Berea High School - Prima Luce Yearbook (Berea, NC)

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EXILE OF ERIN There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The clew on his thin robe was heavy and chill ; For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill : But the day-star attracted his eye’s sad devotion, For it rose o ' er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the hold anthem of Erin go bragh. “Sad is my fate l” said the heart-broken stranger ; “The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But 1 have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me, Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh. “Erin, my country ! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit they sea-beaten shore ; But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken. And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! O cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace — where no perils can chase me ? Never again shall my brothers embrace me? They died to defend me or live to deplore ! “Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wildwood? Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood ; And where is the bosom friend dearer than all ? O, my sad heart ! long abandoned by pleasure, Why did it dote on a fast- fading treasure? Tears, like the raindrop, may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they can not recall. “Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw ; Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh ! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields — sweetest isle of the ocean ! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion — Erin mavourneen, — Erin go bragh !” — Thomas Campbell. [ Page 99

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Back of the canvas that throbs the painter is hinted and hidden ; Into the statue that breathes the soul of the sculptor is bidden ; Under the joy that is felt lie the infinite issues of feeling; Crowning the glory revealed is the glory that crowns the revealing ; Great are the symbols of being, but that which is symboled is greater ; Vast the create and beheld, but vaster the inward creator ; Back of the sound broods the silence, back of the gift stands the giving; Back of the hand that receives thrill the sensitive nerves of receiving. Space is as nothing to spirit, the deed is outdone by the doing ; The heart of the wooer is warm, but warmer the heart of the wooing; And up from the pits where these shiver, and up from the heights where those shine ; Twin voices and shadows swim starward, and the essence of life is divine. — Richard Rcalf. THE LAST KISS OF LOVE My love ! my wife ! Death that hath sucked the honey of thy breath, Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty : Thou art not conquered ; beauty’s ensign yet Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, And death’s pale flag is not advanced there Oh, dear Juliet, Why art thou yet so fair ? Shall I believe That unsubstantial Death is amorous ; And that the lean abhorred monster keeps Thee here in dark to be his paramour ? For fear of that, I still will stay with thee And never from this palace of dim night Depart again : here will I remain With worms that are thy chambermaids; Oh, here Will I set up my everlasting rest ; And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh. — Eyes, look your last ! Arms, take your last embrace 1 and lips, O you The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss, A dateless bargain to engrossing death !— Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavory guide 1 Thou desperate pilot, now. at once run on The dashing rocks my sea-sick, weary bark. . . . Thus with a kiss I die. — Romeo and Juliet. [ Page 98 ]

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FIRST LOVE ' Tis sweet to hear, At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep, The song and oar of Adria’s gondolier ; By distance mellowed, o’er the waters sweep. ' Tis sweet to see the evening star appear, ’Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep From leaf to leaf ; ’tis sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. ’Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog’s honest bark Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home ; ’Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come. ’Tis sweet to be awakened by the lark, Or lulled by falling waters ; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, The lisp of children, and their earliest words. Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth, Purple and gushing ; sweet are our escapes From civic revelry to rural mirth ; Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps ; Sweet to the father is his first-born’s birth ; Sweet is revenge, especially to women, Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. ’Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one’s laurels, By blood or ink ; ’tis sweet to put an end To strife; ’tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, Particularly with a tiresome friend ; Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels; Dear is the helpless creature we defend Against the world ; and dear the school-boy spot We ne’er forget, though there we are forgot. But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, Is first and passionate love — it stands alone, Like Adam’s recollection of his fall ; The tale of knowledge has been plucked— all’s known— And life yields nothing further to recall Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown, No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven Fire which Prometheus filched for us from heaven. — Lord Byron. | Page 100 )