Winter’s Death

A Poem of our time

 

Winter 1As thus the snows arise; and foul, and fierce, 
All winter drives along the darkened air; 
In his own loose revolving fields, the swain 
Disaster’d stands; sees other hills ascend, 
Of unknown joyless brow; and other scenes, 
Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain: 
Nor finds the river nor the forest, hid 
Beneath the formless wild; but wanders on 
From hill to dale, still more and more astray, 
Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps, 
Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of home 
Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth 
In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul! 
Winter 4What black despair, what horror fills his breast! 
When for the dusky spot, which fancy feign’d 
His tufted cottage rising through the snow, 
He meets the roughness of the middle waste 
Far from the track and blest abode of man, 
While round him might resistless closes fast, 
And every tempest, howling o’er his head, 
Renders the savage wildness more wild. 
Then throng the busy shapes into his mind, 
Of covered pits unfathomably deep, 
A dire descent! beyond the power of frost; 
Of faithless bogs; Of precipices huge 
Smoothed up with snow; and what is land, unknown, 
What water of the still unfrozen spring, In the loose marsh or solitary lake, 
Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils. 
These check his fearful steps; and down he sinks 
Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift, 
Thinking o’er all the bitterness of death, 
Mix’d with the tender anguish nature shoots 
Through the wrung bosom of the dying man—
His wife—his children—and his friends unseen. 
In vain for him the officious wife prepares 
The fire, fair, blazing, and the vestment warm. 
In vain his little children, peeping out 
Into the mingling storm, demand their sire 
With tears of artless innocence. Alas! 
Nor wife, nor children more shall he behold—
Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve 
The deadly winter seizes; shuts up sense, 
And, o’er his inmost vitals creeping cold, 
Lays him along the snows, a stiffened corpse, 
Stretch’d out, and bleaching in the northern  blast.
Winter 2
ANONYMOUS IRISH POET

Sisters

There are occasions when you come across some lovely pieces of poetry when you study folklore and customs. The following is a poem I picked up a few weeks ago and thought it was so nice that I should share it with you. As for the author, all I know is that it is by a 19th Century Poet/Poetess. Please enjoy…

The day had gone as fades a dream;

The night had come, and rain fell fast;

While o’er the black and sluggish stream

Cold blew the wailing blast.

In pensive mood I idly raised

The curtain from the rain-splashed glass,

And as into the street I gazed,

I saw two women pass.

One shivering with the bitter cold,

Her garments heavy with the rain,

Limped by with features wan and old,

Deep farrowed by sharp pain.

A child in form, a child in years;

But from her piteous pallid face,

The weariness of life with tears

Had washed all childlike grace.

And as she passed me faint and weak,

I heard her slowly say, as though

With throbbing heart about to break:

‘”Move on!” Where shall I go?’

The other, who on furs reclined,

In brougham was driven to the play;

No thought within her vacant mind

Of those in rags that day:

With unmoved heart and idle stare,

Passed by the beggar in the street,

Who lifted up her hands in prayer,

Some charity to meet.

Both vanished in the murky night:

The outcast on a step to die;

The lady to a scene of light,

Where Joy alone did sigh.

But angels saw amid her hair

What was by human eyes unseen;

The grass that grows on graves was there,

With leaves of ghastly green.

And though her diamonds flashed the light

Upon the flatterers gathered near,

The outcast’s brow had gem more bright –

An angel’s pitying tear.

An Unknown 19th Century Irish Poet

The Evil Omen

A Tale from the West of Ireland

Jack Flannery was a humble, hard-working shoemaker who lived quietly with his wife and their grown-up son, in a little cottage that stood by the roadside, at the edge of the village of Derryard. Trained by his father, Jack’s son had built a good reputation in the county. With such a reputation both Father and son always had plenty of work to do and were often obliged to sit up until late at night in their workshop to ensure that all the orders entrusted to them were completed.

One calm winter’s night, in early December, at about midnight, both men were, as usual, busy. They were sewing the leather at a brisk rate in one corner of the cottage’s narrow kitchen, where a turf fire was burning brightly on the hearth. Jack’s wife had grown tired earlier in the evening and had gone to bed. Everything in the house was quiet, except for the crickets, which chirped monotonously in the crevices all around chimney breast. Even the old sow and her litter of young ones, who were kept in a small corner of the cottage had stopped grunting and were asleep. The hens that were roosting on the broad beam at the further end of the cottage, near the door, had long given-up their usual cackling, and the entire house was at peace.

Jack and his son continued to sew leather in silence, which was broken only by the occasional whispered request made by one or other of the men for some article they required

I don’t know, son, but I’ll go to the door and ask,” the father replied.

Who in God’s name is there?” called the old man, on-going toward the door. When there was no reply, he asked once again, “Is there anyone there?” Again, there was no answer. “Well,” he whispered to his son as he returned to the bench and stood beside him.

Death CallsThere was someone there, or something, whether it was good or bad, and wherever they’ve gone to.” The two men listened in silence for a few moments in case the knocking would return, but they couldn’t hear anything that would indicate the presence of a visitor outside. But they were not disturbed again that night.

The next night, however, at the same time they were very alarmed when they heard the footsteps again. The latch was lifted as it had been on the previous night and then allowed to fall with an exactly similar click. “God preserve us!” exclaimed the old man, who immediately arose from his seat, while his son was far too frightened either to speak or move.

As he had before, Jack went to the door and demanded, “In God’s name, who’s there?” When no answer was given, he called out again, “For God’s sake,” said the poor old man in a trembling voice, “is there anyone there?

For a few moments he waited for a reply, but his wait was in vain. “Son,” said he, “we’ll get ourselves to bed now. But, don’t be afraid.” He could see that the young man was trembling in terror from head to foot, “Maybe it’s just someone playing games, and trying to scare us. But, let me tell you that, if it is and they try it again they’ll be sorry.” There was not another word spoken between them, and both men immediately went to bed and were soon fast asleep.

The third night, at the very same hour, the footsteps again came to the door. On this occasion, however, the latch was not lifted. Instead, there were three quick, sharp knocks as if the knuckles of someone’s hand were struck against the door. The old man, swearing an oath, immediately jumped to his feet, and going to the door opened it quickly, and went out into the night. He ran around the house and searched everywhere, but he could not find even a trace of anyone. Angry and frustrated, father and son went off to bed that night more frightened than they had been on either of the preceding nights. The father’s suspicion that there was someone who was trying to terrify them had given him a little more courage than the son, but now even he began to feel ill at ease. He had now begun to realize that his suspicions were incorrect, for he was firmly convinced that their tormentor could not have escaped so quickly if it was mortal. With this thought in mind, therefore, the father became very alarmed, for he felt that they had been given a warning that something bad was about to happen. But, if it was a warning, it would not be repeated, because such dire warnings are only given on three occasions.

As expected, those dread footsteps were heard no more, but this only increased his concerns, which he discussed with his wife and his son. A fortnight passed, and nothing unusual had occurred, which caused the dread that Jack Flannery, his wife, and son were feeling to considerably diminish. Then, on a Sunday night, at the of the fortnight, when old Ned McClean paid a neighbourly visit and found the Flannery family to be quite cheerful. Ned found them sitting beside a comfortable fire burning on the hearth, enjoying the pleasant glow of the blazing turf, and the pleasant experience of a quiet smoke at the end of the day.

God save all here,” said Ned as he entered the house.

And the same to you Ned,” replied Jack and his wife in unison, adding, “Sure, you’re very welcome, especially since you don’t go out much at all in the evenings.

Ned and the Flannerys were long-time friends, and although Jack and his wife had always a kindly welcome anyone who entered their little cottage, the welcome for Ned was always that little bit warmer than any given to others. Jack’s son was, as they informed their friend, “out galavanting” and that they had the pleasure of the fire all to themselves. Inviting Ned to sit, they were all soon absorbed in discussing ‘old times’, which was a great favourite with them. They became thoroughly involved in the conversation and the time passed both quickly and pleasantly. But, unfortunately, they were interrupted, which caused a cold chain of silence to drop over the company and revived a dread of approaching evil once again in the hearts of the Flannerys.

The shoemaker was in the middle of telling his favourite story about the ‘bad times,’ when the cock on the beam flapped his wings and crew once, twice, thrice. “Ned,” said the shoemaker, “you will hear some bad news before long, mind what I’m telling you.

Ned shook his head and replied, “I don’t like it at all, Jack, Lord preserve us!

Mrs. Flannery blessed herself and uttered some inaudible prayers. Nevertheless, the interruption left them all in no humour for more storytelling about the past, and that one frightening incident that had just occurred was too unnatural to think about any further. Ned, therefore, departed the cottage with a fervent “God speed” from Jack and his wife.

Ned only a short distance to go home. Then, having said the rosary, he went to bed and was just beginning to close his eyes when he heard a loud rapping at the door. He listened and soon recognized that it was Jack Flannery’s son calling. “Ned, are you asleep?

No,” the old man replied. “What’s wrong?

Oh, get up quick, my father’s dead.”

Dear God, boy, what are ye saying?” exclaimed Nicholas in amazement.

My father’s just after dying. Hurry over, for God’s sake.

It was the truth! Just about the hour of twelve midnight poor Jack Flannery’s soul had taken its leave from this earthly world. His wife had noticed that he was breathing heavily and was getting no response to her inquiries as to what was wrong with him. At that point, she called out to her son to get up at once and bring a light to the bedroom. The light finally revealed the lifeless body of a man who had been both a loving husband and a kind father.

The Fairies

Where are the wonderful elves, and the fairy creatures bright?

Where are the tiny things that danced in the pale moonlight?

Danced in a magic ring, and fluttered in robes of white,

Like motes in the sunbeam whirled, like leaves in the forest hoar.

Hark to the sound of the sea, and the cry of the waves on the shore.

Where are the dusky gnomes who toiled in the golden ground?

So that the miners trembled hearing their hammers’ sound,

Hearing them tapping, tapping, delving in darkness bound,

A thousand tapping hammers, beneath them hammering.

Hark to the muttered thunder, the voice of the hidden spring.

Where are the forest fairies, the elves in Lincoln green,

Deep in the forest hidden, and never in cities seen,

Sought for by timid maidens, on sainted Hallowe’en,

The joy of all true lovers, a merry band were they!

Hark to the hum of the bee, in the scented blooms of May.

Where are the household fairies, who loved the embers’ glow,

Who played at games with the shadows flickering to and fro,

But left no track on the sanded floor, no trace on the fallen snow,

And filled up the little slippers the children left behind,

Hark to the howl of the tempest, the moan of the stormy wind.

The elves are waiting, waiting, for the golden days to come,

When grief shall be known no longer, nor faithful love be dumb;

Till the figures all are added up, and finished the mighty sum.

Ah yes, they are waiting, waiting, till grief shall be no more.

Hark to the rustle of raindrops, that kiss the deserted shore.

Fairy 2

Anon.

MONUMENT BUSHES

Writers on Irish folklore and superstitions occasionally represent unbaptised children as being blindfolded and sitting within fairy moats, the peasantry believing that the souls of these children simply go into a void. But, not all peasants thought this way, especially the most enlightened. All of those who were influenced by the teachings of Catholic Theologians believed that the unbaptised infants suffer the pain of losing the presence of God, because of ‘Original Sin.’ They follow the teachings of sacred Scripture that tell us, “Unless a man be born again of water and the Holy Ghost, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God.” (John 3:5) In simple terms it was believed that unbaptised persons are deprived of the beatific vision of God, although they are not subject to the sufferings of those, who have lost the grace of baptismal innocence. ‘Limbo’ was the name given to this void, but modern theologians say that there is no such place since God would not be cruel enough to damn innocent children to an eternal void.

In Ireland, until thirty or forty years ago, unbaptised children and abortions were generally buried under certain trees and bushes, is why they were given the name, ‘monument bushes’. Remarkably, when these types of interments took place in consecrated churchyards in Ireland, the graves were always dug on the north side of the cemetery and apart from those deceased persons who had been baptised. For the most part, however, ‘monument bushes’ were found in the centre of cross-roads. Occasionally, they are seen by a roadside, but detached from adjoining fences. Often grouped together in gnarled and fantastic shapes, these bushes present a picturesque and beautiful view to anyone passing-by, especially when flowered over with hawthorn blossoms. Ghosts or monsters were occasionally conjured up, before the excited imaginations pf credulous and timid people, when they passed these objects at night.
monument bush
Ancient and solitary hawthorns, generally called ‘Monument Bushes’, are held in great veneration by local communities.  To destroy these bushes, or even to remove any of their branches would regarded as being a disrespectful desecration. The faeries and the ‘Pookas’ are supposed to frequent the sites where these bushes grow. Elves are often seen hanging from and flitting amongst the branches. But, ghosts are more generally found about those haunts and, therefore, few persons want to pass by them alone, or at a late hour. Sadly, such fears are gradually losing their force, because there are few of the old traditions that are known to the new generations of Irishmen and women.

In an older time, whenever a funeral cortège passed by ‘monument bushes’, it was customary for all those in attendance to uncover their heads, while the “De Profundis” had been recited. Then the funeral procession would continue towards the graveyard that had been chosen for interment.

A lady, dressed in a long, flowing, white robe, is often supposed to issue from beneath those ‘monument bushes’ and to seat herself on the haunches of the horse, when a solitary horseman rides along the road. She usually clasps her arms around his waist, and her hands are often found to be deadly cold. She speaks not a word, and suddenly glides off, after riding a considerable distance with them. This apparition is supposed to mandate a near approach of the horseman’s death, and, as he moves forward, he begins to droop or fall into a lingering deadline.

The following customs, regarding to the dead, appear to have come from a distant time in Ireland’s history. When a person had been murdered, or had died by some sudden cause, at a certain spot or on a roadside, the common folk, when they went to that place, carried a stone with them that they would throw on the site where the dead body was found. An accumulation of stones thus heaped together soon forms a considerably sizeable pile. The hat is also removed by those passing by, and a prayer is usually offered for the eternal repose of the departed soul. “I would not even throw a stone on your grave,” is an expression that was used by local peasantry to denote their bitterness towards any person thus addressed. But, it very certain, that few of our generous people would carry their resentments so far, as to refuse the ‘Requiem’ prayer after death, on behalf of those less liked and least respected while they were alive.