Page:Life of John Boyle O'Reilly.djvu/691

 PROLOGUE.

Nor gold nor silver are the words set here,

Nor rich-wrought chasing on design of art;

But rugged relics of an unknown sphere

Where fortune chanced I played one time apart.

Unthought of here the critic blame or praise,

These recollections all their faults atone;

To hold the scenes, I've writ of men and ways

Uncouth and rough as Austral ironstone.

It may be, I have left the higher gleams

Of skies and flowers unheeded or forgot;

It may be so,—but, looking back, it seems

When I was with them I beheld them not.

I was no rambling poet, but a man

Hard pressed to dig and delve, with naught of ease

The hot day through, save when the evening's fan

Of sea-winds rustled through the kindly trees.

It may be so; but when I think I smile

At my poor hand and brain to paint the charms

''Of God's first-blazoned canvas! here the aisle''

Moonlit and deep of reaching gothic arms

From towering gum, mahogany, and palm.

And odorous jam and sandal; there the growth

Of arm-long velvet leaves grown hoar in calm,—

In calm unbroken since their luscious youth.

How can I show you all the silent birds

With strange metallic glintings on the wing?

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