunder'd strands,
The diamond wit and golden worth are far-cast on the lands,
And I, whom most you lov'd, am here, and I can but indite
My yearnings and my heart-hopes, and curse them while I write.
Alas ! alas ! ah, what are prayers, and what are moans or sighs.
When the heroes of the land are lost-of the land that will not RISE?


They will bring you in their manacles beneath their blood-red rag,
They will chain you like the conqueror to some sea-moated crag,
To their slaves it will be given your great spirit to annoy.
To fling falsehood in your cup, and to break your martyr joy;
But you will bear it nobly, as Regulus did of eld.
The oak will be the oak, and honoured e'en when fell'd.
Change is brooding over earth; it will find you 'mid the main,
And, throned between its wings, you'll reach your native land again.




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