Solomon, where is thy throne? It is gone in the wind. Babylon, where is thy might? It is gone in the wind. Like the swift shadows of noon, like the d… - James Clarence Mangan

In Siberia’s wastes The ice-wind’s breath Woundeth like the toothèd steel; Lost Siberia doth reveal Only blight and death.Blight and death alone. No Summer shines.
Night is interblent with Day.
In Siberia’s wastes alway The blood blackens, the heart pines.In Siberia’s wastes No tears are shed,
For they freeze within the brain.
Naught is felt but dullest pain, Pain acute, yet dead;Pain as in a dream, When years go by
Funeral-paced, yet fugitive,
When man lives, and doth not live, Doth not live—nor die.In Siberia’s wastes Are sands and rocks.
Nothing blooms of green or soft,
But the snow-peaks rise aloft And the gaunt ice-blocks.And the exile there Is one with those;
They are part, and he is part,
For the sands are in his heart, And the killing snows.Therefore, in those wastes None curse the Czar.
Each man’s tongue is cloven by
The North Blast, who heweth nigh With sharp scymitar.And such doom each drees, Till, hunger-gnawn,
And cold-slain, he at length sinks there,
Yet scarce more a corpse than ere His last breath was drawn.

O my Dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep!
The priests are on the ocean green, They march along the deep.
There’s wine from the royal Pope, Upon the ocean green;
And Spanish ale shall give you hope, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen!
Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,
Shall give you health, and help, and hope, My Dark Rosaleen!Over hills, and thro’ dales, Have I roam’d for your sake;
All yesterday I sail’d with sails On river and on lake.
The Erne, at its highest flood, I dash’d across unseen,
For there was lightning in my blood, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen!
O, there was lightning in my blood,
Red lightning lighten’d thro’ my blood, My Dark Rosaleen!All day long, in unrest, To and fro do I move.
The very soul within my breast Is wasted for you, love!
The heart in my bosom faints To think of you, my Queen,
My life of life, my saint of saints, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen!
To hear your sweet and sad complaints,
My life, my love, my saint of saints, My Dark Rosaleen!Woe and pain, pain and woe, Are my lot, night and noon,
To see your bright face clouded so, Like to the mournful moon.
But yet will I rear your throne Again in golden sheen;
’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen!
’Tis you shall have the golden throne,
’Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, My Dark Rosaleen!Over dews, over sands, Will I fly, for your weal:
Your holy delicate white hands Shall girdle me with steel.
At home, in your emerald bowers, From morning’s dawn till e’en,
You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers, My Dark Rosaleen! My fond Rosaleen!
You’ll think of me thro’ daylight hours,
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, My Dark Rosaleen!I could scale the blue air, I could plough the high hills,
O, I could kneel all night in prayer, To heal your many ills!
And one beamy smile from you Would float like light between
My toils and me, my own, my true, My Dark Rosaleen! My fond Rosaleen!
Would give me life and soul anew,
A second life, a soul anew, My Dark Rosaleen!O, the Erne shall run red, With redundance of blood,
The earth shall rock beneath our tread, And flames wrap hill and wood,
And gun-peal and slogan-cry Wake many a glen serene,
Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen!
The Judgement Hour must first be nigh,
Ere you can fade, ere you can die, My Dark Rosaleen!

<small>THE WAIL</small>Here we meet, we three, at length,
Amrah, Osman, Perizad:
Shorn of all our grace and strength,
Poor, and old, and very sad.
We have lived, but live no more;
Life has lost its gloss for us,
Since the days we spent of yore
Boating down the Bosphorus!
La’ laha, il Allah!
The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus!
Old time brought home no loss for us;
We felt full of health and heart
Upon the foamy Bosphorus!La’ laha, il Allah!
Days indeed! A shepherd’s tent
Served us then for house and fold;
All to whom we gave or lent,
Paid us back a thousandfold.
Troublous years, by myriads wail’d,
Rarely had a cross for us,
Never, when we gaily sail’d
Singing down the Bosphorus.
La’ laha, il Allah!
The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus!
There never came a cross for us,
While we daily, gaily sail’d
Adown the meadowy Bosphorus.La’ laha, il Allah!
Blithe as birds we flew along,
Laugh’d and quaff’d and stared about;
Wine and roses, mirth and song,
Were what most we cared about.
Fame we left for quacks to seek,
Gold was dust and dross for us,
While we lived from week to week
Boating down the Bosphorus.
La’ laha, il Allah!
The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus!
And gold was dust and dross for us,
While we lived from week to week
Boating down the Bosphorus.La’ laha, il Allah!
Friends we were, and would have shared
Purses, had we twenty full.
If we spent, or if we spared,
Still our funds were plentiful.
Save the hours we pass’d apart,
Time brought home no loss for us;
We felt full of hope and heart
While we clove the Bosphorus.
La’ laha, il Allah!
The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus!
For life has lost its gloss for us
Since the days we spent of yore
Upon the pleasant Bosphorus!La’ laha, il Allah!
Ah! for youth’s delirious hours,
Man pays well in after-days,
When quenched hopes and palsied powers
Mock his love-and-laughter days.
Thorns and thistles on our path
Took the place of moss for us,
Till false fortune’s tempest-wrath
Drove us from the Bosphorus.
La’ laha, il Allah!
The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus!
When thorns took place of moss for us,
Gone was all! Our hearts were graves
Deep, deeper than the Bosphorus.La’ laha, il Allah!
Gone is all! In one abyss
Lie health, youth, and merriment!
All we’ve learnt amounts to this:
Life’s a sad experiment!
What it is we trebly feel
Pondering what it was for us,
When our shallop’s bounding keel
Clove the joyous Bosphorus.
La’ laha, il Allah!
The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus!
We wail for what life was for us,
When our shallop’s bounding keel
Clove the joyous Bosphorus!<small>THE WARNING</small>La’ laha, il Allah!
Pleasure tempts, yet man has none
Save himself t’ accuse, if her
Temptings prove, when all is done,
Lures hung out by Lucifer.
Guard your fire in youth, O friends!
Manhood’s is but phosphorus,
And bad luck attends and ends
Boatings down the Bosphorus!
La’ laha, il Allah!
The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus!
Youth’s fire soon wanes to phosphorus,
And slight luck or grace attends
Your boaters down the Bosphorus!