Poet's Corner. DIRGE FOR DEVIN REILLY.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume IV, Issue 211, 20 April 1877, Page 3

Poet's Corner.

DIRGE FOR DEVIN REILLY.

The following beautiful and powerful poem is one of the bust relics of the geuiu* of poor Joseph Breumti. Another such poem— possessing such rare pathos — burning with such fire in its irregular rhymes -abounding with such, grand and majesties metaphors, it would be difficult to find in the language.— Pilot. " God rest you, Devin Reilly, in the place of your choice! Where the blessed dew is falling, and the flowers have a voice ; Where the conscious trees are bending in homage to the dead* And the earth is swelling .up ward, like a pillow for your head; And HIS rest will be with you, for the lonely seeming grave, Tho' a dungecn to the coward, is a palace to the brave ; Tho' a black Inferno circle, where the recreant are bound, Is a brave Valhalla pleasure-dome where heroes are crown'd ; Oh ! God's rest will be with you in the congress of the great, Whc are purified by sorrow, and are victors over fate ; Oh ! God's rest will be with you in the corridors of fame, Which was jubilant with welcome when Death named your name ! " Way 'mongst the heroes for another hero soul ! Room for a spirit which has struggled to its goal ! Rise, for in life he was faithful to his faith, And entered without stain 'neath the portico of death ; And his fearless deeds around like attendant angels stand, Claiming recognition from the noble and the grand. Claiming to his meed, who, from fresh and bounding youth To the days of manly trial, was truthful to the truth, The welcome of the hero, whose foot would not give way Till his trenchant sword was shivered in the fury of the fray ; And brave will be that welcome if the demi-gods above Can love with a tithe of our humble mortal love. " Have you seen the mighty tempest in its war cloak of cloud, When it stalks thro' the midnight so defiant and proud — When 'tis shouldering the ocean till the crouching waters fly, From the thunder of its voice, and the lightning of its eye; A.nd the waves in timid multitudes are rushing to the strand In a vain appeal for succor from the buffets of its hand ? Then you saw the sorl of Reilly when, abroad in its might, It dashed aside with loathing all the creatures of the night ! Till the plumed hosts were humbled, and their crests, white no more, Were soiled with the sand, and strewn upon the shore ! For the volumed swell of thunder was concentrated in his form, ■ And his tread was a conquest, and his blow was like a storm ! " Have you seen a weary tempest, when a harbor is near, And its giant breast is heaving from the speed of its career ? How it puts off its terrors, and is timorous and weak, As it stoops upon the waters with its cheek to their cheekAs it broods like a lover over all the quiet place, Till the dimpling smiles of pleasure are eddying in its trace ? Then you saw the soul of Reilly when, ceasing to roam, It flung away thj clouds, and nestled to its home j When the heave and swell were ended, and the spirit was at rest. And gentle thoughts, like white-winged birds, were dreaming on its breast ; And the tremulous sheets of sunset around its couch were rolled In voluptuous festooning of purple lined with. gold. " Oh ! sorrow on the day when our young apostle died, When the lonely grave was opened for our darling and our pride j When the passion of a people was following the dead, Like a solitary mourner with a bowed uncovered head ; When a nation's aspirations were stooping o'er the dust ; When the golden bowl was broken, and the trenchant sword was rust; When the brave tempestuous spirit, with an upward wing, had passed ; And the love of the wife was a widow's love at last : Oh ! God rest you, Devin Reilly, in the shadow of that love, And God bless you with His bliss, in the pleasure-dome above ! Where the heroes are assembled, and the very angels bow To tho glory of eternity which glimmers on each brow. " Lay me on a hillside, with my feet to the dew, Where tne life of the verdure is faintly stealing thro', On the slope of a hill, with my face to the light Whicii glows upon the dawn, and glorifies the night; Would it were a hillside in the land of the Gael, Where the dew falls like tear-drops, and the wind is a wail ; Where the winged superstitions are gleaming thro' the gloom. Like a host of frighted fairies to beautify the tomb ! On the slope of a hill, with your face to the sky, Which clasped you like a blessing in the days gone by ; When your hopes were as radiant a3 tho stars of th enight, And the reaches of the future throbbed with, constellated light ! "