To Amsterdam and its Commodore, I over his pipe and his eau-de-vie, A flibote skimming the Texel shore Brought serious news for the Zuyder Zee:…
James Jeffrey Roche was an Irish-born American poet. Towards the end of his life he served his government in the diplomatic service as American consul to Switzerland. In his earlier days, living in Boston, he earned a living as a journalist. He was born on the 31st May 1847 in Mountmellick, in Queen”s County. The family emigrated to Canada shortly afterwards and young James grew up on Prince Edward Island. His scholarly father was a great influence on the boy, providing private tuition and a great deal of encouragement to read great literature. At the age of 14 he was enrolled at St Dunstan’s College, now a university. He soon got involved in the college weekly newspaper which obviously gave him a taste for that profession. He would take this up a few years later. At the age of 19 he decided to move to Boston and found a job with the Boston Pilot, an Irish newspaper, eventually becoming editor-in-chief. His strong leadership ensured that the paper did a good job in representing other New England-based Catholic intellectuals. He enjoyed his time on the newspaper, and prospered from it, but his ambition was to become a writer above all else. Probably his first published piece was a novel called History of the Filibusters in Spanish America, a story that was also dramatised for presentation on the stage. His first collection of poetry was published in 1886 under the title Songs and Satires. Other collections included published in 1900. He also wrote a tribute to his old boss at the Boston Pilot called Life of John Boyle O”Reilly, published in 1891. A charming example of his gentle, lyrical poetry is the poem simply called If where the narrator tells his true love what he would give to her, if only he could. The poem is reproduced here: Roche was a popular man who made it his business to never upset people if he could help it. He wrote in a witty, gently satirical way that was pleasing to read and brought him a degree of recognition, though it could never be said that he was ever considered a great poet. During his final years it was certainly quite a diversion from his previous pathway in life when he was appointed to a consular post at the American Embassy in Berne, Switzerland. Unfortunately it was here, far from home, where his life ended in 1908. James Jeffrey Joyce died on the 3rd April 1908 at the age of 60. It is believed that his body was taken home and interred at Holyhood Cemetery. The following year a Catholic service was given in his honour and a granite plaque with a bronze plate was unveiled celebrating his life. The inscription described how this patriotic and kindly man freely gave his time and energy for the benefit of others. He believed in the rights of the weak and oppressed with “heroism and justice” being his song. He used his wit against foolish ways and hypocrisy and he
James Jeffrey Roche şiirleri
This is the tale that was told to me, By a battered and shattered son of the sea- To me and my messmate, Silas Green, When I was a guileless young marine.…
Shall we, the storm-tossed sailors, weep For those who may not sail again; Or wisely envy them, and keep Our pity for the living men?…
I’d rather be handsome than homely; I’d rather be youthful than old; If I can’t have a bushel of silver I’ll do with a barrel of gold.
Your eyes were made for laughter: Sorrow befits them not; Would you be blithe hereafter, Avoid the lover's lot.…
There was no union in the land, Though wise men labored long With links of clay and ropes of sand To bind the right and wrong.…
Oh, if the world were mine, Love, I'd give the world for thee! Alas! there is no sign, Love, Of that contingency.…
THE LOVE of man and woman is as fire, To warm, to light, but surely to consume And self-consuming die. There is no room For constancy and passionate desire.…
It is better to die, since death comes surely, In the full noontide of an honored name, Than to lie at the end of years obscurely, A handful of dust in a shroud of shame.…
A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew— Constitution , where ye bound for?…
Tell the story to your sons Of the gallant days of yore When the brig of seven guns Fought the fleet of seven score,…
In the gloomy ocean bed Dwelt a formless thing, and said, In the dim and countless eons long ago, “I will build a stronghold high,…
The net of law is spread so wide, No sinner from its sweep may hide. Its meshes are so fine and strong,…
From the madding crowd they stand apart, The maidens four and the Work of Art; And none might tell from sight alone…