The Northern Blackwater

O the broom banks of the river are fair,
Now the wild briar is blossoming there —
Now when the green banks so calmly repose,
Lulled by the river's strange chant as it goes,
Laughing beneath the gold eyes of the broom.
Flashing so free where the heather's in bloom.
Blushing all o'er at the kiss of the sun,
Tranquil again as the gaze of a nun.
Is it, my river, a sob or a song
Beats from that heart as you hurry along ?
Once in the twilight I thought it farewell,
Just a goodbye to both mountain and dell.

Here the first daisies break free from the sod,
Stars looking up with their first glance to God !
Here, ere the first days of April are done,
Stand the swart cherry trees robed with the sun ;
In the deep woodland the windflowers blow ;
Where young grass is springing, the crocuses glow,
Down the green glen is the primrose's light,
Soft shines the hawthorn's raiment of white ;
Round the rough knees of the crabtree a ring
Of daffodils dance for joy of the spring ;
And then my bright river, so full and so free,
Sings as it wanders through woodland and lea.

Fed with a thousand invisible rills,
Girdled around with the awe of the hills,
High in the mountains you spring to the light,
Pure as the dawn from the dark ring of night.
Well may the fairies keep revelry round,
There where you cleave the thin air at a bound,
And rush on the crag with your white arms outspread—
Only a fairy could step where you tread
'Mid the deep echoes you pause to arouse,
'Mid the grim rocks with the frown on their brows,
Type of young Freedom, bold river, to me ;
Leaping the crags, sweeping down to Lough Neagh.

Many a ruin, both abbey and cot,
Sees in your mirror a desolate lot.
Many an ear lying shut far away
Hearkened the tune that your dark ripples play.
One — I remember her better than all —
She knew every legend of cabin and hall ;
Wept when the Law and the Famine-time met,
Sang how the Red Hand was radiantly set
Over the victors who fought at the Ford
Over the sweep of O'Neill's Spanish sword —
O our own river ! where is she to-night ?
Where are the exiles whose homes are in sight ?

Once in the Maytime your carol so sweet
Found out my heart in the midst of the street.
Ah ! how I listened, and you murmured low
Hope, wide as earth and as white as the snow ;
Hope that, alas ! like the foam on your breast,
Broke and was drifted away from its rest.
Peace did not pass from your bonny broom shore,
Lost though the hope unto me evermore,
Lost, like your song — for I think it a sigh
Stirs that deep heart when I listen anigh.
Only at dusk does it sound like farewell,
Just a good-bye to myself and the dell.