Poems (Denver)/The Irish Girl

by Mary Caroline Denver

THE IRISH GIRL.

She stands upon the sea-washed shore,
 While folded o'er her breast,
Her hands are clasped as if to keep
 Her yearning heart at rest.
So stands she, and her eyes are turned
 Towards Erin's island-home,
While thought flies faster than the wind
 Drives on the flying foam.

The waves are sliding to her feet,
 But that she heedeth not;
The present in the mighty past
 Lies buried and forgot.
Affection's tides are filling fast
 Her bosom to the brim,
And in their depths all lesser things
 Are overwhelmed and dim.

Erin! Mavourneen! bears the breeze
 No message from thy shore?—
With warm remembrances of thee
 Her heart is running o'er.
Erin go bragh! Thy shamrock green
 Is like thy children's hearts,
Thro' whatsoever ills they pass,
 Their courage ne'er departs.

Sweet girl of Erin! in the far,
 Far depths of memory,
There are a thousand glorious shapes
 Made visible to thee,
And to thy still and listening heart
 Each hath a different tone,
A language breathing forth a sound
 Peculiarly its own.

The past is like a mighty harp
 All silent and unstrung,
Whose sleeping strings no voice of love
 Or agony hath rung,
But draw the wires, and o'er the chords
 Let memory's fingers fly,
And all affection's countless throngs
 Come up before the eye.

Look round on this green land of ours,
 And say, hast thou not known
On its broad breast, a spot of earth
 As lovely as thine own?
Not one, whose wondrous beauty can
 With Brill's pride compare,
Where bright Killarney folds her arms,
 Round Innisfallen fair?

"Mavourneen!" still the moan I hear
 Of yearning and regret;
Howe'er the tides of life may turn
 She never can forget.
Around the fair and emerald isle
 Her young affections cling,
Made stronger with the lapse of years,
 Yet green as in their spring.