Poem by Clinton Scollard

The Spectral Rowers

  What is that shimmering line of white
  Gliding under the stark midnight--
    Gliding--gliding--gliding--gliding--
  Where the river gleams when the moon is bright?

  There is never a sound save the night bird's cry,
  And the languid water lapsing by--
    Lapsing--lapsing--lapsing--lapsing--
  Under the arch of a leaden sky.

  'T is the winding Garavogue's spectral crew,
  Bound for the port of dreams-come-true--
    Rowing--rowing--rowing--rowing--
  With a swinging stroke that is firm and true.

  Do they ever reach their bourn? may be;
  Yet who can say?--not we!--not we!--
    Fading--fading--fading--fading--
  Ere morn comes over the hills to the sea.

  'T is so with all of the visions of man,
  Howe'er he strive and howe'er he plan--
    Fleeting--fleeting--fleeting--fleeting--
  For life, alas, is a narrow span!

1. The Isle of Doom
2. A Sailor Amid the Hills
3. Etching at Night
4. Tyrconnell
5. Back to Killarney

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