A PRAYER

I wish, O Son of the Living God, O Ancient Eternal King,For a hidden hut in the wilderness, a simple secluded thing.The all-blithe lithe little lark in his place, chanting his lightsome lay;The calm, clear pool of the Spirit's grace, washing my sins away.A wide, wild woodland on every side, its shades the nurseryOf glad-voiced songsters, who at day-dawn chant their sweet psalm for me.A southern aspect to catch the sun, a brook across the floor,A choice land, rich with gracious gifts, down-stretching from my door.Few men and wise, these I would prize, men of content and power,To raise Thy praise throughout the days at each canonical hour.Four times three, three times four, fitted for every need,To the King of the Sun praying each one, this were a grace, indeed.Twelve in the church to chant the hours, kneeling there twain and twain;And I before, near the chancel door, listening their low refrain.A pleasant church with an Altar-cloth, where Christ sits at the board,And a shining candle shedding its ray on the white words of the Lord.Brief meals between, when prayer is done, our modest needs supply;No greed in our share of the simple fare, no boasting or ribaldry.This is the husbandry I choose, laborious, simple, free,The fragrant leek about my door, the hen and the humble bee.Rough raiment of tweed, enough for my need, this will my King allow;And I to be sitting praying to God under every leafy bough.

I wish, O Son of the Living God, O Ancient Eternal King,For a hidden hut in the wilderness, a simple secluded thing.

The all-blithe lithe little lark in his place, chanting his lightsome lay;The calm, clear pool of the Spirit's grace, washing my sins away.

A wide, wild woodland on every side, its shades the nurseryOf glad-voiced songsters, who at day-dawn chant their sweet psalm for me.

A southern aspect to catch the sun, a brook across the floor,A choice land, rich with gracious gifts, down-stretching from my door.

Few men and wise, these I would prize, men of content and power,To raise Thy praise throughout the days at each canonical hour.

Four times three, three times four, fitted for every need,To the King of the Sun praying each one, this were a grace, indeed.

Twelve in the church to chant the hours, kneeling there twain and twain;And I before, near the chancel door, listening their low refrain.

A pleasant church with an Altar-cloth, where Christ sits at the board,And a shining candle shedding its ray on the white words of the Lord.

Brief meals between, when prayer is done, our modest needs supply;No greed in our share of the simple fare, no boasting or ribaldry.

This is the husbandry I choose, laborious, simple, free,The fragrant leek about my door, the hen and the humble bee.

Rough raiment of tweed, enough for my need, this will my King allow;And I to be sitting praying to God under every leafy bough.

Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart,Naught is all else to me, save that Thou art.Thou my best thought by day and by night,Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.Be Thou my Wisdom, Thou my true Word;I ever with Thee, Thou with me, Lord.Thou my great Father, I thy dear son;Thou in me dwelling, I with Thee one.Be Thou my battle-shield, sword for the fight,Be Thou my dignity, Thou my delight.Thou my soul's shelter, Thou my high tower;Raise Thou me heavenward, Power of my power.Riches I heed not or man's empty praise,Thou mine inheritance now and always.Thou, and Thou only, first in my heart,High King of Heaven, my treasure Thou art.King of the seven heavens, grant me for dole,Thy love in my heart, Thy light in my soul.Thy light from my soul, Thy love from my heart,King of the seven heavens, may they never depart.With the High King of heaven, after victory won,May I reach heaven's joys, O Bright heaven's Sun!Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,Still be my Vision, O Ruler of all.

Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart,Naught is all else to me, save that Thou art.

Thou my best thought by day and by night,Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.

Be Thou my Wisdom, Thou my true Word;I ever with Thee, Thou with me, Lord.

Thou my great Father, I thy dear son;Thou in me dwelling, I with Thee one.

Be Thou my battle-shield, sword for the fight,Be Thou my dignity, Thou my delight.

Thou my soul's shelter, Thou my high tower;Raise Thou me heavenward, Power of my power.

Riches I heed not or man's empty praise,Thou mine inheritance now and always.

Thou, and Thou only, first in my heart,High King of Heaven, my treasure Thou art.

King of the seven heavens, grant me for dole,Thy love in my heart, Thy light in my soul.

Thy light from my soul, Thy love from my heart,King of the seven heavens, may they never depart.

With the High King of heaven, after victory won,May I reach heaven's joys, O Bright heaven's Sun!

Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,Still be my Vision, O Ruler of all.

St. Cummine, in whose days the lovers lived, died 661. Thelanguage is of the ninth century.

A young poet and poetess of Connaught were betrothed; but during the year's interval preceding their marriage, Liadan, for some unexplained reason, took the veil. When Curithir returned to fetch her to his home, he found that by her vows she had for ever separated herself from him. In his despair he determined to follow her example and become a monk. The lovers placed themselves together under the direction of St. Cummine, a severe and hard man, who permitted them to meet, with the object of accusing them of wrong-doing. Finally, he gave Curithir the choice of seeing Liadan without speaking to her, or speaking to her without seeing. He chooses the latter, and henceforth they wander round each other's cells, speaking together through the wattled walls, but never looking on each other's faces. The time comes when this can be no longer borne, and Curithir sails away to strange lands on pilgrimage, so that Liadan saw him no more. She died upon the flagstone on which Curithir was wont to pray, and was buried beneath it.The poem is in the form of a dialogue.

The poem is in the form of a dialogue.

(Liadanspeaks)

Curithir, maker of sweet song,By me beloved, you do me wrong!Dear master of the two Grey Feet,[106]Is it like this we meet?

(Curithirspeaks)

Of late,Since I and Liadan understood our fate,Each day hath been a month of fasting days,Each month a year of doubting of God's ways.I had my choiceTo see her gentle form, or hear her voice;"Some comfort yet may reach her from my speech,"I said; "we have been ever looking each at each."

Of late,Since I and Liadan understood our fate,Each day hath been a month of fasting days,Each month a year of doubting of God's ways.

I had my choiceTo see her gentle form, or hear her voice;"Some comfort yet may reach her from my speech,"I said; "we have been ever looking each at each."

(Liadanspeaks)

His voice comes up to me again,Is it in blame, or is it pain?I catch its accents strained and deep,And cannot sleep.The flagstone where he bent the knee,Beside the wattled oratory,'Tis there, at eve, each lonely day,I go to pray.Never for him dear hearth or wife,Homestead, or innocent baby life;No mate at his right handWill ever stand.

His voice comes up to me again,Is it in blame, or is it pain?I catch its accents strained and deep,And cannot sleep.

The flagstone where he bent the knee,Beside the wattled oratory,'Tis there, at eve, each lonely day,I go to pray.

Never for him dear hearth or wife,Homestead, or innocent baby life;No mate at his right handWill ever stand.

Cummine accuses her of wrong and she turns on him:

Cleric, thy thought is ill;Not with my will you link my name with his,From Loch Seng's borderland he comes, I wis,I from Iar-Conchin's Cill.We met, you say;But sure, no honeyed pastures of the flockWhere lover's arms in lover's arms enlock,Was ours that May.If Curithir is gone to-dayTo teach the little scholars of the school,Small help he'll get who does not know his rule;Curithir's thoughts are very far away.

Cleric, thy thought is ill;Not with my will you link my name with his,From Loch Seng's borderland he comes, I wis,I from Iar-Conchin's Cill.

We met, you say;But sure, no honeyed pastures of the flockWhere lover's arms in lover's arms enlock,Was ours that May.

If Curithir is gone to-dayTo teach the little scholars of the school,Small help he'll get who does not know his rule;Curithir's thoughts are very far away.

At length the news is brought to her that Curithir is gone for ever, and she breaks out into a passionate lament.

The Cry ofLiadanafterCurithir

'Tis done!Joyless the victory I have won,The tender heart of him I loved I wrung!He called me nearA little space to please him, but the fearOf God in heaven withheld me, and I would not hear.Great gainTo us the way love pointed plain,To win the gates of Paradise through pain.Reckless and vainThe whim that caused my lover's love to dim;Great ever was my gentleness to him.Liadan am I,And Curithir I loved; it is no lie,He would not doubt me now if he were by.Short while were weTogether in the closest intimacy,Sweet was the time to him, and sweet to me.The music of the lightly waving tree,When Curithir was here, would sing to me,With the deep voice of the empurpled sea.Surely to-dayNo whim of mine would turn his heart away,No senseless act or speech, do what I may.And to myself I say,My love to him was given, my heart, unshriven,At his dear feet I lay.My heart is flame,A tempest heat no ice on earth can tame,I cry "I was to blame! I was to blame!"

'Tis done!Joyless the victory I have won,The tender heart of him I loved I wrung!

He called me nearA little space to please him, but the fearOf God in heaven withheld me, and I would not hear.

Great gainTo us the way love pointed plain,To win the gates of Paradise through pain.

Reckless and vainThe whim that caused my lover's love to dim;Great ever was my gentleness to him.

Liadan am I,And Curithir I loved; it is no lie,He would not doubt me now if he were by.

Short while were weTogether in the closest intimacy,Sweet was the time to him, and sweet to me.

The music of the lightly waving tree,When Curithir was here, would sing to me,With the deep voice of the empurpled sea.

Surely to-dayNo whim of mine would turn his heart away,No senseless act or speech, do what I may.

And to myself I say,My love to him was given, my heart, unshriven,At his dear feet I lay.

My heart is flame,A tempest heat no ice on earth can tame,I cry "I was to blame! I was to blame!"

FOOTNOTES:[106]A play on Curithir's patronymic, Mac Doborchon,i.e."Son of the Otter."

[106]A play on Curithir's patronymic, Mac Doborchon,i.e."Son of the Otter."

In praise of his hermit life. A reply to his brother, King Guaire, of Connaught, when asked by him why he did not dwell in the Palace.

King Guaire died 662; but the poem, as we have it, is ofthe tenth century.

There is a shieling hidden in the woodUnknown to all save God;An ancient ash-tree and a hazel-bushTheir sheltering shade afford.Around the doorway's heather-laden porchWild honeysuckles twine;Prolific oaks, within the forest's gloom,Shed mast upon fat swine.Many a sweet familiar woodland pathComes winding to my door;Lowly and humble is my hermitage,Poor, and yet not too poor.From the high gable-end my lady's throatHer trilling chant outpours,Her sombre mantle, like the ousel's coat,Shows dark above my doors.From the high oakridge where the roe-deer leapsThe river-banks between,Renowned Mucraime and Red Roigne's plainsLie wrapped in robes of green.Here in the silence, where no care intrudes,I dwell at peace with God;What gift like this hast thou to give, Prince Guaire,Were I to roam abroad?The heavy branches of the green-barked yewThat seem to bear the sky;The spreading oak, that shields me from the storm,When winds rise high.Like a great hostel, welcoming to all,My laden apple-tree;Low in the hedge, the modest hazel-bushDrops ripest nuts for me.Round the pure spring, that rises crystal clear,Straight from the rock,Wild goats and swine, red fox, and grazing deer,At sundown flock.The host of forest-dwellers of the soilTrysting at night;To meet them foxes come, a peaceful troop,For my delight.Like exiled princes, flocking to their home,They gather round;Beneath the river bank great salmon leap,And trout abound.Rich rowan clusters, and the dusky sloe,The bitter, dark blackthorn,Ripe whortle-berries, nuts of amber hue,The cup-enclosed acorn.A clutch of eggs, sweet honey, mead and ale,God's goodness still bestows;Red apples, and the fruitage of the heath,His constant mercy shows.The goodly tangle of the briar-trailClimbs over all the hedge;Far out of sight, the trembling waters wailThrough rustling rush and sedge.Luxuriant summer spreads its coloured cloakAnd covers all the land;Bright blue-bells, sunk in woods of russet oak,Their blooms expand.The movements of the bright red-breasted men,A lovely melody!Above my house, the thrush and cuckoo's strainA chorus wakes for me.The little music-makers of the worldChafers and bees,Drone answer to the tumbling torrent's roarBeneath the trees.From gable-ends, from every branch and stem,Sounds sweetest music now;Unseen, in restless flight, the lively wrenFlits 'neath the hazel-bough.Deep in the firmament the sea-gulls fly,One widely-circling wreath;The cheerful cuckoo's call, the poult's reply,Sound o'er the distant heath.The lowing of the calves in summer-time,Best season of the year!Across the fertile plain, pleasant the sound,Their call I hear.Voice of the wind against the branchy woodUpon the deep blue sky;Most musical the ceaseless waterfall,The swan's shrill cry.No hired chorus, trained to praise its chief,Comes welling up for me;The music made for Christ the Ever-young,Sounds forth without a fee.Though great thy wealth, Prince Guaire, happier liveThose who can boast no hoard;Who take at Christ's hand that which He doth giveAs their award.Far from life's tumult and the din of strifeI dwell with Him in peace,Content and grateful, for Thy gifts, High Prince,Daily increase.(Guairereplies)Wisely thou choosest, Marvan; I a kingWould lay my kingdom by,With Colman's glorious heritage I'd partTo bear thee company!

here is a shieling hidden in the woodUnknown to all save God;An ancient ash-tree and a hazel-bushTheir sheltering shade afford.Around the doorway's heather-laden porchWild honeysuckles twine;Prolific oaks, within the forest's gloom,Shed mast upon fat swine.Many a sweet familiar woodland pathComes winding to my door;Lowly and humble is my hermitage,Poor, and yet not too poor.From the high gable-end my lady's throatHer trilling chant outpours,Her sombre mantle, like the ousel's coat,Shows dark above my doors.From the high oakridge where the roe-deer leapsThe river-banks between,Renowned Mucraime and Red Roigne's plainsLie wrapped in robes of green.Here in the silence, where no care intrudes,I dwell at peace with God;What gift like this hast thou to give, Prince Guaire,Were I to roam abroad?The heavy branches of the green-barked yewThat seem to bear the sky;The spreading oak, that shields me from the storm,When winds rise high.Like a great hostel, welcoming to all,My laden apple-tree;Low in the hedge, the modest hazel-bushDrops ripest nuts for me.Round the pure spring, that rises crystal clear,Straight from the rock,Wild goats and swine, red fox, and grazing deer,At sundown flock.The host of forest-dwellers of the soilTrysting at night;To meet them foxes come, a peaceful troop,For my delight.Like exiled princes, flocking to their home,They gather round;Beneath the river bank great salmon leap,And trout abound.Rich rowan clusters, and the dusky sloe,The bitter, dark blackthorn,Ripe whortle-berries, nuts of amber hue,The cup-enclosed acorn.A clutch of eggs, sweet honey, mead and ale,God's goodness still bestows;Red apples, and the fruitage of the heath,His constant mercy shows.The goodly tangle of the briar-trailClimbs over all the hedge;Far out of sight, the trembling waters wailThrough rustling rush and sedge.Luxuriant summer spreads its coloured cloakAnd covers all the land;Bright blue-bells, sunk in woods of russet oak,Their blooms expand.The movements of the bright red-breasted men,A lovely melody!Above my house, the thrush and cuckoo's strainA chorus wakes for me.The little music-makers of the worldChafers and bees,Drone answer to the tumbling torrent's roarBeneath the trees.From gable-ends, from every branch and stem,Sounds sweetest music now;Unseen, in restless flight, the lively wrenFlits 'neath the hazel-bough.Deep in the firmament the sea-gulls fly,One widely-circling wreath;The cheerful cuckoo's call, the poult's reply,Sound o'er the distant heath.The lowing of the calves in summer-time,Best season of the year!Across the fertile plain, pleasant the sound,Their call I hear.Voice of the wind against the branchy woodUpon the deep blue sky;Most musical the ceaseless waterfall,The swan's shrill cry.No hired chorus, trained to praise its chief,Comes welling up for me;The music made for Christ the Ever-young,Sounds forth without a fee.Though great thy wealth, Prince Guaire, happier liveThose who can boast no hoard;Who take at Christ's hand that which He doth giveAs their award.Far from life's tumult and the din of strifeI dwell with Him in peace,Content and grateful, for Thy gifts, High Prince,Daily increase.(Guairereplies)Wisely thou choosest, Marvan; I a kingWould lay my kingdom by,With Colman's glorious heritage I'd partTo bear thee company!

here is a shieling hidden in the woodUnknown to all save God;An ancient ash-tree and a hazel-bushTheir sheltering shade afford.

Around the doorway's heather-laden porchWild honeysuckles twine;Prolific oaks, within the forest's gloom,Shed mast upon fat swine.

Many a sweet familiar woodland pathComes winding to my door;Lowly and humble is my hermitage,Poor, and yet not too poor.

From the high gable-end my lady's throatHer trilling chant outpours,Her sombre mantle, like the ousel's coat,Shows dark above my doors.

From the high oakridge where the roe-deer leapsThe river-banks between,Renowned Mucraime and Red Roigne's plainsLie wrapped in robes of green.

Here in the silence, where no care intrudes,I dwell at peace with God;What gift like this hast thou to give, Prince Guaire,Were I to roam abroad?

The heavy branches of the green-barked yewThat seem to bear the sky;The spreading oak, that shields me from the storm,When winds rise high.

Like a great hostel, welcoming to all,My laden apple-tree;Low in the hedge, the modest hazel-bushDrops ripest nuts for me.

Round the pure spring, that rises crystal clear,Straight from the rock,Wild goats and swine, red fox, and grazing deer,At sundown flock.

The host of forest-dwellers of the soilTrysting at night;To meet them foxes come, a peaceful troop,For my delight.

Like exiled princes, flocking to their home,They gather round;Beneath the river bank great salmon leap,And trout abound.

Rich rowan clusters, and the dusky sloe,The bitter, dark blackthorn,Ripe whortle-berries, nuts of amber hue,The cup-enclosed acorn.

A clutch of eggs, sweet honey, mead and ale,God's goodness still bestows;Red apples, and the fruitage of the heath,His constant mercy shows.

The goodly tangle of the briar-trailClimbs over all the hedge;Far out of sight, the trembling waters wailThrough rustling rush and sedge.

Luxuriant summer spreads its coloured cloakAnd covers all the land;Bright blue-bells, sunk in woods of russet oak,Their blooms expand.

The movements of the bright red-breasted men,A lovely melody!Above my house, the thrush and cuckoo's strainA chorus wakes for me.

The little music-makers of the worldChafers and bees,Drone answer to the tumbling torrent's roarBeneath the trees.

From gable-ends, from every branch and stem,Sounds sweetest music now;Unseen, in restless flight, the lively wrenFlits 'neath the hazel-bough.

Deep in the firmament the sea-gulls fly,One widely-circling wreath;The cheerful cuckoo's call, the poult's reply,Sound o'er the distant heath.

The lowing of the calves in summer-time,Best season of the year!Across the fertile plain, pleasant the sound,Their call I hear.

Voice of the wind against the branchy woodUpon the deep blue sky;Most musical the ceaseless waterfall,The swan's shrill cry.

No hired chorus, trained to praise its chief,Comes welling up for me;The music made for Christ the Ever-young,Sounds forth without a fee.

Though great thy wealth, Prince Guaire, happier liveThose who can boast no hoard;Who take at Christ's hand that which He doth giveAs their award.

Far from life's tumult and the din of strifeI dwell with Him in peace,Content and grateful, for Thy gifts, High Prince,Daily increase.

(Guairereplies)

Wisely thou choosest, Marvan; I a kingWould lay my kingdom by,With Colman's glorious heritage I'd partTo bear thee company!

(In the battle of Aidne, Crede, the daughter of King Guare of Aidne, beheld Dinertach of the HyFidgenti, who had come to the help of Guare, with seventeen wounds upon his breast. Then she fell in love with him. He died and was buried in the cemetery of Colman's Church.)

These are the arrows that murder sleepAt every hour in the night's black deep;Pangs of Love through the long day ache,All for the dead Dinertach's sake.Great love of a hero from Roiny's plainHas pierced me through with immortal pain,Blasted my beauty and left me to blanchA riven bloom on a restless branch.Never was song like Dinertach's speechBut holy strains that to Heaven's gate reach;A front of flame without boast or pride,Yet a firm, fond mate for a fair maid's side.A growing girl—I was timid of tongue,And never trysted with gallants young,But since I have won into passionate age,Fierce love-longings my heart engage.I have every bounty that life could hold,With Guare, arch-monarch of Aidne cold,But, fallen away from my haughty folk,In Irluachair's field my heart lies broke.There is chanting in glorious Aidne's meadow,Under St. Colman's Church's shadow;A hero flame sinks into the tomb—Dinertach, alas my love and my doom!Chaste Christ! that now at my life's last breathI should tryst with Sorrow and mate with Death!At every hour of the night's black deep,These are the arrows that murder sleep.Alfred Perceval Graves.

These are the arrows that murder sleepAt every hour in the night's black deep;Pangs of Love through the long day ache,All for the dead Dinertach's sake.

Great love of a hero from Roiny's plainHas pierced me through with immortal pain,Blasted my beauty and left me to blanchA riven bloom on a restless branch.

Never was song like Dinertach's speechBut holy strains that to Heaven's gate reach;A front of flame without boast or pride,Yet a firm, fond mate for a fair maid's side.

A growing girl—I was timid of tongue,And never trysted with gallants young,But since I have won into passionate age,Fierce love-longings my heart engage.

I have every bounty that life could hold,With Guare, arch-monarch of Aidne cold,But, fallen away from my haughty folk,In Irluachair's field my heart lies broke.

There is chanting in glorious Aidne's meadow,Under St. Colman's Church's shadow;A hero flame sinks into the tomb—Dinertach, alas my love and my doom!

Chaste Christ! that now at my life's last breathI should tryst with Sorrow and mate with Death!At every hour of the night's black deep,These are the arrows that murder sleep.

Alfred Perceval Graves.

The Irish of this playful poem was written by a student of the Monastery of Carinthia on a copy of St. Paul's Epistles about the close of the eighth century.

I and Pangur Bán, my cat,'Tis a like task we are at;Hunting mice is his delight,Hunting words I sit all night.Better far than praise of men'Tis to sit with book and pen;Pangur bears me no ill-will,He, too, plies his simple skill.'Tis a merry thing to seeAt our tasks how glad are we,When at home we sit and findEntertainment to our mind.Oftentimes a mouse will strayIn the hero Pangur's way;Oftentimes my keen thought setTakes a meaning in its net.'Gainst the wall he sets his eyeFull and fierce and sharp and sly;'Gainst the wall of knowledge IAll my little wisdom try.When a mouse darts from its den,O! how glad is Pangur then;O! what gladness do I proveWhen I solve the doubts I love.So in peace our task we ply,Pangur Bán, my cat, and I;In our arts we find our bliss,I have mine, and he has his.Practice every day has madePangur perfect in his trade;I get wisdom day and night,Turning darkness into light.Robin Flower.

I and Pangur Bán, my cat,'Tis a like task we are at;Hunting mice is his delight,Hunting words I sit all night.

Better far than praise of men'Tis to sit with book and pen;Pangur bears me no ill-will,He, too, plies his simple skill.

'Tis a merry thing to seeAt our tasks how glad are we,When at home we sit and findEntertainment to our mind.

Oftentimes a mouse will strayIn the hero Pangur's way;Oftentimes my keen thought setTakes a meaning in its net.

'Gainst the wall he sets his eyeFull and fierce and sharp and sly;'Gainst the wall of knowledge IAll my little wisdom try.

When a mouse darts from its den,O! how glad is Pangur then;O! what gladness do I proveWhen I solve the doubts I love.

So in peace our task we ply,Pangur Bán, my cat, and I;In our arts we find our bliss,I have mine, and he has his.

Practice every day has madePangur perfect in his trade;I get wisdom day and night,Turning darkness into light.

Robin Flower.

Now, Gabriel, be with my heartOn this first day of seven,He, first of the Archangels;And Thou, High King of Heaven.Michael be mine, if Monday dawn,Michael I call upon,There is none like thee, Michael,None but Jesu, Mary's Son.And oh if Tuesday sorrow bring,Let Raphael help it forth,One of the seven that hears us weep,Sad women of this earth.And Uriel hear, if Wednesday wake,In his nobility,And heal our wounds and care for usAnd calm this wind-torn sea.And Sariel, should Thursday comeWith wilder wind and seas,On Sariel I cry aloudFor that solace which is his.For sorrow's fast on Friday,Out of my need I cryOn Rumiel, my heart's near friend,Though Heaven I know is nigh.And Saturday, on Panchel,While this yellow world is mine,I call on him while shake the leavesAnd the yellow sun doth shine.The Trinity protect me still—Oh blessed Trinity,And be my stay in danger's hour;Protect and prosper me.Ernest Rhys.

Now, Gabriel, be with my heartOn this first day of seven,He, first of the Archangels;And Thou, High King of Heaven.

Michael be mine, if Monday dawn,Michael I call upon,There is none like thee, Michael,None but Jesu, Mary's Son.

And oh if Tuesday sorrow bring,Let Raphael help it forth,One of the seven that hears us weep,Sad women of this earth.

And Uriel hear, if Wednesday wake,In his nobility,And heal our wounds and care for usAnd calm this wind-torn sea.

And Sariel, should Thursday comeWith wilder wind and seas,On Sariel I cry aloudFor that solace which is his.

For sorrow's fast on Friday,Out of my need I cryOn Rumiel, my heart's near friend,Though Heaven I know is nigh.

And Saturday, on Panchel,While this yellow world is mine,I call on him while shake the leavesAnd the yellow sun doth shine.

The Trinity protect me still—Oh blessed Trinity,And be my stay in danger's hour;Protect and prosper me.

Ernest Rhys.

Ancient Irish Litany

Though ascribed to St. Adamnan, Abbot of Iona (died 704), the biographer of St. Columba, the piece, judging by its language, is later.

Saints of Four Seasons!Saints of the Year!Loving, I pray to you; longing, I say to you:Save me from angers, dreeings, and dangers!Saints of Four Seasons!Saints of the Year!Saints of Green Springtime!Saints of the Year!Patraic and Grighair, Brighid be near!My last breath gather with God's Foster Father!Saints of Green Springtime!Saints of the Year!Saints of Gold Summer!Saints of the Year!(Poesy wingeth me! Fancy far bringeth me!)Guide ye me on to Mary's Sweet Son!Saints of Gold Summer!Saints of the Year!Saints of Red Autumn!Saints of the Year!Lo! I am cheery! Michil and MaryOpen wide Heaven to my soul bereaven!Saints of Red Autumn!Saints of the Year!Saints of Grey WinterSaints of the Year!Outside God's Palace fiends wait in malice—Let them not win my soul going in!Saints of Grey Winter!Saints of the Year!Saints of Four Seasons!Saints of the Year!Waking or sleeping, to my grave creeping,Life in its Night, hold me God's light!Saints of Four Seasons!Saints of the Year!P. J. McCall.

Saints of Four Seasons!Saints of the Year!Loving, I pray to you; longing, I say to you:Save me from angers, dreeings, and dangers!Saints of Four Seasons!Saints of the Year!

Saints of Green Springtime!Saints of the Year!Patraic and Grighair, Brighid be near!My last breath gather with God's Foster Father!Saints of Green Springtime!Saints of the Year!

Saints of Gold Summer!Saints of the Year!(Poesy wingeth me! Fancy far bringeth me!)Guide ye me on to Mary's Sweet Son!Saints of Gold Summer!Saints of the Year!

Saints of Red Autumn!Saints of the Year!Lo! I am cheery! Michil and MaryOpen wide Heaven to my soul bereaven!Saints of Red Autumn!Saints of the Year!

Saints of Grey WinterSaints of the Year!Outside God's Palace fiends wait in malice—Let them not win my soul going in!Saints of Grey Winter!Saints of the Year!

Saints of Four Seasons!Saints of the Year!Waking or sleeping, to my grave creeping,Life in its Night, hold me God's light!Saints of Four Seasons!Saints of the Year!

P. J. McCall.

Blackbird, who pourest praise,Deep hidden 'neath the bough,No bell to call the HoursThou needest, thou;Each hour, O hermit, from thy throat,Wells thy sweet, soft, peaceful note.

Time was, I was not here;Short the time for me, I fear!Death comes, that is clear;It is not clear when death is near.

High trees close me roundFar from the ground the blackbird sings,Trilling, it chants its layAbove my well-lined book to-day.In its soft veil of greyThe wayward cuckoo calls aloud;Within my wall of green,My God shrouds me, all unseen.

High trees close me roundFar from the ground the blackbird sings,Trilling, it chants its layAbove my well-lined book to-day.

In its soft veil of greyThe wayward cuckoo calls aloud;Within my wall of green,My God shrouds me, all unseen.

By Mael-Isu ("Servant of Jesus"), of Derry,obit.1038.

Deus meus adiuva me,Give me thy love, O Christ, I pray,Give me thy love, O Christ, I pray,Deus meus adiuva me.In meum cor ut sanum sit,Pour, loving King, Thy love in it,Pour, loving King, Thy love in it,In meum cor ut sanum sit.Domine, da ut peto a te,O, pure bright sun, give, give to-day,O, pure bright sun, give, give to-day,Domine, da ut peto a te.Hanc spero rem et quaero quamThy love to have where'er I am,Thy love to have where'er I am,Hanc spero rem et quaero quam.Tuum amorem sicut uis,Give to me swiftly, strongly, this,Give to me swiftly, strongly, this,Tuum amorem sicut uis.Quaero, postulo, peto a te,That I in heaven, dear Christ, may stay,That I in heaven, dear Christ, may stay,Quaero, postulo, peto a te.Domine, Domine, exaudi me,Fill my soul, Lord, with Thy love's ray,Fill my soul, Lord, with Thy love's ray,Domine, Domine, exaudi me.Deus meus adiuva me,Deus meus adiuva me.George Sigerson.

Deus meus adiuva me,Give me thy love, O Christ, I pray,Give me thy love, O Christ, I pray,Deus meus adiuva me.

In meum cor ut sanum sit,Pour, loving King, Thy love in it,Pour, loving King, Thy love in it,In meum cor ut sanum sit.

Domine, da ut peto a te,O, pure bright sun, give, give to-day,O, pure bright sun, give, give to-day,Domine, da ut peto a te.

Hanc spero rem et quaero quamThy love to have where'er I am,Thy love to have where'er I am,Hanc spero rem et quaero quam.

Tuum amorem sicut uis,Give to me swiftly, strongly, this,Give to me swiftly, strongly, this,Tuum amorem sicut uis.

Quaero, postulo, peto a te,That I in heaven, dear Christ, may stay,That I in heaven, dear Christ, may stay,Quaero, postulo, peto a te.

Domine, Domine, exaudi me,Fill my soul, Lord, with Thy love's ray,Fill my soul, Lord, with Thy love's ray,Domine, Domine, exaudi me.Deus meus adiuva me,Deus meus adiuva me.

George Sigerson.

(Author and date unknown.)

It were my soul's desireTo see the face of God;It were my soul's desireTo rest in His abode.It were my soul's desireTo study zealously;This, too, my soul's desire,A clear rule set for me.It were my soul's desireA spirit free from gloom;It were my soul's desireNew life beyond the Doom.It were my soul's desireTo shun the chills of hell;Yet more my soul's desireWithin His house to dwell.It were my soul's desireTo imitate my King,It were my soul's desireHis ceaseless praise to sing.It were my soul's desireWhen heaven's gate is wonTo find my soul's desireClear shining like the sun.Grant, Lord, my soul's desire,Deep waves of cleansing sighs;Grant, Lord, my soul's desireFrom earthly cares to rise.This still my soul's desireWhatever life afford,—To gain my soul's desireAnd see Thy face, O Lord.

It were my soul's desireTo see the face of God;It were my soul's desireTo rest in His abode.

It were my soul's desireTo study zealously;This, too, my soul's desire,A clear rule set for me.

It were my soul's desireA spirit free from gloom;It were my soul's desireNew life beyond the Doom.

It were my soul's desireTo shun the chills of hell;Yet more my soul's desireWithin His house to dwell.

It were my soul's desireTo imitate my King,It were my soul's desireHis ceaseless praise to sing.

It were my soul's desireWhen heaven's gate is wonTo find my soul's desireClear shining like the sun.

Grant, Lord, my soul's desire,Deep waves of cleansing sighs;Grant, Lord, my soul's desireFrom earthly cares to rise.

This still my soul's desireWhatever life afford,—To gain my soul's desireAnd see Thy face, O Lord.

The original of the following poem was ascribed to Ruman mac Colmáin, an Irish poet of the seventh century, whom theBook of Leinstergenerously styles "the Homer and Virgil of Ireland." It has been edited and exquisitely translated in prose by Professor Kuno Meyer in vol. ii. ofOtia Merseiana. He attributes it to the eleventh century. The old prose account says that it was made by Ruman, when challenged by the Danes of Dublin to sing of the sea.

Tempest on the great sea-borders,Hear my tale, ye viking sworders!Winter smites us, wild winds cryingSet the salty billows flying,Wind and winter, fierce marauders.Lir's vast host of shouting waterComes against us, charged with slaughter,None can tell the dread and wonderSpeaking in the ocean thunderAnd the tempest, thunder's daughter.With the wind of east at morningAll the waves' wild hearts are yearningWestward over wastes of ocean,Till they stay their eager motionWhere the setting sun is burning.When the northern wind comes flying,All the press of dark waves crying,Southward surge and clamour, drivenTo the shining southern heaven,Wave to wave in song replying.When the western wind is blowingO'er the currents wildly flowing,Eastward sets its mighty longingAnd the waves go eastward throngingFar to find the sun-tree growing.When the southern wind comes rainingOver shielded Saxons straining,Waves round Skiddy isle go pouring,On Caladnet's beaches roaring,In grey Shannon's mouth complaining.Full the sea and fierce the surges,Lovely are the ocean verges,On the showery waters whirling,Sandy winds are swiftly swirling,Rudders cleave the surf that urges.Hard round Eire's cliffs and nesses,Hard the strife, not soft the stresses,Like swan-feathers softly sifting,Snow o'er Milidh's folk is drifting,Manann's wife shakes angry tresses.At the mouth of each dark riverBreaking waters surge and shiver,Wind and winter met togetherTrouble Alba with wild weather,Countless falls on Dremon quiver.Son of God, great Lord of wonder,Save me from the ravening thunder,By the feast before Thy dying,Save me from the tempest cryingAnd from Hell, tempestuous under.Robin Flower.

Tempest on the great sea-borders,Hear my tale, ye viking sworders!Winter smites us, wild winds cryingSet the salty billows flying,Wind and winter, fierce marauders.

Lir's vast host of shouting waterComes against us, charged with slaughter,None can tell the dread and wonderSpeaking in the ocean thunderAnd the tempest, thunder's daughter.

With the wind of east at morningAll the waves' wild hearts are yearningWestward over wastes of ocean,Till they stay their eager motionWhere the setting sun is burning.

When the northern wind comes flying,All the press of dark waves crying,Southward surge and clamour, drivenTo the shining southern heaven,Wave to wave in song replying.

When the western wind is blowingO'er the currents wildly flowing,Eastward sets its mighty longingAnd the waves go eastward throngingFar to find the sun-tree growing.

When the southern wind comes rainingOver shielded Saxons straining,Waves round Skiddy isle go pouring,On Caladnet's beaches roaring,In grey Shannon's mouth complaining.

Full the sea and fierce the surges,Lovely are the ocean verges,On the showery waters whirling,Sandy winds are swiftly swirling,Rudders cleave the surf that urges.

Hard round Eire's cliffs and nesses,Hard the strife, not soft the stresses,Like swan-feathers softly sifting,Snow o'er Milidh's folk is drifting,Manann's wife shakes angry tresses.

At the mouth of each dark riverBreaking waters surge and shiver,Wind and winter met togetherTrouble Alba with wild weather,Countless falls on Dremon quiver.

Son of God, great Lord of wonder,Save me from the ravening thunder,By the feast before Thy dying,Save me from the tempest cryingAnd from Hell, tempestuous under.

Robin Flower.

Eleventh century (?)

Ebbtide 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 is 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 the 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.

Ebbtide 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 is 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 the 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.

"a.d.946. Gormliath, daughter of Fiann, Queen of Nial Glundubh, or "Black-knee," died after intense penance for her sins and transgressions."—Annals of the Four Masters.

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