Death.




Death.


    It is the joy, it is the zest of life,
    To know that Death, ungainly to the vile,
    Is not a traitor with a reckless knife,
    And not a serpent with a look of guile,
    But one who greets us with a seraph's smile, -
    An angel - guest to tend us after strife,
    And keep us true to God when fears are rife,
    And sceptic thought would daunt us or defile.
    He walks the world as one empower'd to fill
    The fields of space for Father and for Son.
    He is our friend, though morbidly we shun
    His tender touch, - a cure for every ill.
    He is the king of peace, when all is done.
    Earth and the air are moulded to his will.

Eric Mackay

Eric Mackay, born on June 1, 1851, was a noted English poet whose work gained recognition in the late 19th century. He is best known for his sonnets and lyrical poetry, which were celebrated for their emotional depth and technical mastery. His most famous work, 'Love Letters of a Violinist,' was well-received during his lifetime. Mackay's contributions to English literature have been acknowledged for their artistic merit. He passed away on June 8, 1898.

Eric Mackay

A Mother's Name.

Eric Mackay, Simple Poetry

A Lover's Litanies - Seventh Litany. Stella Matutina.

Eric Mackay, Simple Poetry

A Hero.

Eric Mackay, Simple Poetry

Byron.

Eric Mackay, Simple Poetry

English

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A Dirge.



A Dirge.


I.

    Art thou lonely in thy tomb?
    Art thou cold in such a gloom?
    Rouse thee, then, and make me room, -
                        Miserere Domine!


II.

    Phantoms vex thy virgin sleep,
    Nameless things around thee creep,
    Yet be patient, do not weep, -
                        Miserere Domine!


III.

    O be faithful! O be brave!
    Naught shall harm thee in thy grave;
   ...

Eric Mackay

Ex Tenebra.



Ex Tenebra.


    The winds have shower'd their rains upon the sod,
    And flowers and trees have murmur'd as with lips.
    The very silence has appeal'd to God.
    In man's behalf, though smitten by His rod,
    'Twould seem as if the blight of some eclipse
    Had dull'd the skies, - as if, on mountain tips,
    The winds of Heaven had spurn'd the life terrene,
    And clouds were foundering like benighted ships.
    But what is this, exultant, unforseen,
    Which cleaves the dark? A fearful, burning thing!
    Is it the moon? Or Saturn's scarlet ring

Eric Mackay

Love Letters of a Violinist. Letter III. Regrets.



Letter III. Regrets.


I.

    When I did wake, to-day, a bird of Heaven,
    A wanton, woeless thing, a wandering sprite,
    Did seem to sing a song for my delight;
    And, far away, did make its holy steven
    Sweeter to hear than lute-strings that are seven;
    And I did weep thereat in my despite.


II.

    O glorious sun! I thought, O gracious king,
    Of all this splendour that we call the earth!
    For thee the lark distils his morning mirth,
    But who will hear the matins that I sing?
    Who will be glad to greet ...

Eric Mackay

Sachal. A Waif Of Battle.

I.

            Lo! at my feet,
        A something pale of hue;
        A something sad to view;
    Dead or alive I dare not call it sweet.


II.

            Not white as snow;
        Not transient as a tear!
        A warrior left it here,
    It was his passport ere he met the foe.


III.

            Here is a name,
        A word upon the book;
        If ye but kneel to look,
    Ye'll find the letters "Sachal" on the same.


IV.

            His Land to cherish,
        He died at twenty-seven.
        There are no wars in Heaven,
    But when he fought he gain'd the right to perish.


V.

            Where was he born?
        In France, at Puy le Dôme.

Eric Mackay

A Prayer For Light.

I.

    Oh, give me light, to-day, or let me die, -
    The light of love, the love-light of the sky, -
    That I, at length, may see my darling's face
                            One minute's space.


II.

    Have I not wept to know myself so weak
    That I can feel, not see, the dimpled cheek,
    The lips, the eyes, the sunbeams that enfold
                            Her locks of gold?


III.

    Have I not sworn that I will not be wed,
    But mate my soul with hers on my death-bed?
    The soul can see, - for souls are seraphim, -
                            When eyes are dim.


IV.

    Oh, hush! she comes. I know her. She is nigh.
    She brings me death, true heart, and I will die.
    Sh...

Eric Mackay

Death

The winds and waters are in his command,
Held as a courser in the rider's hand.
He lets them loose, they triumph at his will:
He checks their course and all is calm and still.
Life's hopes waste all to nothingness away
As showers at night wash out the steps of day.

*    *    *    *    *

The tyrant, in his lawless power deterred,
Bows before death, tame as a broken sword.
One dyeth in his strength and, torn from ease,
Groans in death pangs like tempests in the trees.
Another from the bitterness of clay
Falls calm as storms drop on an autumn day,
With noiseless speed as swift as summer light
Death slays and keeps her weapons out of sight.

The tyrants that do act the God in clay
And for earth's glories throw the heavens away,
Whose breath i...

John Clare