James Clarence Mangan

 (né James Mangan; Irish: Séamus Ó Mangáin; 1 May 1803 – 20 June 1849), was an Irish poet.

Quotes

 * O my Dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep! The priests are on the ocean green,  They march along the deep. There’s wine from the royal Pope,  Upon the ocean green; And Spanish ale shall give you hope,  My Dark Rosaleen!  My own Rosaleen! Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, Shall give you health, and help, and hope,  My Dark Rosaleen!Over hills, and thro’ dales,  Have I roam’d for your sake; All yesterday I sail’d with sails  On river and on lake. The Erne, at its highest flood,  I dash’d across unseen, For there was lightning in my blood,  My dark Rosaleen!  My own Rosaleen! O, there was lightning in my blood, Red lightning lighten’d thro’ my blood,  My Dark Rosaleen!All day long, in unrest,  To and fro do I move. The very soul within my breast  Is wasted for you, love! The heart in my bosom faints  To think of you, my Queen, My life of life, my saint of saints,  My Dark Rosaleen!  My own Rosaleen! To hear your sweet and sad complaints, My life, my love, my saint of saints,  My Dark Rosaleen!Woe and pain, pain and woe,  Are my lot, night and noon, To see your bright face clouded so,  Like to the mournful moon. But yet will I rear your throne  Again in golden sheen; ’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,  My Dark Rosaleen!  My own Rosaleen! ’Tis you shall have the golden throne, ’Tis you shall reign, and reign alone,  My Dark Rosaleen!Over dews, over sands,  Will I fly, for your weal: Your holy delicate white hands  Shall girdle me with steel. At home, in your emerald bowers,  From morning’s dawn till e’en, You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers,  My Dark Rosaleen!  My fond Rosaleen! You’ll think of me thro’ daylight hours, My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,  My Dark Rosaleen!I could scale the blue air,  I could plough the high hills, O, I could kneel all night in prayer,  To heal your many ills! And one beamy smile from you  Would float like light between My toils and me, my own, my true,  My Dark Rosaleen!  My fond Rosaleen! Would give me life and soul anew, A second life, a soul anew,  My Dark Rosaleen!O, the Erne shall run red,  With redundance of blood, The earth shall rock beneath our tread,  And flames wrap hill and wood, And gun-peal and slogan-cry  Wake many a glen serene, Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die,  My Dark Rosaleen!  My own Rosaleen! The Judgement Hour must first be nigh, Ere you can fade, ere you can die,  My Dark Rosaleen!
 * "Dark Rosaleen"


 * Take a blessing from my heart to the land of my birth, And the fair hills of Eiré, O! And to all that yet survive of Eibhear’s tribe on earth, On the fair hills of Eiré, O! In that land so delightful the wild thrush’s lay, Seems to pour a lament forth for Eiré’s decay. Alas, alas! why pine I a thousand miles away From the fair hills of Eiré, O!The soil is rich and soft, the air is mild and bland, Of the fair hills of Eiré, O! Her barest rock is greener to me than this rude land; O the fair hills of Eiré, O! Her woods are tall and straight, grove rising over grove; Trees flourish in her glens below and on her heights above; Ah, in heart and in soul I shall ever, ever love The fair hills of Eiré, O!A noble tribe, moreover, are the now hapless Gael, On the fair hills of Eiré, O! A tribe in battle’s hour unused to shrink or fail On the fair hills of Eiré, O! For this is my lament in bitterness outpour’d To see them slain or scatter’d by the Saxon sword: O woe of woes to see a foreign spoiler horde On the fair hills of Eiré, O!Broad and tall rise the cruachs in the golden morning glow On the fair hills of Eiré, O! O’er her smooth grass for ever sweet cream and honey flow, On the fair hills of Eiré, O! Oh, I long, I am pining, again to behold The land that belongs to the brave Gael of old. Far dearer to my heart than a gift of gems or gold Are the fair hills of Eiré, O!The dewdrops lie bright mid the grass and yellow corn On the fair hills of Eiré, O! The sweet-scented apples blush redly in the morn On the fair hills of Eiré, O! The water-cress and sorrel fill the vales below, The streamlets are hush’d till the evening breezes blow, While the waves of the Suir, noble river! ever flow Neath the fair hills of Eiré, O!A fruitful clime is Eiré’s, through valley, meadow, plain, And the fair hills of Eiré, O! The very bread of life is in the yellow grain On the fair hills of Eiré, O! Far dearer unto me than the tones music yields Is the lowing of the kine and the calves in her fields, In the sunlight that shone long ago on the shields Of the Gaels, on the fair hills of Eiré, O!
 * "The Fair Hills of Eiré, O"


 * I see thee ever in my dreams, Karaman! Thy hundred hills, thy thousand streams, Karaman, O Karaman! As when thy gold-bright morning gleams, As when the deepening sunset seams With lines of light thy hills and streams, Karaman! So thou loomest on my dreams, Karaman! On all my dreams, my homesick dreams, Karaman, O Karaman!The hot bright plains, the sun, the skies, Karaman! Seem death-black marble to mine eyes, Karaman, O Karaman! I turn from summer’s blooms and dyes; Yet in my dreams thou dost arise In welcome glory to mine eyes, Karaman! In thee my life of life yet lies, Karaman! Thou still art holy in mine eyes, Karaman, O Karaman!Ere my fighting years were come, Karaman! Troops were few in Erzerome, Karaman, O Karaman! Their fiercest came from Erzerome, They came from Ukhbar’s palace dome, They dragg’d me forth from thee, my home, Karaman! Thee, my own, my mountain home, Karaman! In life and death, my spirit’s home, Karaman, O Karaman!O none of all my sisters ten, Karaman! Loved like me my fellow-men, Karaman, O Karaman! I was mild as milk till then, I was soft as silk till then; Now my breast is as a den, Karaman! Foul with blood and bones of men, Karaman! With blood and bones of slaughter’d men, Karaman, O Karaman!My boyhood’s feelings newly born, Karaman! Wither’d like young flowers uptorn, Karaman, O Karaman! And in their stead sprang weed and thorn; What once I loved now moves my scorn: My burning eyes are dried to horn, Karaman! I hate the blessèd light of morn, Karaman! It maddens me, the face of morn, Karaman, O Karaman!The Spahi wears a tyrant’s chains, Karaman! But bondage worse than this remains, Karaman, O Karaman! His heart is black with million stains: Thereon, as on Kaf’s blasted plains, Shall nevermore fall dews and rains, Karaman! Save poison-dews and bloody rains, Karaman! Hell’s poison-dews and bloody rains, Karaman, O Karaman!But life at worst must end ere long, Karaman! Azrael avengeth every wrong, Karaman, O Karaman! Of late my thoughts rove more among Thy fields; o’ershadowing fancies throng My mind, and texts of bodeful song, Karaman! Azrael is terrible and strong, Karaman! His lightning sword smites all ere long, Karaman, O Karaman!There ’s care to-night in Ukhbar’s halls, Karaman! There ’s hope, too, for his trodden thralls, Karaman, O Karaman! What lights flash red along yon walls? Hark! hark! the muster-trumpet calls! I see the sheen of spears and shawls, Karaman! The foe! the foe!—they scale the walls, Karaman! To-night Muràd or Ukhbar falls, Karaman, O Karaman!
 * "The Karamanian Exile"


 * THE WAIL Here we meet, we three, at length, Amrah, Osman, Perizad: Shorn of all our grace and strength, Poor, and old, and very sad. We have lived, but live no more; Life has lost its gloss for us, Since the days we spent of yore Boating down the Bosphorus! La’ laha, il Allah! The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus! Old time brought home no loss for us; We felt full of health and heart Upon the foamy Bosphorus!La’ laha, il Allah! Days indeed! A shepherd’s tent Served us then for house and fold; All to whom we gave or lent, Paid us back a thousandfold. Troublous years, by myriads wail’d, Rarely had a cross for us, Never, when we gaily sail’d Singing down the Bosphorus. La’ laha, il Allah! The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus! There never came a cross for us, While we daily, gaily sail’d Adown the meadowy Bosphorus.La’ laha, il Allah! Blithe as birds we flew along, Laugh’d and quaff’d and stared about; Wine and roses, mirth and song, Were what most we cared about. Fame we left for quacks to seek, Gold was dust and dross for us, While we lived from week to week Boating down the Bosphorus. La’ laha, il Allah! The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus! And gold was dust and dross for us, While we lived from week to week Boating down the Bosphorus.La’ laha, il Allah! Friends we were, and would have shared Purses, had we twenty full. If we spent, or if we spared, Still our funds were plentiful. Save the hours we pass’d apart, Time brought home no loss for us; We felt full of hope and heart While we clove the Bosphorus. La’ laha, il Allah! The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus! For life has lost its gloss for us Since the days we spent of yore Upon the pleasant Bosphorus!La’ laha, il Allah! Ah! for youth’s delirious hours, Man pays well in after-days, When quenched hopes and palsied powers Mock his love-and-laughter days. Thorns and thistles on our path Took the place of moss for us, Till false fortune’s tempest-wrath Drove us from the Bosphorus. La’ laha, il Allah! The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus! When thorns took place of moss for us, Gone was all! Our hearts were graves Deep, deeper than the Bosphorus.La’ laha, il Allah! Gone is all! In one abyss Lie health, youth, and merriment! All we’ve learnt amounts to this: Life’s a sad experiment! What it is we trebly feel Pondering what it was for us, When our shallop’s bounding keel Clove the joyous Bosphorus. La’ laha, il Allah! The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus! We wail for what life was for us, When our shallop’s bounding keel Clove the joyous Bosphorus! THE WARNING La’ laha, il Allah! Pleasure tempts, yet man has none Save himself t’ accuse, if her Temptings prove, when all is done, Lures hung out by Lucifer. Guard your fire in youth, O friends! Manhood’s is but phosphorus, And bad luck attends and ends Boatings down the Bosphorus! La’ laha, il Allah! The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus! Youth’s fire soon wanes to phosphorus, And slight luck or grace attends Your boaters down the Bosphorus!
 * "The Three Khalandeers"


 * Solomon, where is thy throne? It is gone in the wind. Babylon, where is thy might? It is gone in the wind. Like the swift shadows of noon, like the dreams of the blind, Vanish the glories and pomps of the earth in the wind.Man, canst thou build upon aught in the pride of thy mind? Wisdom will teach thee that nothing can tarry behind: Tho’ there be thousand bright actions embalm’d and enshrined, Myriads and millions of brighter are snow in the wind.Solomon, where is thy throne? It is gone in the wind. Babylon, where is thy might? It is gone in the wind. All that the genius of man hath achieved or design’d Waits but its hour to be dealt with as dust by the wind.Say what is pleasure? A phantom, a mask undefined: Science? An almond whereof we can pierce but the rind: Honour and affluence? Firmans that Fortune hath sign’d, Only to glitter and pass on the wings of the wind.Solomon, where is thy throne? It is gone in the wind. Babylon, where is thy might? It is gone in the wind. Who is the fortunate? He who in anguish hath pined! He shall rejoice when his relics are dust in the wind.Mortal, be careful with what thy best hopes are entwined: Woe to the miners for Truth, where the lampless have mined! Woe to the seekers on earth for what none ever find! They and their trust shall be scatter’d like leaves to the wind!Solomon, where is thy throne? It is gone in the wind. Babylon, where is thy might? It is gone in the wind. Happy in death are they only whose hearts have consign’d All earth’s affections and longings and cares to the wind.Pity thou, reader, the madness of poor humankind Raving of knowledge—and Satan so busy to blind! Raving of glory, like me; for the garlands I bind, Garlands of song, are but gather’d—and strewn in the wind.Solomon, where is thy throne? It is gone in the wind. Babylon, where is thy might? It is gone in the wind. I, Abul-Namez, must rest; for my fire is declined, And I hear voices from Hades like bells on the wind.
 * "Gone in the Wind" in Anthologia Germanica (1845), p. 97; cp. Gone with the Wind


 * Veil not thy mirror, sweet Amine, Till night shall also veil each star! Thou seest a twofold marvel there: The only face so fair as thine, The only eyes that, near or far, Can gaze on thine without despair.
 * "To Amine"


 * Traverse not the globe for lore! The sternest But the surest teacher is the heart; Studying that and that alone, thou learnest Best and soonest whence and what thou art.Time, not travel, 'tis which gives us ready Speech, experience, prudence, tact, and wit: Far more light the lamp that bideth steady Than the wandering lantern doth emit.Moor, Chinese, Egyptian, Russian, Roman, Tread one common down-hill path of doom; Everywhere the names are man and woman, Everywhere the old sad sins find room.Evil angels tempt us in all places. What but sands or snows hath earth to give? Dream not, friend, of deserts and oases; But look inwards, and begin to live.
 * "Advice against Travel" in L. I. Guiney, ed. Selected Poems (1897), p. 260; st. 2 om. in The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse (1912), no. 81


 * To this khan, and from this khan How many pilgrims came and went too! In this khan, and by this khan  What arts were spent, what hearts were rent too! To this khan and from this khan  (Which, for penance, man is sent to) Many a van and caravan  Crowded came, and shrouded went too. Christian man and Mussulman,  Guebre, heathen, Jew, and Gentoo, To this khan, and from this khan,  Weeping came, and sleeping went too. A riddle this since time began,  Which many a sage his mind hath bent to: All came, all went; but never man  Knew whence they came, or where they went to!
 * "The World: a Ghazel"


 * Roll forth, my song, like the rushing river, That sweeps along to the mighty sea; God will inspire me while I deliver        My soul of thee!Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whitening  Amid the last homes of youth and eld, That once there was one whose veins ran lightning        No eye beheld.Tell how his boyhood was one drear night-hour,  How shone for him, through his griefs and gloom, No star of all heaven sends to light our        Path to the tomb.Roll on, my song, and to after ages  Tell how, disdaining all earth can give, He would have taught men, from wisdom’s pages,        The way to live.And tell how trampled, derided, hated,  And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong, He fled for shelter to God, who mated        His soul with song.—With song which alway, sublime or vapid,  Flow’d like a rill in the morning beam, Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid:        A mountain stream.Tell how this Nameless, condemn’d for years long  To herd with demons from hell beneath, Saw things that made him, with groans and tears, long        For even death.Go on to tell how, with genius wasted,  Betray’d in friendship, befool’d in love, With spirit shipwreck’d, and young hopes blasted,        He still, still strove;Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others  (And some whose hands should have wrought for him, If children live not for sires and mothers),        His mind grew dim;And he fell far through that pit abysmal,  The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns, And pawn’d his soul for the devil’s dismal        Stock of returns.But yet redeem’d it in days of darkness,  And shapes and signs of the final wrath, When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness,        Stood on his path.And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow,  And want, and sickness, and houseless nights, He bides in calmness the silent morrow,        That no ray lights.And lives he still, then? Yes! Old and hoary  At thirty-nine, from despair and woe, He lives, enduring what future story        Will never know.Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble,  Deep in your bosoms: there let him dwell! He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble,        Here and in hell.
 * "The Nameless One"


 * In Siberia’s wastes The ice-wind’s breath 	Woundeth like the toothèd steel; 	Lost Siberia doth reveal 	  Only blight and death.Blight and death alone.  No Summer shines. Night is interblent with Day. In Siberia’s wastes alway  The blood blackens, the heart pines.In Siberia’s wastes  No tears are shed, For they freeze within the brain. Naught is felt but dullest pain,  Pain acute, yet dead;Pain as in a dream,  When years go by Funeral-paced, yet fugitive, When man lives, and doth not live,  Doth not live—nor die.In Siberia’s wastes  Are sands and rocks. Nothing blooms of green or soft, But the snow-peaks rise aloft  And the gaunt ice-blocks.And the exile there  Is one with those; They are part, and he is part, For the sands are in his heart,  And the killing snows.Therefore, in those wastes  None curse the Czar. Each man’s tongue is cloven by The North Blast, who heweth nigh  With sharp scymitar.And such doom each drees,  Till, hunger-gnawn, And cold-slain, he at length sinks there, Yet scarce more a corpse than ere  His last breath was drawn.
 * "Siberia" in The Nation (April 1846)