Charles J. O'Malley, the George D. Prentice of modern Kentucky literature, the praiser extraordinary and quite indiscriminately of all things literary done by Kentucky hands, and withal a poet of distinguished ability, was born near Morganfield, Kentucky, February 9, 1857. Through his father O'Malley was related to Father Abram J. Ryan, the poet-priest of the Confederacy;
ENCELADUS [From The Building of the Moon and Other Poems (Mount Vernon, Indiana, 1894)] I shall arise; I am not weak; I feel A strength within me worthy of the gods— A strength that will not pass in gray despair. Ten million years I have lain thus, supine, Prostrate beneath the gleaming mountain-peaks, And the slow centuries have heard me groan In passing, and not one has pitied me; Yea, the strong gods have seen me writhe beneath This mighty horror fixed upon my chest, And have not eased me of a moment's pain. Oh, I will rise again—I will shake off This terror that outweighs the wrath of Jove! Lo, prone in darkness I have gathered hope From the great waters walking speaking by! "We are the servants of a mightier Lord Than Jupiter, who hath imprisoned thee. We go forth at His bidding, laying bare The sea's great floor and all the sheer abysms That drop beneath the idle fathoms of man, And shape the corner-stones, and lay thereon The mighty base of unborn continents. The old earth, when it hath fulfilled His will, Is laid to rest, and mightier earths arise And fuller life, and like unto God, Fills the new races struggling on the globe. "Profoundest change succeeds each boding calm, And mighty order from the deep breaks up In all her parts, and only Night remains With all her starts that minister to God, Who sits sublimely, shaping as He wills, Creating always." These things do they speak. "The mountain-peaks, that watch among the stars, Bow down their heads and go like monks at dusk To mournful cloisters of the under-world; And then, long silence, while blind Chaos' self Beats round the poles with wings of cloudy storm." These things, and more, the waters say to me, How this old earth shall change, and its life pass And be renewed from fathomless within; How other forms, and likelier to God, Shall walk on earth and wing the peaks of cloud; How holier men and maids, with comelier shapes, In that far time, when He hath wrought His plan, Shall the new globe inherit, and like us Love, hope, and live, with bodies formed of ours— Or of our dust again made animate. These things to me; yet still his curse remains, His burden presses on me. God! thou God! Thou wilt some day shake down like sifted dust This monstrous burden Jove hath laid on me, When the stars ripen like ripe fruit in heaven, And the earth crumbles, plunging to the void With all its shrieking peoples!—Let it fall! Let it be sown as ashes underneath The base of all the continents to be Forever, if so rent I shall be freed! Shall I not wait? Shall I despair now Hope On the horizon spreads her dawn-white wings? Ah, sometimes now I feel earth moved within Through all its massive frame, and know His hand Again doth labor shaping out His plan. Oh, I shall have all patience, trust and calm, Foreknowing that the centuries shall bring, On their broad wings, release from this deep hell, And that I shall have life yet upon earth, Yet draw the morning sunlight in my breath, And meet the living races face to face. NOON IN KENTUCKY [From the same] All day from the tulip-poplar boughs The chewink's voice like a gold-bell rings, The meadow-lark pipes to the drowsy cows, And the oriole like a red rose swings, And clings, and swings, Shaking the noon from his burning wings. A flash of purple within the brake The red-bud burns, where the spice-wood blows, And the brook laughs low where the white dews shake, Drinking the wild-haw's fragrant snows, And flows, and goes Odors of may-apples blossoming, And violets stirring and blue-bells shaken— Shadows that start from the thrush's wing And float on the pools, and swim and waken— Unslaken, untaken— Bronze wood-Naiads that wait forsaken. All day the lireodendron droops Over the thickets her moons of gold; All day the cumulous dogwood groups Flake the mosses with star-snows cold, While gold untold The oriole pours from his song-thatched hold! Carol of love, all day in the thickets, Redbird; warble, O thrush, of pain! Pipe me of pity, O raincrow, hidden Deep in the wood! and, lo! the refrain Of pain, again Shall out of the bosom of heaven bring rain! |