A Sea Child.

BLISS CARMAN

She lived where the mountains go down to the sea,And river and tide confer.Golden Rowan, in Menalowan,Was the name they gave to her.She had the soul no circumstanceCan hurry or defer.Golden Rowan, of Menalowan,How time stood still for her!Her playmates for their lovers grew,But that shy wanderer,Golden Rowan, of Menalowan,Knew love was not for her.Hers was the love of wilding things;To hear a squirrel chirrIn the golden rowan of MenalowanWas joy enough for her.She sleeps on the hill with the lonely sun,Where in the days that were,The golden rowan of MenalowanSo often shadowed her.The scarlet fruit will come to fill,The scarlet spring to stirThe golden rowan of Menalowan,And wake no dream for her.Only the wind is over her grave,For mourner and comforter;And “Golden Rowan, of Menalowan,”Is all we know of her.

She lived where the mountains go down to the sea,And river and tide confer.Golden Rowan, in Menalowan,Was the name they gave to her.

She had the soul no circumstanceCan hurry or defer.Golden Rowan, of Menalowan,How time stood still for her!

Her playmates for their lovers grew,But that shy wanderer,Golden Rowan, of Menalowan,Knew love was not for her.

Hers was the love of wilding things;To hear a squirrel chirrIn the golden rowan of MenalowanWas joy enough for her.

She sleeps on the hill with the lonely sun,Where in the days that were,The golden rowan of MenalowanSo often shadowed her.

The scarlet fruit will come to fill,The scarlet spring to stirThe golden rowan of Menalowan,And wake no dream for her.

Only the wind is over her grave,For mourner and comforter;And “Golden Rowan, of Menalowan,”Is all we know of her.

BLISS CARMAN

The lover of child MarjoryHad one white hour of life brim full;Now the old nurse, the rocking sea,Hath him to lull.The daughter of child MarjoryHath in her veins, to beat and run,The glad indomitable sea,The strong white sun.

The lover of child MarjoryHad one white hour of life brim full;Now the old nurse, the rocking sea,Hath him to lull.

The daughter of child MarjoryHath in her veins, to beat and run,The glad indomitable sea,The strong white sun.

ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON

It was a heavenly time of lifeWhen first I went to Spain,The lovely lands of silver mists,The land of golden grain.My little ship through unknown seasSailed many a changing day;Sometimes the chilling winds came upAnd blew across her way.Sometimes the rain came down and hidThe shining shores of Spain,The beauty of the silver mistsAnd of the golden grain.But through the rains and through the winds,Upon the untried sea,My fairy ship sailed on and on,With all my dreams and me.And now, no more a child, I longFor that sweet time again,When on the far horizon barRose up the shores of Spain.O lovely land of silver mists,O land of golden grain,I look for you with smiles, with tears,But look for you in vain!

It was a heavenly time of lifeWhen first I went to Spain,The lovely lands of silver mists,The land of golden grain.

My little ship through unknown seasSailed many a changing day;Sometimes the chilling winds came upAnd blew across her way.

Sometimes the rain came down and hidThe shining shores of Spain,The beauty of the silver mistsAnd of the golden grain.

But through the rains and through the winds,Upon the untried sea,My fairy ship sailed on and on,With all my dreams and me.

And now, no more a child, I longFor that sweet time again,When on the far horizon barRose up the shores of Spain.

O lovely land of silver mists,O land of golden grain,I look for you with smiles, with tears,But look for you in vain!

What dost thou here,Thou dusky courtier,Within the pinky palace of the rose?Here is no bed for thee,No honeyed spicery,—But for the golden bee,And the gay wind, and meIts sweetness grows.Rover, thou dost forget;—Seek thou the passion-flowerBloom of one twilight hour.Haste, thou art late!Its hidden savours wait.For thee is spreadIts soft, purple coverlet;Moth, art thou sped?—Dim as a ghost he fliesThrough the night mysteries.

ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON

Of silvery-shining rainsAnd noonday golds and shadowsJune weaves wild-daisy chainsFor happy meadows.She stoops to set the streamWith scented alder-bushes,And with the rainbow gleamOf iris ’mid the rushes,She scatters eglantineAnd scarlet columbine.Ah, June, my lovely lass,—Sweetheart, dost thou not seeI stay to watch thee pass—What hast thou brought to me?Thy mystic ministriesOf glorious far skies,Thy wild-rose sermons, Sweet,Like dreams profound and fleet,Thy woodland harmonyThou givest me.The vision that can see,The loving will to learn,How fair thy skies may be,What in thy roses burn,Thy secret harmonies,—Ah, give me these!

Of silvery-shining rainsAnd noonday golds and shadowsJune weaves wild-daisy chainsFor happy meadows.

She stoops to set the streamWith scented alder-bushes,And with the rainbow gleamOf iris ’mid the rushes,She scatters eglantineAnd scarlet columbine.

Ah, June, my lovely lass,—Sweetheart, dost thou not seeI stay to watch thee pass—What hast thou brought to me?

Thy mystic ministriesOf glorious far skies,Thy wild-rose sermons, Sweet,Like dreams profound and fleet,Thy woodland harmonyThou givest me.

The vision that can see,The loving will to learn,How fair thy skies may be,What in thy roses burn,Thy secret harmonies,—Ah, give me these!

HUGH M‘CULLOCH

Love, shall I liken thee unto the roseThat is so sweet?Nay, since for a single day she grows,Then scattered lies upon the garden-rowsBeneath our feet.But to the perfume shed when forests nod,When noonday shines,That lulls us as we tread the woodland sod,Eternal as the peace of GodThe scent o’ pines.

Love, shall I liken thee unto the roseThat is so sweet?Nay, since for a single day she grows,Then scattered lies upon the garden-rowsBeneath our feet.

But to the perfume shed when forests nod,When noonday shines,That lulls us as we tread the woodland sod,Eternal as the peace of GodThe scent o’ pines.

DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT

By a dim shore where water darkeningTook the last light of spring,I went beyond the tumult, harkeningFor some diviner thing.Where the bats flew from the black elms like leaves,Over the ebon poolBrooded the bittern’s cry, as one that grievesLands ancient, bountiful.I saw the fire-flies shine below the wood,Above the shallows dank,As Uriel, from some great altitude,The planets rank on rank.And now unseen along the shrouded meadOne went under the hill;He blew a cadence on his mellow reed,That trembled and was still.It seemed as if a line of amber fireHad shot the gathered dusk,As if had blown a wind from ancient TyreLaden with myrrh and musk.He gave his luring note amid the fern;Its enigmatic fallHaunted the hollow dusk with golden turnAnd argent interval.I could not know the message that he bore,The springs of life from meHidden; his incommunicable loreAs much a mystery.And as I followed far the magic playerHe passed the maple wood;And, when I passed, the stars had risen there,And there was solitude.

By a dim shore where water darkeningTook the last light of spring,I went beyond the tumult, harkeningFor some diviner thing.

Where the bats flew from the black elms like leaves,Over the ebon poolBrooded the bittern’s cry, as one that grievesLands ancient, bountiful.

I saw the fire-flies shine below the wood,Above the shallows dank,As Uriel, from some great altitude,The planets rank on rank.

And now unseen along the shrouded meadOne went under the hill;He blew a cadence on his mellow reed,That trembled and was still.

It seemed as if a line of amber fireHad shot the gathered dusk,As if had blown a wind from ancient TyreLaden with myrrh and musk.

He gave his luring note amid the fern;Its enigmatic fallHaunted the hollow dusk with golden turnAnd argent interval.

I could not know the message that he bore,The springs of life from meHidden; his incommunicable loreAs much a mystery.

And as I followed far the magic playerHe passed the maple wood;And, when I passed, the stars had risen there,And there was solitude.

THOMAS D’ARCY M‘CGEE

Through storm and fire and gloom, I see it standFirm, broad, and tall,The Celtic Cross that marks our Fatherland,Amid them all!Druids and Danes and Saxons vainly rageAround its base;It standeth shock on shock, and age on age,Star of our scatter’d race.O Holy Cross! dear symbol of the dreadDeath of our Lord,Around thee long have slept our martyr deadSward over sward.An hundred bishops I myself can countAmong the slain:Chiefs, captains, rank and file, a shining mountOf God’s ripe grain.The monarch’s mace, the Puritan’s claymore,Smote thee not down;On headland steep, on mountain summit hoar,In mart and town,In Glendalough, in Ara, in Tyrone,We find thee still,Thy open arms still stretching to thine own,O’er town and lough and hill.And would they tear thee out of Irish soil,The guilty fools!How time must mock their antiquated toilAnd broken tools!Cranmer and Cromwell from thy grasp retir’d,Baffled and thrown;William and Anne to sap thy site conspir’d,—The rest is known.Holy Saint Patrick, father of our faith,Belov’d of God!Shield thy dear Church from the impending scaith,Or, if the rodMust scourge it yet again, inspire and raiseTo emprise highMen like the heroic race of other days,Who joyed to die.Fear! wherefore should the Celtic people fearTheir Church’s fate?The day is not—the day was never near—Could desolateThe Destin’d Island, all whose clayIs holy ground:Its Cross shall stand till that predestin’d dayWhen Erin’s self is drown’d.

O Holy Cross! dear symbol of the dreadDeath of our Lord,Around thee long have slept our martyr deadSward over sward.An hundred bishops I myself can countAmong the slain:Chiefs, captains, rank and file, a shining mountOf God’s ripe grain.

The monarch’s mace, the Puritan’s claymore,Smote thee not down;On headland steep, on mountain summit hoar,In mart and town,In Glendalough, in Ara, in Tyrone,We find thee still,Thy open arms still stretching to thine own,O’er town and lough and hill.

And would they tear thee out of Irish soil,The guilty fools!How time must mock their antiquated toilAnd broken tools!Cranmer and Cromwell from thy grasp retir’d,Baffled and thrown;William and Anne to sap thy site conspir’d,—The rest is known.

Holy Saint Patrick, father of our faith,Belov’d of God!Shield thy dear Church from the impending scaith,Or, if the rodMust scourge it yet again, inspire and raiseTo emprise highMen like the heroic race of other days,Who joyed to die.

Fear! wherefore should the Celtic people fearTheir Church’s fate?The day is not—the day was never near—Could desolateThe Destin’d Island, all whose clayIs holy ground:Its Cross shall stand till that predestin’d dayWhen Erin’s self is drown’d.

MARY C. G. BYRON

Out of the uttermost ridge of dusk, where the dark and the day are mingled,The voice of the Night rose cold and calm—it called through the shadow-swept air;Through all the valleys and lone hillsides, it pierced, it thrilled, it tingled—It summoned me forth to the wild sea-shore, to meet with its mystery there.Out of the deep ineffable blue, with palpitant swift repeatingOf gleam and glitter and opaline glow, that broke in ripples of light—In burning glory it came and went,—I heard, I saw it beating,Pulse by pulse, from star to star,—the passionate heart of the Night!Out of the thud of the rustling sea—the panting, yearning, throbbingWaves that stole on the startled shore, with coo and mutter of spray—The wail of the Night came fitful-faint,—I heard her stifled sobbing:The cold salt drops fell slowly, slowly, gray into gulfs of gray.There through the darkness the great world reeled, and the great tides roared, assembling—Murmuring hidden things that are past, and secret things that shall be;There at the limits of life we met, and touched with a rapturous trembling—One with each other, I and the Night, and the skies, and the stars, and sea.

Out of the deep ineffable blue, with palpitant swift repeatingOf gleam and glitter and opaline glow, that broke in ripples of light—In burning glory it came and went,—I heard, I saw it beating,Pulse by pulse, from star to star,—the passionate heart of the Night!

Out of the thud of the rustling sea—the panting, yearning, throbbingWaves that stole on the startled shore, with coo and mutter of spray—The wail of the Night came fitful-faint,—I heard her stifled sobbing:The cold salt drops fell slowly, slowly, gray into gulfs of gray.

There through the darkness the great world reeled, and the great tides roared, assembling—Murmuring hidden things that are past, and secret things that shall be;There at the limits of life we met, and touched with a rapturous trembling—One with each other, I and the Night, and the skies, and the stars, and sea.

ALICE E. GILLINGTON

O d’you hear the seas complainin’, and complainin’, whilst it’s rainin’?Did you hear it mourn in the dimorts,[33]when the surf woke up and sighed?The choughs screamed on the sand,And the foam flew over land,And the seas rolled dark on the Doom-Bar at rising of the tide.I gave my lad a token, when he left me nigh heartbroken,To mind him of old Padstow town, where loving souls abide;’Twas a ring with the words setAll round, “Can Love Forget?”And I watched his vessel toss on the Bar with the outward-turning tide.D’you hear the seas complainin’, and complainin’, while it’s rainin’?And his vessel has never crossed the Bar from the purple seas outside;And down the shell-pink sands,Where we once went, holding hands,Alone I watch the Doom-Bar and the rising of the tide.One day—’twas four years after—the harbour-girls, with laughterSo soft and wild as sea-gulls when they’re playing seek-and-hide,Coaxed me out—for the tides were lowerThan had ever been known before;And we ran across the Doom-Bar, all white and shining wide.I saw a something shinin’, where the long, wet weeds were twinin’Around a rosy scallop; and a gold ring lay inside;And around its rim were setThe words “Can Love Forget?”—And there upon the Doom-Bar I knelt and sobbed and cried.I took my ring and smoothed it where the sand and shells had grooved it;But O! St Petrock bells will never ring me home a bride!—For the night my lad was leavin’Me, all tearful-eyed and grievin’,He had tossed my keepsake out on the Bar to the rise and fall of the tide!D’you hear the seas complainin’, and complainin’, while it’s rainin’?Did you hear them call in the dimorts, when the surf woke up and sighed?Maybe it is a tokenI shall go no more heart-broken—And I shall cross the Doom-Bar at the turning of the tide.

I gave my lad a token, when he left me nigh heartbroken,To mind him of old Padstow town, where loving souls abide;’Twas a ring with the words setAll round, “Can Love Forget?”And I watched his vessel toss on the Bar with the outward-turning tide.

D’you hear the seas complainin’, and complainin’, while it’s rainin’?And his vessel has never crossed the Bar from the purple seas outside;And down the shell-pink sands,Where we once went, holding hands,Alone I watch the Doom-Bar and the rising of the tide.

One day—’twas four years after—the harbour-girls, with laughterSo soft and wild as sea-gulls when they’re playing seek-and-hide,Coaxed me out—for the tides were lowerThan had ever been known before;And we ran across the Doom-Bar, all white and shining wide.

I saw a something shinin’, where the long, wet weeds were twinin’Around a rosy scallop; and a gold ring lay inside;And around its rim were setThe words “Can Love Forget?”—And there upon the Doom-Bar I knelt and sobbed and cried.

I took my ring and smoothed it where the sand and shells had grooved it;But O! St Petrock bells will never ring me home a bride!—For the night my lad was leavin’Me, all tearful-eyed and grievin’,He had tossed my keepsake out on the Bar to the rise and fall of the tide!

D’you hear the seas complainin’, and complainin’, while it’s rainin’?Did you hear them call in the dimorts, when the surf woke up and sighed?Maybe it is a tokenI shall go no more heart-broken—And I shall cross the Doom-Bar at the turning of the tide.

ALICE E. GILLINGTON

Whistling strangely, whistling sadly, whistling sweet and clear,The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor;It was not in the morning, nor the noonday’s golden grace,It was in the dead waste midnight, when the tide yelped loud in the Race:The tide swings round in the Race, and they’re plaining whisht and low,And they come from the gray sea-marshes, where the gray sea-lavenders grow,And the cotton-grass sways to and fro;And the gore-sprent sundews thriveWith oozy hands alive.Canst hear the curlews’ whistle through thy dreamings dark and drear,How they’re crying, crying, crying, Pentruan of Porthmeor?Shall thy hatchment, mouldering grimly in yon church amid the sands,Stay trouble from thy household? Or the carven cherub-handsWhich hold thy shield to the font? Or the gauntlets on the wallKeep evil from its onward course as the great tides rise and fall?The great tides rise and fall, and the cave sucks in the breathOf the wave when it runs with tossing spray, and the ground-sea rattles of Death;“I rise in the shallows,” ’a saith,“Where the mermaid’s kettle sings,And the black shag flaps his wings!”Ay, the green sea-mountain leaping may lead horror in its rear,When thy drenched sail leans to its yawning trough, Pentruan of Porthmeor!Yet the stoup waits at thy doorway for its load of glittering ore,And thy ships lie in the tideway, and thy flocks along the moor;And thine arishes gleam softly when the October moonbeams wane,When in the bay all shining the fishers set the seine;The fishers cast the seine, and ’tis “Heva!” in the town,And from the watch-rock on the hill the huers are shouting down;And ye hoist the mainsail brown,As over the deep-sea rollThe lurker follows the shoal;To follow and to follow, in the moonshine silver-clear,When the halyards creek to thy dipping sail, Pentruan of Porthmeor!And wailing, and complaining, and whistling whisht and clear,The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor!It was not in the morning, nor the noonday’s golden grace,—It was in the fearsome midnight, when the tide-dogs yelped in the Race:—The tide swings round in the Race, and they’re whistling whisht and low,And they come from the lonely heather, where the fur-edged foxgloves blow,And the moor-grass sways to and fro,Where the yellow moor-birds sigh,And the sea-cooled wind sweeps by.Canst hear the curlews’ whistle through the darkness wild and drear,—How they’re calling, calling, calling Pentruan of Porthmeor?

Shall thy hatchment, mouldering grimly in yon church amid the sands,Stay trouble from thy household? Or the carven cherub-handsWhich hold thy shield to the font? Or the gauntlets on the wallKeep evil from its onward course as the great tides rise and fall?The great tides rise and fall, and the cave sucks in the breathOf the wave when it runs with tossing spray, and the ground-sea rattles of Death;“I rise in the shallows,” ’a saith,“Where the mermaid’s kettle sings,And the black shag flaps his wings!”Ay, the green sea-mountain leaping may lead horror in its rear,When thy drenched sail leans to its yawning trough, Pentruan of Porthmeor!

Yet the stoup waits at thy doorway for its load of glittering ore,And thy ships lie in the tideway, and thy flocks along the moor;And thine arishes gleam softly when the October moonbeams wane,When in the bay all shining the fishers set the seine;The fishers cast the seine, and ’tis “Heva!” in the town,And from the watch-rock on the hill the huers are shouting down;And ye hoist the mainsail brown,As over the deep-sea rollThe lurker follows the shoal;To follow and to follow, in the moonshine silver-clear,When the halyards creek to thy dipping sail, Pentruan of Porthmeor!

And wailing, and complaining, and whistling whisht and clear,The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor!It was not in the morning, nor the noonday’s golden grace,—It was in the fearsome midnight, when the tide-dogs yelped in the Race:—The tide swings round in the Race, and they’re whistling whisht and low,And they come from the lonely heather, where the fur-edged foxgloves blow,And the moor-grass sways to and fro,Where the yellow moor-birds sigh,And the sea-cooled wind sweeps by.Canst hear the curlews’ whistle through the darkness wild and drear,—How they’re calling, calling, calling Pentruan of Porthmeor?

SHANE LESLIE

In sweet Irish clay may I lieHeart clasped to my race,O brothers and sisters of mine,Give me your space.For mine was the life that you lived,The fight that you fought,And bright in the gloom of mine ownWere deeds you had wrought.So let the dear dust of your headDrift over my face,And this be the dirge that you singAnd song that you trace.A pebble is thrown to the beachFrom whence it was brought,A leaf has dropped weary for restTo those it had sought.

PADRAIC COLUM

O, to have a little house!To own the hearth and stool and all!The heaped-up sods upon the fire,The pile of turf against the wall!To have a clock with weights and chainsAnd pendulum swinging up and down!A dresser filled with shining delph,Speckled and white and blue and brown!I could be busy all the dayClearing and sweeping hearth and floor,And fixing on their shelf againMy white and blue and speckled store!I could be quiet there at nightBeside the fire and by myself,Sure of a bed, and loath to leaveThe ticking clock and the shining delph!Och! but I’m weary of mist and dark,And roads where there’s never a house or bush,And tired I am of bog and road,And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!And I am praying to God on high,And I am praying Him night and day,For a little house—a house of my own—Out of the wind’s and the rain’s way.

O, to have a little house!To own the hearth and stool and all!The heaped-up sods upon the fire,The pile of turf against the wall!

To have a clock with weights and chainsAnd pendulum swinging up and down!A dresser filled with shining delph,Speckled and white and blue and brown!

I could be busy all the dayClearing and sweeping hearth and floor,And fixing on their shelf againMy white and blue and speckled store!

I could be quiet there at nightBeside the fire and by myself,Sure of a bed, and loath to leaveThe ticking clock and the shining delph!

Och! but I’m weary of mist and dark,And roads where there’s never a house or bush,And tired I am of bog and road,And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!

And I am praying to God on high,And I am praying Him night and day,For a little house—a house of my own—Out of the wind’s and the rain’s way.

PADRAIC COLUM

O, men from the fields!Come softly within.Tread softly, softly,O men coming in.Mavourneen is goingFrom me and from you,Where Mary will fold himWith mantle of blueFrom reek of the smokeAnd cold of the floor,And peering of thingsAcross the half-door.O men from the fields!Soft, softly come thro’.Mary puts round himHer mantle of blue.

O, men from the fields!Come softly within.Tread softly, softly,O men coming in.

Mavourneen is goingFrom me and from you,Where Mary will fold himWith mantle of blue

From reek of the smokeAnd cold of the floor,And peering of thingsAcross the half-door.

O men from the fields!Soft, softly come thro’.Mary puts round himHer mantle of blue.

ELEANOR HULL

Come with me, under my coat,And we will drink our fillOf the milk of the white goat,Or wine if it be thy will;And we will talk untilTalk is a trouble, too,Out on the side of the hill,And nothing is left to do,But an eye to look into an eyeAnd a hand in a hand to slip,And a sigh to answer a sigh,And a lip to find out a lip:What if the night be blackAnd the air on the mountain chill,Where the goat lies down in her trackAnd all but the fern is still!Stay with me under my coat,And we will drink our fillOf the milk of the white goatOut on the side of the hill.

JAMES STEPHENS

I stood and looked around where, far and nigh,The heather bloom was swaying in the air,The clouds chased one another down the skyBeyond my sight, and everywhereThe birds flew through the sunshine, where they sangSo loud, so clear, so sweet, the heavens rangOf lark and thrush and stare.I never heard a melody so sweetAs I heard then; I never knew a daySo filled with sunshine; never saw the fleetAnd tinted clouds so high and free and gay;Each danced to the horizon like a boyLet out from school, each tumbled in its joyAnd ran away.

I never heard a melody so sweetAs I heard then; I never knew a daySo filled with sunshine; never saw the fleetAnd tinted clouds so high and free and gay;Each danced to the horizon like a boyLet out from school, each tumbled in its joyAnd ran away.

ELEANOR HULL

Ebb tide to me!My life drifts downward with the drifting sea;Old age has caught and compassed me about,The tides of time run out.The “Hag of Beare!”’Tis thus I hear the young girls jeer and mock;Yet I, who in these cast-off clouts appear,Once donned a queenly smock.Ye love but self,Ye churls! to-day ye worship pelf!But in the days I lived we sought for men,We loved our lovers then!Ah! swiftly whenTheir splendid chariots coursed upon the plain,I checked their pace, for me they flew amain,Held in by curb and rein.I envy not the old,Whom gold adorns, whom richest robes enfold,But ah! the girls, who pass my cell at morn,While I am shorn!On sweet May-mornTheir ringing laughter on the breeze is borne,While I, who shake with ague and with age,In Litanies engage.Amen! and woe is me!I lie here rotting like a broken tree;Each acorn has its day and needs must fall,Time makes an end of all!I had my day with kings!We drank the brimming mead, the ruddy wine,Where now I drink whey-water; for company more fineThan shrivelled hags, hag though I am, I pine.The flood-tide thine!Mine but the low down-curling ebb-tide’s flow,My youth, my hope, are carried from my hand,Thy flood-tide foams to land.My body dropsSlowly but sure towards the abode we know;When God’s High Son takes from me all my propsIt will be time to go!Bony my arms and bareCould you but see them ’neath the mantle’s flap.Wizened and worn, that once were round and fair,When kings lay in my lap.’Tis, “O my God” with me,Many prayers said, yet more prayers left undone;If I could spread my garment in the sunI’d say them, every one.The sea-wave talks,Athwart the frozen earth grim winter stalks;Young Fermod, son of Mugh, ne’er said me nay,Yet he comes not to-day.How still they row,Oar dipped by oar the wavering reeds among,To Alma’s shore they press, a ghostly throng,Deeply they sleep and long.No lightsome laughDisturbs my fireside’s stillness; shadows fall,And quiet forms are gathering round my hearth,Yet lies the hand of silence on them all.I do not deem it illThat a nun’s veil should rest upon my head;But finer far my feast-robe’s various hueTo me, when all is said.My very cloak grows old;Grey its tint, its woof is frayed and thin;I seem to feel grey hairs within its fold,Or are they on my skin?O happy Isle of Ocean,Thy flood-tide leaps to meet eddying waveLifting it up and onward. Till the graveThe sea-wave comes not after ebb for me.I find them notThose sunny sands I knew so well of yore;Only the surf’s sad roar sounds up to me,My tide will turn no more.

Ebb tide to me!My life drifts downward with the drifting sea;Old age has caught and compassed me about,The tides of time run out.

The “Hag of Beare!”’Tis thus I hear the young girls jeer and mock;Yet I, who in these cast-off clouts appear,Once donned a queenly smock.

Ye love but self,Ye churls! to-day ye worship pelf!But in the days I lived we sought for men,We loved our lovers then!

Ah! swiftly whenTheir splendid chariots coursed upon the plain,I checked their pace, for me they flew amain,Held in by curb and rein.

I envy not the old,Whom gold adorns, whom richest robes enfold,But ah! the girls, who pass my cell at morn,While I am shorn!

On sweet May-mornTheir ringing laughter on the breeze is borne,While I, who shake with ague and with age,In Litanies engage.

Amen! and woe is me!I lie here rotting like a broken tree;Each acorn has its day and needs must fall,Time makes an end of all!

I had my day with kings!We drank the brimming mead, the ruddy wine,Where now I drink whey-water; for company more fineThan shrivelled hags, hag though I am, I pine.

The flood-tide thine!Mine but the low down-curling ebb-tide’s flow,My youth, my hope, are carried from my hand,Thy flood-tide foams to land.

My body dropsSlowly but sure towards the abode we know;When God’s High Son takes from me all my propsIt will be time to go!

Bony my arms and bareCould you but see them ’neath the mantle’s flap.Wizened and worn, that once were round and fair,When kings lay in my lap.

’Tis, “O my God” with me,Many prayers said, yet more prayers left undone;If I could spread my garment in the sunI’d say them, every one.

The sea-wave talks,Athwart the frozen earth grim winter stalks;Young Fermod, son of Mugh, ne’er said me nay,Yet he comes not to-day.

How still they row,Oar dipped by oar the wavering reeds among,To Alma’s shore they press, a ghostly throng,Deeply they sleep and long.

No lightsome laughDisturbs my fireside’s stillness; shadows fall,And quiet forms are gathering round my hearth,Yet lies the hand of silence on them all.

I do not deem it illThat a nun’s veil should rest upon my head;But finer far my feast-robe’s various hueTo me, when all is said.

My very cloak grows old;Grey its tint, its woof is frayed and thin;I seem to feel grey hairs within its fold,Or are they on my skin?

O happy Isle of Ocean,Thy flood-tide leaps to meet eddying waveLifting it up and onward. Till the graveThe sea-wave comes not after ebb for me.

I find them notThose sunny sands I knew so well of yore;Only the surf’s sad roar sounds up to me,My tide will turn no more.

THOMAS MACDONAGH

O shapely Flower that must for aye endure!O Voice of God that every heart must hear!O Hymn of purest souls that dost unsphereThe ravished soul that lists! O white, white Gem!O Rose that dost the senses drown in bliss!No thing can stay, no thing can stem,No thing can lure the heart to missThy love, thy joy, thy rapture divine—O Beauty, Beauty, ever thineThe soul, the heart, the brain,To hymn thee in a loud perpetual strain,Shriller and sweeter than song of wine,Than lay of sorrow or love or war—Beauty of heaven and sun and day,Beauty of water and frost and star,Beauty of dusk-tide, narrowing, grey ...Beauty of silver light,Beauty of purple night,Beauty of solemn breath,Beauty of closed eye, and sleep, and death ...Beauty of dawn and dew,Beauty of morning peaceEver ancient and ever new,Ever renewed till waking ceaseOr sleep forever, when loud the angel’s wordThrough all the world is heard ...Beauty of brute and bird,Beauty of earthly creaturesWhose hearts by the hand of God are stirred ...Beauty of the soul,Beauty informing forms and features,Fairest to God’s eye,Beauty that cannot fade or dieTill eternal atoms to ruin roll!(By permission of The Talbot Press, Dublin.)Beauty of blinded Trust,Led by the hand of GodTo a heaven where cherub hath never trod.Austere Beauty of Truth,Lighting the way of the Just ...Splendid Beauty of Youth,Staying when Youth is fled,Living when Life is dead,Burning in funeral dust!The glory of form doth pale and pall,Beauty endures to the end of all.

(By permission of The Talbot Press, Dublin.)

Beauty of blinded Trust,Led by the hand of GodTo a heaven where cherub hath never trod.Austere Beauty of Truth,Lighting the way of the Just ...Splendid Beauty of Youth,Staying when Youth is fled,Living when Life is dead,Burning in funeral dust!

The glory of form doth pale and pall,Beauty endures to the end of all.

SEOSAMH MACCATHMHAOIL

I will go with my father a-ploughingTo the green field by the sea,And the rooks and the crows and the seagullsWill come flocking after me.I will sing to the patient horsesWith the lark in the white of the air,And my father will sing the plough-songThat blesses the cleaving share.I will go with my father a-sowingTo the red field by the sea,And the rooks and the gulls and the starlingsWill come flocking after me.I will sing to the striding sowersWith the finch on the flowering sloe,And my father will sing the seed-songThat only the wise men know.I will go with my father a-reapingTo the brown field by the sea,And the geese and the crows and the childrenWill come flocking after me.I will sing to the weary reapersWith the wren in the heat of the sun,And my father will sing the scythe-songThat joys for the harvest done.

I will go with my father a-sowingTo the red field by the sea,And the rooks and the gulls and the starlingsWill come flocking after me.I will sing to the striding sowersWith the finch on the flowering sloe,And my father will sing the seed-songThat only the wise men know.

I will go with my father a-reapingTo the brown field by the sea,And the geese and the crows and the childrenWill come flocking after me.I will sing to the weary reapersWith the wren in the heat of the sun,And my father will sing the scythe-songThat joys for the harvest done.

SEOSAMH MACCATHMHAOIL

Brighidín Bhán of the lint-white locks,What was it gave you that flaxen hair,Long as the summer heath in the rocks?What was it gave you those eyes of fire,Lip so waxen and cheek so wan?Tell me, tell me, Brighidín Bhán,Little white bride of my heart’s desire.Was it the Good People stole you away,Little white changeling, Brighidín Bhán?Carried you off in the ring of the dawn,Laid like a queen on her purple car,Carried you back between night and day;Gave you that fortune of flaxen hair,Gave you those eyes of wandering fire,Lit at the wheel of the northern star?Gave you that look so far away?Tell me, tell me, Brighidín Bhán,Little white bride of my heart’s desire.

Was it the Good People stole you away,Little white changeling, Brighidín Bhán?Carried you off in the ring of the dawn,Laid like a queen on her purple car,Carried you back between night and day;Gave you that fortune of flaxen hair,Gave you those eyes of wandering fire,Lit at the wheel of the northern star?Gave you that look so far away?Tell me, tell me, Brighidín Bhán,Little white bride of my heart’s desire.

PATRICK MACGILL

Said the Fairies of KilfinnanTo the Fairies of Macroom:“Oh! send to us a shuttleFor our little fairy loom.Our workers, one and twenty,Are waiting in the Coom——”So Kilfinnan got a shuttleFrom the Fairies of Macroom.Kilfinnan got the shuttle,The shuttle for the loom.“Now, send us back a hammer,”Said the Fairies of Macroom.“We’ve cobblers, one and twenty,All idle in their room.”And Kilfinnan sent a hammerTo the Fairies of Macroom.The Queen of all the FairiesSat in her drawing-room:Her robes came from Kilfinnan,Her brogues came from Macroom.Now, at the Royal DinnerThe proudest in the roomWere the Fairies from KilfinnanAnd the Fairies from Macroom.

Kilfinnan got the shuttle,The shuttle for the loom.“Now, send us back a hammer,”Said the Fairies of Macroom.“We’ve cobblers, one and twenty,All idle in their room.”And Kilfinnan sent a hammerTo the Fairies of Macroom.

The Queen of all the FairiesSat in her drawing-room:Her robes came from Kilfinnan,Her brogues came from Macroom.Now, at the Royal DinnerThe proudest in the roomWere the Fairies from KilfinnanAnd the Fairies from Macroom.

FRANCIS LEDWIDGE

Old lame Bridget doesn’t hearFairy music in the grassWhen the gloaming’s on the mereAnd the shadow people pass:Never hears their slow grey feetComing from the village streetJust beyond the parson’s wall,Where the clover globes are sweetAnd the mushroom’s parasolOpens in the moonlit rain.Every night I hear them callFrom their long and merry train.Old lame Bridget says to me,“It is just your fancy, child.”She cannot believe I seeLaughing faces in the wild,Hands that twinkle in the sedgeBowing at the water’s edgeWhere the finny minnows quiver,Shaping on a blue wave’s ledgeBubble foam to sail the river.And the sunny hands to meBeckon ever, beckon ever.Oh! I would be wild and free,And with the shadow people be.

FRANCIS LEDWIDGE

God made my mother on an April day,From sorrow and the mist along the sea,Lost birds’ and wanderers’ songs and ocean spray,And the moon loved her wandering jealously.Beside the ocean’s din she combed her hair,Singing the nocturne of the passing ships,Before her earthly lover found her thereAnd kissed away the music from her lips.She came unto the hills and saw the changeThat brings the swallow and the geese in turns.But there was not a grief she deeméd strange,For there is that in her which always mourns.Kind heart she has for all on hill or waveWhose hopes grew wings like ants to fly away.I bless the God Who such a mother gaveThis poor bird-hearted singer of a day.

God made my mother on an April day,From sorrow and the mist along the sea,Lost birds’ and wanderers’ songs and ocean spray,And the moon loved her wandering jealously.

Beside the ocean’s din she combed her hair,Singing the nocturne of the passing ships,Before her earthly lover found her thereAnd kissed away the music from her lips.

She came unto the hills and saw the changeThat brings the swallow and the geese in turns.But there was not a grief she deeméd strange,For there is that in her which always mourns.

Kind heart she has for all on hill or waveWhose hopes grew wings like ants to fly away.I bless the God Who such a mother gaveThis poor bird-hearted singer of a day.

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