PS 3505 ,A7755 S6 1916 Class _J_AJtLL^A- 4 f.'f -S CQsmicm DEPosm SONGS OF CREELABEG SONGS OF CREELABEG BY REV. P. J. CARROLL, C.S.C. NEW YORK THE DEVIN-ADAIR COMPANY /.I)'^ Copyright, 1916, by The Devin-Adaib Company JAN -2 1917 3CLA453395 i To My Mother Who made the morn of life so sweet The day is fragrant yet. FOREWORD You who, every day, in every work to which you set your hands, pause for a little to look back over space and time to one spot your heart keeps green for- ever; Who dream of shamrocks where the cactus grows, or fancy the fringed daisies are beneath the snow; Who hear below the rumble of fac- tories the whisper of the river, and the call of the cuckoo above the noise of cities; Who grow lonely som,etimes for quiet places back home where the gray dew lingers late, and where the blue-blos- somed clover is sweet: For you are sung these Songs of Creelabeg. CONTENTS PAOC LONESOME 3 GOING HOME 5 EQUALITY 8 THE EXILED DEAD 10 THE FAEEWELL 12 TOM 22 THE ALTAR BOY 25 MY HEAVEN 27 WADING 29 DEAE CHRIST 31 THE WRECKS OF DEPARTED YEARS . . 32 THE RICHES OF POVERTY 34 BY THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND .... 35 A JUNE DREAM 36 THE CALL TO DERRY 38 JOHNEEN 47 WHEN THE WEATHER'S GRAY .... 50 PAGE TEARS AND BLOOD 52 SHANAGOLDEN 54 TO-DAY 56 A MEMORY 58 THE OLD LOVE 60 THE ROSE GIRL 63 MOTHER ERIN 64 DREAM SONG 67 WHEN YOU ARE OLD 69 LOOKING BACK 71 A NEW YEAR'S WISH ..73 REAPING 75 MONA'S MESSAGE 77 TO THE POET 84 LINCOLN 86 MOTHER OF ART 88 IF SORROW COME 90 OUR LADY OF THE DOME 92 MY PRAYER 94 IN HER EXILE 96 THE LEGEND OF THE HARP 98 LAUREEN 102 viii PAaa TO THE HOLY KINGS 104 A LITTLE KINDLY DEED 106 MAEGEEY MAY 114 THE EISHEEMAN'S WIFE 116 LADY DAY IN IRELAND 118 ST. PATRICK'S TREASURE 121 THE SOUL OF THE SHAMROCK . . . .122 TO A DEAD PRIEST 125 THE LIGHT OF THEIR LIFE 128 THE PERFECT PEACE 129 THE PERFECT SERVICE 131 KNOCKANARE 134 THE HEART OF THE WIND 137 THE VISION OF THE NIGHT 141 THE IRISH JUNE 143 EARLY MASS IN IRELAND 145 NOVEMBER . . 147 THE SECOND SPRING 149 CREELA BAY 152 GOLDEN JUBILEE WISH 154 THE CRY OF THE HEART 156 SONGS OF CREELABEG LONESOME Ochone, so far away I am 'tis no know- ing, My Creelabeg, if I'll ever see you now! 'Tis Spring there in the valley, the west wind blowing The turf boats home again from Bal- lyow. Movrone, 'tis sad I am for the brown sods burning, Of wild nights, and we wondering how It fares with the boats through the dark home returning. Before the wintry winds from Bal- lyow. [3] Machree, could I but watch the wild geese flying Back from the gray sea over the blue hill's brow, My breath would come more easy were I dying, And they flying — flying home from Ballyow ! [4] GOING HOME 'Tis worth the score of years to be re- turning Back o'er a smooth sea with a track of foam. There's gray frost on the pane, a turf fire burning, And young eyes watching for the coming home. Ah, you'd be glad, too, to hear the en- gines pounding. And you going back where white fields are spread. [5] Your heart would run before, so you'd soon be rounding The Moorna hills, behind near Kerry Head. Good-bye to the city where my heart was pining For a speck of the sky, for a blade of dewy grass! In Creelabeg there's a gentle sun a- shining Between the showers that dance for you and pass. Ah, Creelabeg! I can't live on without you, So I'm going back, with Christmas in the air. [6] I went from you, but never did I doubt you,— Put fresh turf on, dears: I will soon be there! [7] EQUALITY Full many lie in lowly graves, With never grassy mound above them ; Or sleep uncoffined in the waves, Afar from those at home that love them. A few whom fickle Glory wins. Whose deeds are writ for worlds to con them, Have tombs in which are hid their sins, With all their virtues chiselled on them. But e'en the thickness of the tomb Shall dread Corruption pierce to find them ; [8] He does not spare the thrice-sealed gloom Because men leave a name behind them. [9] THE EXILED DEAD They sleep where Southern breezes blow — No bard is left to tell their story, — Or where the mountains crowned with snow Shall never lose their virgin glory. They lie in lone forgotten field Where tyrants ' chains were rent asun- der; And, wild Ocean, could you yield The white bones that are scattered under, [10] You would give back unfinished lives To her whose widowed heart is brok- en, — The vows of lovers, prayers of wives. Whose last farewells were never spoken. Be mute, ye banished ones who lie With neither mound nor tomb above you! The ocean breezes round you sigh, And God's sweet angels guard and love you. [11] THE FAREWELL The railway station of a large West- ern city. Kathleen, going hack to Ire- land, is saying good-bye to her young brother, Maurice, whom she promises to send for in the spring. KATHLEEN" The smoke of factories, hiding sun and sky Through all the lonesome day, — yes, that is why I'm going back. To live in this wild city All the slow years, nor ever hear the ditty The happy thrush sings o'er the late June grass: [12] That's why my heart is pining. So I ^ pass From out these sunless streets to fields I know, Where shamrocks lie beneath the daisy snow. MATJKICE Ah, sister, and you'll hear the gull's sharp call Far out to sea, from the cliffs of Aher- fall! KATHLEEN And, dear, 'tis sorry I am you can not come, That your poor ears must hear the dizzy hum Of wheels within the black, unlovely building ; [13] That you will long in vain for the sun that's guilding The cross of Athery. And so good-bye, Brother of mine, your life in the morn ! Don't cry. My own! I'll surely send for you in spring, When the daisies show, when hiding corncrakes fling The dew from off their backs. Eemem- ber, love, When your young heart is breaking, see above This smoke, the sky of Creelabeg, the Deel Mad-leaping down the rocks for woe, for weal, To mother sea. Ah, thus she calleth thee, [14] My blue-heart stream, as Ireland calleth me! My sorul is there already. Lovely earth, Green Ireland, where the fairies had their birth. The kind South soothes thee with her wind's caress; The chanting sea doth sprinkle thee and bless, "With violet mist, adown each valleyed aisle, As brief clouds veil the sky and the good sun's smile! MAUEICE Will you think of me when you see the wild geese flying In wedges to the west where the sun lies dying? [15] KATHLEElf Don't doubt, machree; thougli now you do not come, you'll come, surely, when the brown bees bum Above the wheat field in the young spring greening; When the white-thorn bush, down o'er the flush pond leaning. Drinks up the sap and feels the wine of life! Don't let your heart down, though the maddening strife Beat at your senses all the smoky day. dream of Creelabeg and Creela Bay; The salt wind laughing up the Deel ; the fog Shrouding with mantle dark the heather bog [16 1 By the slopes of Knockanare ; the dark- eyed men Who toil in yellowing fields the day, and then, With falling night, walk down the head- lands home. And, brother, listen : through the fog and foam I'll see your wistful face, your black eyes shining, And the heart in me will pine that you are pining. Ne'er will the wild geese fly across the wind. With heads out-thrust, to the marsh fields behind Kilbeg, but I will pray for your return- ing; [sods burning And, Maurice dear, I'll keep the brown [17] Till you are home again in showery spring, When flush streams flow to sea a-mur- muring ! MATJEICE sister mine, and soon your hands will catch The soft, warm rain a-dripping from the thatch! You'll mock the cuckoo from the alder calling At the edge of night, when the early dew is falling! KATHLEEN Hush, dear ! The time is now ! Ah, so I press My lips to yours ! I grudge my happi- ness, [18] And you with moist eyes dreaming hour on hour Of the heath hills and the wind of Ahen- dour! And know, dear brother, God loves Ire- land best, For she's been always meek when sor- row-pressed. While yet a maid she was wedded unto Grief; True wife was she, nor ever sought relief Down the great years. All the fair chil- dren born Of her have felt the thong of hate and scorn ; Yet have they loved her in the foggy dawn, In the hot noon, and when the young stars shone. [19] Then, when her husband Grief unlovely grew, The kind God in His golden heaven knew. And sent Grief's sister, Joy, to charm her pain. Till Grief unlovely, lovely grew again. MAUEICE 'Tis far to there, — and will you hear my call Above the Kerry wind and the water- fall? KATHLEEN I'll hear, and send for you when the Shannon wide Is songless 'neath the weight of April tide; [20] When o'er the drills the buds begin to show, And healing showers bring back the van- ished glow To the land's face. Don't let your heart doubt, love; For surely, in the spring, the clouds above The Galty mountains will refresh your eyes. When you are home, and under Irish skies — hush, machree! It is the panting train! MAUEICE Ah, the foggy days until we meet again ! [21] TOM Ay, he was one o' the Force, was Tom, So tall in his suit o' blue, You'd stop at the crossin* Where he was a-bossin' The job the mornin' through! The people o' town were fond o' Tom, For he was obligin' an' kind. 'Twas Tom here an' Tom there, 'Twas Tom everywhere ; But Tom, sure he didn't mind. [22] A big man with, a big heart was Tom — Ay, that's the truth this day! But the big an' the small Must answer the call, When the hour comes to march away. How great he looked in the hospital bed— An oak blown down in the dark! " 'Tis hard pullin' — I doubt If I'll ever pull out," Tom whispered to Sister Mark. The priest, he came an' anointed Tom, An' *' heard him," an' helped him pray. **Now," said Tom, "an' I go 'Tis all aequal; I know I'm right with the Lord this day!" [23] Well, the boys were there when they buried Tom — I'm manin' the min in blue. ''Torn, we'd like you to sleep Where the shamrocks keep," Said the priest — an' thim words were true. Mo boucail, Tom, you've a rest from the beat Down there where the dust is fine! Sleep aisy, Machree, Sure your Guard 'an will see You don't lose your place in the line! [24] THE ALTAR BOY A dark sky, a gray rain, Boy lips set in smile; Marching feet to organ beat, Of children down the aisle. ''Farewell," murmured the priest, "Boy of the altar band; You served inside the altar rail. You lighted torch, you lifted veil — You almost touched His hand!" A small grave, a still place, Where cedars wave farewell. Bees will hum when June days come. Winds will sink and swell. [25 1 Safe home, altar lad, Boy of the surplice band! For aye to serve inside the rail, — With stars for torches, sky for veil,— For aye to touch His hand ! [26] MY HEAVEN Dear Mother of God, to that far heaven of thine I dare not hope to reach; Bowed with the memory of these sins of mine, A lesser I beseech. I do not ask such crowning as thy stars. Nor the gold-dust at thy feet; just to hear, far-coming, the faint bars Of angel music sweet. [27] Among the least, where in my lowliness 'Tis fitting I should be, From there — a humbler heaven — thy blessedness I am content to see. [28] WADING Lord, little it matters how narrow the span Of the river I cross to Thee : The palm is not meted to any man For the years since his weary wade be- gan Through this river he wades like me. 'Tis the ceaseless fight 'gainst the cur- rent's flow That is writ in that Heart of Thine; And the bleeding feet from the rocks below, [29] And the hands benumbed from the blasts that blow, That are healed by Thy touch benign. Lord, light me along: the mid-river is deep. The shallows lie near the shore; My failing footsteps from gliding keep With the adverse currents that round me sweep, Till I've waded life's river o'er. [30] DEAR CHRIST Dear Christ, Yon left Your paradise To wash away our sin: We barred the doors against You, Christ, And would not let You in. Dear Christ, You would abide with us — But, ah, there was no room! We nailed You to a cross, dear Christ, And left You in the gloom. [31] THE WRECKS OF DEPARTED YEARS Low in the depths of the murmuring sea Lie buried the wrecks of departed years ; And betimes, when the moon through the storm-cloud peers, Above the night wind the mariner hears The wails of the coffinless dead at sea. Under the waves of the sea of life The ghosts of humanity, sin-wrecked, sleep; [32] And anon when meek saints their vigils keep, They hear the angels in heaven weep For the sunken souls in the sea of life. [33] THE RICHES OF POVERTY You up there in your gilded hall, With glitter of lights 'Mid revel of nights, Think you have life, love, happiness — all. I, down here at my cottage door, "Would not take your gold Nor your gems untold For my babe that plays on this earthen floor. [34] BY THE GEAVE OF A FEIEND Crooning winds round a naked tree, Lowering clouds and a swish of rain: Sleep on! Not all sad minstrelsy Will wake you back to my life again. Dank leaves sunk in sodden grass, Tree arms heavy with fallen rain, — The sun, the cloud will come, will pass : You will not come to my life again. Gusts of wind and a dreary day. The clinging cold of November rain: The buds will spring with a future May, But you — not you to my life again ! [35] A JUNE DREAM The garden is summer-sweet with roses This golden June; The bee buzzes above where the lizard reposes This slumberous hour of noon. The sky is up near heaven, With never a cloud to soil its face of blue. 'Tis so warm and still to-day that even The spangled butterfly will scarce flit away from you. Now the soul is at peace; and Fancy, dreaming Of cooling shade, [36] Weaves a web of song out of the seem- ing— For so all songs are made. Our God is tender and good To give us the sun and the sky and the summer long, And, in a silent hour, the mood Of regret for a vanished hour that finds its relief in song. [37] THE CALL TO DERBY A Vision in the Abbey I 'Tis quiet within, where mosses cling to sunken stones, Where tall weeds blossom in summer above dissolving bones. The Angel Silence invites us, ere the doors are bolted fast. To leave the noisy Present and visit the dreaming Past. n Dark and vacant niches in walls grown old and gray; A chajicel filled with echoes — the psalms of a vanished day; [38] The smoke of incense rolling from cen- sers that will not rust, Swung by spirit hands that never can fall into dust; Lights ablaze on altars carved of the poet's dream: The heavy hours of the real melt into the hours that seem. in Out of their graves arise the monks that have slumbered long, — They who chastened the harsh, wild ways of our fathers strong: Colman, the man of learning; Columba, the maker of song ; They who taught Toil's blessing to many a savage race, [39] Spending the night in riotous wassail, the day in the chase, — Teuton and Saxon and Dane and Briton with painted face. IV Not saints of conventional nimbus with vision-lifted eyes. But men who battled for man, and taught mankind to rise. Brave with the force of truth, although a truth should sting, Driving a bandit back, rebuking a lecher- ous king. They sit in stalls long vacant, and sing from the sacred page Psalms that have quickened with feeling the pulse of peasant and sage: Columba and Gall and Colman, — the lights of a bygone age. [40] V The psalms are ended now, and down the aisle Columba glides, bard of the sainted band, Who from Ionian exile many a mile Yearned over-seas for haunting Der- ryland. He glances where we stand in shadow dim; His gray eyes yearn as when they searched the sea. From the land's white edge to the hori- zon's rim, To catch one glimpse, fair Derryland, of thee! [41] * ' brothers, I am waiting all the years — My bones in dusty darkness, so long! — Till out of Time one rose-red Dawn ap- pears, And all this land will quicken unto song! ''When the old days of Freedom shall return, And men shall walk anew highways of light ; On every cairn triumphant fires will burn. To glorify the waking out of night. "When cowled monks again will ponder o*er High truths to light the searchings of the race; [42] Scholars aflame will hither as of yore, And Knowledge find in her accustomed place. "Great Malachy and Brian,— they are gone, And all the old kings of a kingly race. Of all the silvered bards that sang, not one Is left to sing the new day large with grace. *'And thou, my Derry, kissed by a sky serene. Which oft my gray eyes yearned to gaze upon. Thou hast forgot the dark-haired mother-queen Who loved and nourished thee in ages gone. [43] • ' Derryland, thou nursling of the sea, Thou hast forgot thy sons of olden days, Ere yet the Saxon came and ravished thee, And turned thy footsteps into narrow- ing ways! ''Thy brave O'Neill, O'Donnell, Owen Roe, — The knightliest men that ever belted sword ! Thou hast forgot their valorous deeds, and lo, To thy white heart dost clasp an alien horde ! ''The Dawn will break, and her fair children all Will sing once more the paean of lib- erty— [44] Meath, Wexford, Limerick, blue-hilled Donegal ; But thou, my Derry, — wilt thou silent be?" VI Gloom and spirit silence, the red sun low in the sky. Rooks with heads out-thrust seeking their nests hard by; Ancient tombs, a chancel, pillars fallen and gray, Figures carved on stone, and great names worn away. The sainted monks have vanished, the hour of prayer is spent, And eager Fancy follows the way of the dead they went. [45] But the Angel Hope remains throngli the watches of all the night, While hovers dark-winged Doubt, then vanishes out of sight. Hope watches the trembling East for the rose to redden the sky. When Derry shall wake to the light of a day that shall not die. [46] JOHNEEN There's ten o' ye now, an' twenty long years in between From Maurice, the man o' the house, to little Johneen ; But I wouldn't part one, not for all the rich pearls of a queen. Ah, my heart craves ye all! For ye light up the gloom o ' the place. Like Our Lord lit the dark o ' the cave by the light of His face. Yes, ten o' ye all, an' Maurice as tall as a pine; Then Mary, come Candlemas Day, will be finishin' nine; [47] An' Johneen — come lay your little heart here against mine! Yeh, 'tis I loves ye all: Maurice an' Mike an' Kathleen, An', pulse o' my heart, yourself, my little Johneen I When the house does be empty the long, lonesome stretch o ' the day, With only Johneen in the cradle a-sleep- in' away. The tears do come down from my eyes, an' I tryin' to pray! I dream o' ye all. An' the crosses God sends, an' our needs — Sweet Saviour, forgive me! — ye come between me an' the Beads. [48] But, thank God, sure ye 're hearty an' brimful of innocent joys. An' o' nights round the kitchen ye fill up the house with yer noise. Virgin Pure keep ye innocent always, my girls and my boys ! Ah, I've mothered ye all Down those twenty long years in be- tween, From Maurice, who stoops at the door, to little Johneen ! [49] WHEN THE WEATHER'S GRAY When the weather's gray, and clouds are raining, raining, weave a dream of Summer into a song! Then what to thee the trees to winds complaining? The dawn is in thy heart, the day is long. When the weather 's gray, think of the glad lark singing Above the clouds, just below the an- gels' feet! [50] Think of the lavish rose to the desert flinging Her gift of incense: still is the good rose sweet. Keep light within thy heart, thy head uplifted : The sleeping buds will wake at the touch of May; The sky's face will be blue when clouds are drifted, — Keep hope within thy heart when the weather's gray. [51] TEARS AND BLOOD Mid the golden sheaves of his harvest field, He hears the call from far. Then goes, himself to be the yield. Of the blood-smeared reaper War. Then here's to War, rough- visaged, grim, Whose widows trail the years! drink, ye kings ! you've filled it brim, — The sparkling cup of tears! On a blackened land, for its million dead. He dreams of his fields afar. The stark, still corpses round him spread Are the sheaves of the reaper War. [52] Then here's to War, blood-spattered, grim, Begot of a mad king's mood! drink, ye kings, who've filled it brim. The red, red cup of blood ! [53] SHANAGOLDEN Calm sea, thy sweet breath's over Shanagolden, My dream hill, set with daisies Spring has brought ; Home of a hoary bard in ages olden. Who left his land a legacy of thought. He saw sage kings where daisies white are growing In Shanagolden by the big sea's edge ; He spoke with saints where yonder herds are lowing, Their glossy necks high thrust above the hedge. [54] ' He walked with queens down the slopes of Shanagolden, When queens wore purple in a regal isle. Now sleep they 'neath the oaks, vine- girt and olden; And o'er their dust the regal violets smile. Shanagolden, hill of youthful dream- My "Winter hither flies on darkling wing! But, Shana-land, the daisies fringed are gleaming O'er thy dream slopes. Ah, there 'tis always Spring I [55] TO-DAY Father, guide these faltering steps to- day, Lest I should fall! To-morrow? Ah, to-morrow's far away, — To-day is all. If I but keep my feet till evening time. Night will bring rest; Then, stronger grown, to-morrow I shall climb With newer zest. [56] may I stoop to no unwortliiiiess, In pain or sorrow, Nor bear from yesterday one bitterness On to to-morrow! Then, Fatber, help these searching eyes to-day The path to see; Be patient with my feebleness, — the way Is steep to Thee! [57] A MEMORY A grassy grave, an ivied wall, The gold of an Autumn day ; Leaves in the listless winds that fall, Flitting butterfly, robin call, A far sky streaked with gray. A lonely grave o'er treasured bones, A heart that will not beat; The sun on the lizard adrowse on the stones. Sentinel pines, the slumberous tones Of insects in the heat. [58] An unmarked grave in a sunny place, With gold on every leaf. Time, too, left thee the Autumn grace Of gold in the heart and sun on the face — But Autumn all too brief! [59] THE OLD LOVE 'Twas cloudy an' cMU the mornin' I married my John, In gray Knockanare ; But the sun was deep down in my heart when the priest made us one, With pledges an' blessin' an' prayer. I promised I'd love an' obey; An' John, that he'd love an' be true. we loved, we were true, an' the gray Of an old love, like an old wine, is rarer than new! [60] The feet o * the rain were a-dance at the cross o' the road, As I went by his side ; An' the heart in me danced out o' joy, like the rain, till there glowed The blush that my heart couldn't hide. For I'd promised I'd love an' obey. An' John, that he'd love an' be true. we loved, we were true, an' the gray Of an old love, like an old wine, is richer than new! The sun was bright gold on the mornin' I buried my John, In gray Knockanare; But the rain was deep down in my heart, for I knew he was gone "When the priest said the blessin' an* prayer. [61] Then I promised my John where he lay, That for all the long years I'd be true. I love, I 'm true ; for the gray Of an old love, like an old wine, is stronger than new! [62] THE ROSE GIEL She struggles about in the crowded places, Pauses a moment and proffers one; She heeds not the stare of a thousand faces, But calls out roses till all are gone. Homeward at last when the hot day closes, Her young face clouded with child regret : Sorrow not, maiden, though gone thy roses. Their fragrance lingers about thee yet! [63] MOTHER ERIN 'Tis not rich you are : no jewels shine in your hair; Your face is pinched, macJiree, your hands are bare ; Your voice that rang silver sweet in sun- nier years Is buried deep in your heart — ^below your tears. Your dark eyes search the sea for the sons of your breast Who sailed down Kerry Head away to the West. [64] You watch the rim of the sea till your tired eyes burn, For the men who sailed away, but never return. You're gray, movrone: the wrinkles fret your face; Care has crippled your feet and stolen your grace. How in ages gone you leaped down the ridges green, Your great eyes shining like the stars, my Queen! 'Tis scarred you are from the battles for holy Truth, Which Patrick brought you in your vir- gin youth. [65] You've clung to Truth, with your eyes on Calvary, And mothered the scattered Race of Eternity. We love you, mother machree, for the shames you've borne For the love of shining Truth, all your white flesh torn. We kiss the prints of the lash across your face. Our own dear Erin, mother of the race ! [66] DREAM SONG A mellow sun within the heart when days Are wet and dark; Still fields to wander where the footsteps raise The sleeping lark; Stars flung with lavish hand across the sky; And memories strong Of happy hours, that back in life's dawn lie, When every hedge was sweet with flower and song. [67] A million suns lie just beyond the Mil Where the dream child looks; A million songs in river deeps are still Unsung in books. The heart will pant for heather field and STin And houseless plain: "We sing because we must, like streams that run Down the waste hills to join the misty main. [68] WHEN YOU ARE OLD When you are old, may all your mem- ories Be fragrant of the scent Of holy deeds : pains you have tried to ease, And helping to the spent ; Serene indifference to what gossips tell, More laggard than sloth to herald The shame of one above the clouds who fell From star-height to our world. [69] When you're grown old, God grant your memories be Of justice, gentle speech. White truth and tolerance; vast charity For all men — and for each. [70] LOOKING BACK A wide field and a west wind blowing At Boherana, place of sun and dreams ; And 'tis I that wish this day that I were going Back there where rushes bend to kiss the streams. A heart-ache for the thrush and young clover, Where child feet make rings on the gray dew. [71] One morn to the day, — ^heigh-ho, 'tis over, And all your dreanas won't bring it back to you! [72] A NEW YEAE'S WISH God keep your feet in paths where sounds Of quiet laughter come; Where robins linger longest; where abounds A wealth of green, tree-murmur, in- sect-hum. God keep your heart unruffled when you feel The fret of circumstance, Lest any smallness you may witness steal A tithe of your large sympathy, per- chance. [73] God give you, at the close of day, His heaven ; But not, dear friend, too soon! So much to do, your all has not been given: 'Tis still, dear friend, the early after- noon. [74] EEAPING At dawn, when you awake, a new day given, Rise and make haste to field; perhaps your Heaven Must be achieved before again you sleep. Then be not laggard: this is your day to reap! Stay close to field this morn: accusing years May point to trampled stems and scat- tered ears. [75] Keep up your heart, your harvest still is growing; Then reap this day: ah, tomorrow there's no knowing! Oh, reap, nor count the sheaves ! Some other field May promise to your sickle larger yield. Reward is in the striving, not the gain ; God weighs the love and not the store of grain ! [761 MONA'S MESSAGE The south wind flung her veil of haze across The face of Carrig — silent hill where kings In purple lie below the hoary moss ! Where many a night the priestly ocean sings Sad requiems for a royal dead who hold No kingly council more in halls of gold ! Young Mona, dark-eyed, sailing to the west, "Where lie the fields of plenty, keeps her eyes [77] On fading Ireland, till they fondly rest On Carrig hill. A thousand memories rise For the dear slopes that regal ashes keep, For kingly heads so still in oenturied sleep ! A gull, with waving wings from the far sea Eeturning, floats beside the stately ship. "Dear bird," calls Mona, ''wait and bear for me One last farewell to Ireland, e'er I slip From the sweet embrace of all I love On the fairest earth 'neath the dear God's heaven above! [78] ''0 say to Ireland this for me: 'I give My heart to you,— my young heart torn with grief. The days are bleak, for I can never live One other spring where elders are in leaf. The Night will bring the stars and Dawn the dew. But I'll be exiled from my bright heaven — you ! ' "0 tell my Ireland, gull, 'tis many the time I'll think I hear the hiding meadow- lark Waiting like some mute bard to burst in rhyme. I'll hear the thrush's song at early dark [79] In that far, azure world of his where he Has stars to harken to his minstrelsy. ''I'll see Longh Derrig when the breath of June Wakes gentle laughter on her placid face; When low she whispers of a still, warm noon Sweet words to the green rush that bows with grace To kiss her cooling lips ; when the white swan Dreams on her bosom in mid-summer dawn. * ' The rings of green the romping fairies make Will deck my dream fields when I muse apart. [80] The shamrock, nestling close to earth, will take For dew the tears of my poor home- sick heart. I'll see, all fancy wrapt, the young wheat grow Along the sloping ridges ; then I'll know ''The summer's coming. Happy, happy gull, Fly on and on through violet dusk! Yet hear Me as you go : Ah, many a day the dull Eegret will come to me! Ah, many the tear Will dim my eyes that I can hear no more The dancing feet upon the earthen floor ! [81] ''0 tell my Ireland, bird, going home from sea, Like a brown-faced fisherman unto his mate. That I will yearn for her the years to be. As if some lover, heart-broken, at the gate. Waiting his love until his tired eyes burn: His dead love gone who never will re- turn. "0 say not: other skies are just as blue As hers ; that elsewhere stately rivers flow To music oceanward ; that the gray dew Sweetens a million fields where violets blow! [82] Swift gull, were every land for loveli- ness As famed as heaven, I'd love my own not less." When some sweet song we love has died away "We listen, hearing every note again. So Mona fancies, still dark wings play Wafting the swift gull o'er the misty main. When night at last falls o'er the purple waves She turns from Carrig, hill of kingly graves. [83] TO THE POET Sing us a song for the wide world to hear, Weighted with meaning and moving in time; One with a lilt to it haunting the ear Whose thought billows break on the rock of a rime. Lift us a song like the wave on the reef Bemoaning lost Dead since the ages have rolled; Not long, for the fire of the feeling is brief And the word to express it is rarer than gold. [84] Something not written by pedagogue law With syllables marshalled for critics to scan: Alas for the trifles with hardly a flaw, That never go home to the heart of a man I Sing us a song like the boom of the sea Whose surges have sung with the dawning of time. Sing us a song for the ages to be, And the ages will pardon a lapse in the rime. [85] LINCOLN Son of a rugged soil, a rugged clime, The clamoring small man wearied thee with noise: The clamoring small man, servile of his time, Shook not thy native righteousness, thy poise. God raised thee out among the growing fields, And taught thee strength in cold and torrid sun. [86] No weakling thou who wavers and then yields, And leaves a work of centuries un- done. God gave thee to this nation in the hour Expediency and Eight did beckon thee. Eight was thy portion, and the millions shower Their benediction through the years to be. [87] MOTHER OF ART Thy Raphael dreaming of an earthly face, Inspired of thee, a heavenly beauty sought ; Thy Michaelangelo on marble wrought, And hewed a Moses of heroic grace; Thy sainted Gregory, who mused apace. Heard angel melodies from heaven brought ; Thy Dante in his lonely exile caught The highest message sung of any race. [88] Through all the ages they have learned of thee, The painter, sculptor, singer, poet, — aU Carved on the roll of immortality. These to the inner temple didst thou call Where Thought sits silent in a place apart And gives a life, a meaning, unto Art. [89] IF SORROW COME If Sorrow come and knock upon thy door, Make haste and open to her, though she bring A summons asking the most precious thing Of all thy treasures; e'en though never- more Life wear the roseate splendor once it wore; Though loves be cleft in twain; yea, though she fling [90] Black dark about thee all the day, or sting Thy heart like scorpions to the very core. Christ's feet were bathed by Sorrow at the feast; Sorrow received His blessed features on The dolorous way; she followed Him beside The moonlit sea; beloved of men the least, He loved her best, set her apart as one Worthy to walk beside Him till He died. [91] OUE LADY OF THE DOME Star-crowned, the crescent hung below thy feet, In stormy dark I have beheld thy light Far shining. Then I dreaded not the sight Of haunting shapes that men in darkness meet. [greet Nor yet less glad thy lighted Dome I "When God has flung his jewels o'er the night. When 'neath the young moon, throned in purple height. The June fields, wet with dew, are clover sweet. [92] thou, fair Lady, brighter than all thy stars, Out of thy radiance make my life less dark! 1 do not ask thee morn with rose-red bars Adown the east ; nor dews, nor singing lark. No, only night, and vigil, storm and stress. With thee in thy dear heaven to light and bless! r931 MY PRAYER God of the day, the sleeping world awakes And dawn finds millions on a purpose bent; God of the night, the wasting heat is spent And stars are trembling over breeze- blown lakes; God of the sea, no billow ever breaks On any shore but follows Thy intent; God of the sky, when cloudful and storm-rent. We think of all Thy suffering for our sakes. [94] God over all, a feeble cry is mine; Yet hear in pity as I breathe my prayer : Teach me to fear Thee ever who art just, To call Thee Father, knowing Thee be- nign, To keep Thy image with me every- where. To copy Thee, remembering I am dust. [95] IN HER EXILE Out of my bondage, in the dying day, Heart-worn, I seek the joyless tene- ment; The air is heavy grown with sickening scent Of underworlds. Nowhere a leaf-strewn way, Sun-touched and sweet with song, where children play. Squalor I see ; the blessed twilight rent With strange, deep oaths and cries of discontent j Then over all, a sky of matted gray. [96] But when you come with healing, winged Sleep, You waft me over seas where summer bloom Is on the hedges. Ah, the happy thrush Pipes to the morn, and all the young broods keep Down with the shamrocks nestling in the gloom! I kiss the dewy earth, my heart ahush. [97] THE LEGEND OF THE HAEP They fought a great battle Long, long years ago On the plains of Mag Tured, — That's in Ireland, you know. The De Danaan invaders. With long golden hair. Were fighting the blue-eyed Formorians there. The Formorians were conquered And fled from the fray. But stole a gold harp From the victors away. [98] Then wept the bard Dagda, With locks white as snow: ''What is victory, chieftains, My harp with the foe? ''What is life, my chieftains. When silent is song? What is war when the bard Bears no gold harp along?" Every chief's yellow spear Bright flashed to the moon. And they swore by the harp They would capture it soon. A few chosen warriors Sped into the night With Dagda the harper. And sought for the light, — [99] The light where FormoriaHS Made feast in their hall, And pledged to the harp Where it hung from the wall. Light glimmers : all follow, But pause by the door, And hear the wild pledges They pledge o'er and o'er. Then Dagda, the white-haired. The master of song. Calls aloud to his harp. And it leaps o'er the throng; It leaps to his arms, — The child of his soul; He plucks at the strings And sweet melodies roll. [100] First a low wail of sorrow That wakens up tears: The chieftains are silent, And rest on their spears. Next a wild hymn of gladness ; And many and long Are the shouts of them all 'Neath the spell of that song. Last the bard plucks the strings To music of sleep, And there falls such a calm As the calm on the deep. Every eye waxes heavy, Every head sinks to rest ; Then Dagda steals home, The harp close to his breast. [101] LAUREEN What a time they had to give her a name That would suit such a baby girl ! Some ventured to say they should chris- ten her May, Or Ethna or Grace or Pearl. But auntie spoke up: ''There's a beau- tiful name Of all Irish names the queen; 'Tis the pride of the West in the Isle of the Blest, And the symbol of peace — Laureen." [102] Sure 'tis only a month and a day or two Since the light of the sun she's seen; But after a year, if you walk along here, Take a look at the young Laureen. Faith 'tis big you'll be then, so your mother's arms Will be tired from the weight of you ; But she'll watch you and kiss, and see heaven's bliss In your child-eyes of Irish blue. Yes, you're a wee one now, and your baby feet Can't race o'er the flowery green; But, please God, in a year, if they come around here, You'll be big for your age, Laureen! [103] TO THE HOLY KINGS The sands of the desert were bare to them In the light of the Star that shone; But the desolate land looked fair to them, Nor offered the sign of a care to them, Who wandered their way alone. In the western sky is a light to them, Sending its beams afar. In their hearts is a song; 'tis so bright to them. Ah, 'twill never again be night to them. In the wake of the guiding Star ! [104] Men of the East, we pray to you — Ye Kings of the long ago, — That the Star which shone like the day to you May lead ns the surest way to you Who the King of the Ages know I [105] A LITTLE KINDLY DEED Mary was a little girl about as big as you, And when her birthday came along she wondered what she'd do. Papa gave her money and mamma gave her more: Now, what she was to buy with it she pondered o'er and o'er. With some she thought she'd have a feast for all her little friends. And then with some she'd get a doll and lots of odds and ends ; [106] Whatever was left over — she knew there would be some — Why, that she'd put away, she thought, for rainy days to come. Now, Mary was not selfish, but this is very clear: Of birthdays little girls can have one only in the year. Besides, they always told her it was specially her day; For mamma called her Mary when she came to her in May. At last the wished-for morning dawned, and you should see the sun ! It shone so much more brightly than it e 'er before had done ; [107] And flowers all were nodding salutations in the breeze, And every bird was singing ''Happy birthday!" in the trees. She went to town with mamma to buy ice-cream and cake And oranges and candy, and everything they make Especially for little girls when birth- days come around. Then mamma went off shopping when for Mary she had found The Greek store where the candies were ; there told her to remain And choose her birthday sweets and things till she returned again. [108] There were sixty kinds of candy and thirty kinds of cake, And Mary liked them all so well she knew not which to take. And, then, the ice-cream fountain and the fruits of every hue! She thought it was the sweetest place; and so, I'm sure, would you. But while her blue eyes roved about the splendors of the store, A black-eyed little cripple boy came hob- bling through the door. His face was very pinched and white, and thin and long his hair ; His shoes were old and broken, and patched up here and there. [109] ' '■ I want some fruit for mamma, ' ' he told the waiting man. ' ' I have a nickel ; here it is ; please give me all you can." — ''A nickel, boy! And fruit so high! Your bargain doesn't suit." — ''But mamma's sick, and doctor said she'd have to get some fruit." — ''I'm sorry for your mamma, boy; and sorry, boy, for you; But fruit is very high this year : a nickel will not do." — "Then mamma can't have fruit, I guess. ' ' He wiped away a tear. — "I'm sorry for your mamma, boy; but fruit is high this year." [110] Now Mary was no longer shy, nor gazed about the store, But rushed up to the counter which the poor boy stood before. <'Why, here's my purse of money!" — she forced it in his hand ; ''Just buy your mamma all the fruit and cakes and things so grand ; For, though it is my birthday, we were told the other day It's better give to others than from others take away." He took the purse and looked at her, an angel of the skies. And tears of tender gratitude were streaming from his eyes. [Ill] He thanked her o 'er and o 'er again, then passed through crowded ways With fruit for his sick mother that would last her many days. Now Mary's heart was strangely glad for that sweet, kindly deed. And in her soul a gentle peace was sown like precious seed. But mamma when she heard it all wept silently apart. And took up little Mary's form and held her to her heart. She kissed that rosy face of hers a hun- dred times and more. And called her "Treasure!" "Heart's delight!" and "Dearest!" o'er and o'er. [112] Her birthday was a grand affair, and how her parents smiled Each time they looked at Mary, their own "hearts' delight,'* their child I [113] MARGEEY MAY Yes, dark it is outside on the street, Not a sign of the sun all day; But what do I care and herself over there — The light of me, Margery May ! the rogue you are, with your coaxing smile. So you'll sit on my lap this way! The blue of the skies is alaugh in your eyes — The joy of me, Margery May ! They tell me 'tis like myself you are : To please me they talk that way; [114] But let them be gone with their carrying on — The heart of me, Margery May! Margery, Margery, sun of my life. Yon were sent to me Dolors' Day! Queen of doles seven, from your throne up in heaven, Bless my darling, my Margery May! [115] THE FISHERMAN'S WIFE He clasped her in a fond embrace, — The stars were dying out. She watched for long, and then her face Was clouded o'er with doubt. ''Cold sea," she moaned, ''you take my love For all the lonely day! Dear winds, be calm ! Sweet stars above, Make bright the darksome way!" At eve she went back to the shore : No star was in the sky; Around the rocks the winds made roar, The waves were rolling high. [116] "Ah, cruel sea, that holds my love! And fickle winds to me! Ah, faithless stars, that hide above, Nor light the stormy sea!" Grey dawn: a boat cast far on land,- Men hurry to the place. A woman chafes an icy hand And kisses a white face. [117] LADY DAY IN IRELAND Through the long August day, mantled blue with a sky of Our Lady, They are there at the well from the dawn till the sea birds go home ; And the trees bending down with broad leaves offer spots that are shady. Where the heart is at rest, sighing prayers till the shadows are come. The brown beads and the crucifix pass in procession through fingers That are pale as the snow or are hard- ened from labor and pain. [118] In each Ave they whisper the deep Celtic tenderness lingers, Like a sweet phrase in song that is echoed and echoed again. Marching down the white road with the sun in the noon of his splendor Are the children, with joy in the blue of their innocent eyes ; In their hearts is a song, breaking forth into words that are tender, Unto her with the gold of the stars and the blue of the skies. In the still summer air there's a chorus of minstrelsy breaking. There are flashes of gold with a flutter and waving of wings : [ 119 ] Mary's birds are they, come with, the dawn, all the green woods forsak- ing, Every heart in them breaking for love with the message it brings. Through the calm August day, with Our Lady's blue sky far above them, And beyond the grey mountains where slumbers the Irish green sea, There they speak to her, weep while they pray to her, beg her to love them, Till beyond the bright stars where their home and their treasure shall be. [120] ST. PATRICK'S TREASURE Called son by many lands, Thou art a father unto one. Of all these mothers claiming thee, By honored titles naming thee. We ask : Where is thy priceless birth- right gone? That blessed faith of thine, They mothering thee have sold. But she, thy daughter dutiful. Has kept thy treasure beautiful Through many sorrows in her heart of gold. [121] THE SOUL OP THE SHAMROCK Plucked from her earth at the brink of day, Every leaf a-drip with the mountain dew, What vine can match that emerald hue? What rose is half so sweet as you? Plucked out of Ireland's heart away, Green Shamrock! Beyond the seas by a trembling hand, The leaves are upgathered one by one : The green of their mountain home is gone, [122] And the dew the sunbeams flashed upon, — Is your soul fled home to your own dear land, Brown Shamrock? Yes, your soul is fled home to your Inis Fail, Athirst for the dew of her morning sky I Fled home where the thrush sings wild and high. Where daisies like stars on June fields lie, To roam with the fairies through grove and dale, Sweet Shamrock! Symbol of Erin, 'tis many the one Will be glad to-day at sight of you ! [123] Will muse on the hills their childhood knew, Will kiss your dead leaves for Ire- land, too! And their love will go back where your soul is gone, Dead Shamrock! [124] TO A DEAD PRIEST (M. J. R.) You, laboring long and patiently, Aweary grew at last ; Then sank to rest so silently We scarcely knew you past. Gentle your ways, kindly your heart, You loved the simple things ; In quiet joys you took a part, Nor relished murmurings Of envious spirits; ne'er your tongue An idle gossip told Of any brother. You lived among A few friends made of old. [125] You joyed in summer sun and breeze, And calm of starry sheen, And young Spring clothing all the trees At earliest dawn with green. Men say the dead are all forgot Once they are resting low ; That one short, narrow earthen plot, 'er which wild grasses grow, Hides them from lingering memory. Not all the treasured dead Thus pass and are no more to be ; A few still hear the tread Their footsteps made in days of yore. Their long-loved voices, too. Leave echoes when the song is o'er. Their generous hearts, as true [126] As gold, fire-tried, can never rust. The good that sink in sleep, Their bones may crumble unto dust — Their loves will always keep. You, laboring long and silently, Aweary grew at last ; But here your immortality Is anchored sure and fast. Time and time's dole of pain and fret Are fled like starless night ; But you, grown ever young, have met The Vision and the Light. [127] THE LIGHT OF THEIR LIFE Mother, they lie in the deep, Or out in the wind-swept plains. What matters how long or where they sleep ? The Light of their Life remains. Mother, the Light of their life, They died with their eyes to thee ! What matters how: by rope, by knife? Or sunk in the weedy sea? Mother, thy nameless dead Are abroad in the houseless plains ! But the God of their anguish is over- head And the Light of their Life remains ! [128] THE PERFECT PEACE Tiny hands, a chubby face, Wayward curls no brush can comb; Playing with sand in a sunny place Beyond the gate of a cottage home. Little feet in the shifting sand, Stray not far from the cottage gate ! Follow the wave of the beckoning hand, List to the voice that bids thee wait ! Two blue eyes, so still, so deep, They hide more meanings than the sea. With silent night comes the hush of sleep And tired lids seal the mystery. [129] King on the throne of a mother's breast, Fed on the love of a mother's kiss, Where, but beyond in God's own rest, Is found more perfect peace than this ? [130] THE PERFECT SERVICE God gives us each a little work to do — Oh ! do it with a will ! Nor murmur one regret the whole day through, Because the duty given unto you Seems lowly to fulfill. Whether 'neath torrid sun in harvest field, Amid the yellow grain, You reap and gather in the rich, ripe yield; Whether in forest tall the axe you wield, You labor not in vain. [131] If, buried in the ditches dark and deep, You lift the heavy clay. Repine not ! Night will come and bring you sleep And gentle breathing; and fatigue will keep Disturbing dreams away. Render as perfect service as you can, Heeding not What but How. In God's great mind a king is but a man, Fniing a throne in His eternal plan, A crown upon his brow. No toil is lowly to the mind of God: Singer and king and sage. He with the grimy face, he who must plod, Whose hot sweat drips upon the burning sod, Are paid eternal wage. [1321 Glory forever to the God of Eight Ye toiling sons proclaim! And this your prayer through busy hours of light, And this your dream through silent hours of night — Blessed be His Sacred Name ! [133] KNOCKANARE I know the bogs back in Knockanare : 'Tis lonesome they are, that I'll tell you true; There's ne'er a green bush in miles of the view, Nor a daisy to lift up the heart in you. lonesome, lonesome Knockanare! 'Tis always raining in Knockanare: The mists they hide the sun in the sky, The tears they hide the light in your eye. Ah, 'tis glad you'd be to say good-bye To misty, misty Knockanare ! [134] I know the cabins in Knockanare : The doors are small and the windows few, The roofs are old so the rain comes through, [too. The cold wind moans in the chimneys rainy, rainy Knockanare ! 1 know the people of Knockanare : There's never a smile on a single face. They haven't the airy heart of the race. The light of them dies in the dark of the place. gloomy, gloomy Knockanare ! Poor, wasting hearts back in Knock- anare! Your ears are deaf from the fall of the rain, [135] Your eyes are blind from looking in vain For the smile of the sun in the sky- again, In dreary, dreary Knockanare! But God loves the people of Knock- anare ; Believe what I say, for I tell you true. Their sighs are many, their smiles are few. "Sure God is so good," still they'll answer you, ''To bother at all about Knockanare!" [136] THE HEART OF THE WIND The wind's tread is soft: lie never crushes the lily that blows ; His sandals are sweet with the perfume they lift from the heart of the rose. He eases the fevered pulse, brings bloom to the pallid face; To the toiler hot at the furnace front he carries a grace. In the summer dawn he quickens the meadow lark into song, He shakes the dew from drowsy poppies, sweeping along. [137] When he glides o'er the ripening grain it rolls at his touch like the sea ; The woods are his organ with notes as deep as eternity. He's abroad on the hills at the warm noon hour, when the sun on high Shines like a spotless Host from the altar blue of the sky. He glides along the valleys where violets dream in the shade, Or beats about dark caves with the roll of cannonade. He rushes upon the waters, they leap on the rocks at his lash; Or he bounds away o'er treeless plains at hurricane dash. [138] The heart of the wind? Who knows? To me 'tis a heart that's strange: I've felt its caress as soft as a child's, and seen it change To the rough hand of the man who, weary grown, loves you no more, Who never kisses you now when he bids you good-bye at the door, Nor stops to look back through the mist in his eyes as he used to of yore. The wind's tread is soft as the panther that steals on his prey ; But he changes a thousand times like a wayward child at play. For he will caress you and coax you away to a mountain that 's steep, And then his heart will grow wild and he'll blow you into the deep. [139] Often he speaks in a whisper, and often his voice is a roar; He has saved a million lives, and wrecked a million more. The wind's heart ! I have wooed it long on the houseless plain. And when my head was afire I know it eased my pain, For I caught in its breath the smell of the salt from the rolling main. The wind's heart, like the heart of the world, is working His will : A peace is over it now, to-morrow its roarings may fill The Sea ; but He is abroad on the waters to bid them be still. [140] THE VISION OF THE NIGHT Clouds, like angel wings, sail under the blue, Half revealing angel faces; Stars, like angel eyes, are peering through From the depths of cloudless spaces. They gaze at God in a manger, glory- stripped, A Babe in His Mother's keeping! The crest of His rock-hewn cave is tipped With their light, while the world is sleeping. [ 141 ] And Thou art God, infant-limbed, pa- tiently still. Come out of Thy measureless glory ! And Thou hast lifted us out of the depths, until We seem like the gods of story! Infinite God, made human by infinite love, 4 See the wings of Night outspreading ! See the myriad eyes of Night from their heaven above A golden radiance shedding! [142] THE lEISH JUNE See the daisies shining in fields all over, Hear the young thrush singing! From the meadow near by catch the smell o' the clover That the wind is bringing. Back in the west hear the deep, full river. The heart in him beating. The reeds by the side of him toss and quiver, The breezes greeting. [143] The wheat so tall in the ridges growing Will soon be earing ; And look at the stalks since the April sowing, With their blossoms peering! Now thanks be to God for the blue sky bending So bright above us ! We know from the promising days He 's sending He continues to love us. [144] EARLY MASS IN IRELAND The sloe is on the thorn This holy Sunday morn, The corncrake is hidin' in the grass. There's the bell within the steeple, Sends a message to the people To be kneelin' when the priest begins the Mass. The scythe is pnt away, An' the sun in heaven this day Is gildin' all the meadows that you pass. Hurry through the chapel gates. Sure 'tis God Himself who waits For the people when the priest begins the Mass ! [145] The dew is on the corn This blessed Sunday morn, The daisies dance before me on the grass. How my old heart beats with feelin', 'Tis so full of joy when kneelin' Near the railin' when the priest begins the Mass! Eockin' gently to and fro, Sayin' sweet old prayers I know. On the beads that through my tremblin' fingers pass. Don't ye smUe at me, my dears. If I can 't keep back the tears. Near the railin' when the priest begins the Mass. [146] NOVEMBER Gray is tlie sky this November weather, Dead are the grasses that used to grow. 'Tis bleak, for the wind is about on the heather, With never a tree for a mile or so. But a man can dream when the wind is wailing. And in the hush of it look on high, "Where the troubled clouds down the sky are sailing. Till they vanish out of his life and die. [147] 'Tis tlie dusk of the day, and the night will follow; The rooks for their forest home are bound. Hear the wind 's swish through the hedge in the hollow! Hear the dead leaves whirling round and round! A man has his dreams this November weather, Out in the dusk where the chill winds blow. Sweet is the smell from the heart of the heather — A fragrance remembered from long ago! [148] THE SECOND SPEING Comes the Spring with quickening breath To that lowly place of death Up the crumbling walls the slender ivy creeps ; Every bud has life again, From the healing of the rain, Where he sleeps. Summertime, the thistle blooms In among the tottering tombs. Unseen beneath the weeds the violet keeps ; [149] As the great oaks sway and swing, World-old Eequiems they sing, Where he sleeps. Down among the grasses tall, Saffron leaves in Autumn fall. In the damp 'neath fallen stones the lizard creeps. The tombs are bent and hoary, Time has blotted out their story, Where he sleeps. In the Winter, night winds roll. Like the wailing of a soul That a vision of the Glory vainly seeks. In the sky a murky cloud Hides the pale moon like a shroud. Where he sleteps. [150] Memory goes there all the year, Winter's gloom, or Summer's cheer. Where the thistle blossoms and the liz- ard creeps. Then will come the Second Spring, And the dust will wake and sing Where he sleeps. [151] CREELA BAY 'Tis a mile away to Creela town, Where the river runs beside; And you can watch the seaweed cots Sail up the salty tide. When the wind is fresh of an early hour, With the tang of the ocean gray, Go sailing down from Creela town. And out to Creela Bay. For Creela Bay is blue and deep. With a moaning sea behind ; And beyond the sea, who knows what be, Except the raging wind? [152] Ah, come and stop at Creela town! — 'Tis easy to find the way, — And sit on the hill when the day is still, For the sight of Creela Bay. You'll have a joy for the after years. So you'll stop on the street and say: ' ' 'Tis hot out here, but never you fear, I can dream of Creela Bay. ' ' [153] GOLDEN JUBILEE WISH Fair School, may every golden year that shines In thy bright crown of fifty, symbolize A worthy service; like long-cellared wines, May Time but mellow thee ; may lovely skies Shine over thee in Spring, when all the days Are busy keeping count of peeping buds ; [154] In Summer, when the fitful sunlight plays Across tree shadows in the leafy woods ; In pensive Autumn when the smell of leaves, Late fallen, makes the dreamer's heart beat fast For happy days thick-strewn with memories. And may thy sky be fair when late, at last, Comes Winter, spreading white his shroud of snow. Bright days be thine through seasons still untold, And may thy sunset be of rose and gold! [155] THE CEY OF THE HEAET 'Tis lonesome here and home so far away, — Here on the plains with only memo- ries Of golden days, when like a bird of prey I flew about the hills and caught the breeze. Young was I then, and Sorrow had not doled Her legacy of sighs and heartaches too. I had a father ; he was brave and bold, Yet gentle as your sister is to you. [1561 I had a mother ; she was young and tall, With large, dark eyes. Together we would play Above the daisies; she would sing, and call Each passing bird by name; then she would say Some words about the flowers that come and go In Ireland, but never seem to grow In far-away "Wyoming. Have you sat silent at the close of day And looked across the wide plains all forlorn ? Ah! if you have, there is no need to say All my wild longings when my heart is torn. [157] My father died a-sudden in the field One harvest day : they said 'twas heart disease, As if the knowledge would some comfort yield To her whose widowed heart no tear might ease! A little, and she followed him to God Like some fair flower that droops in summer's sun. And now together 'neath the dark brown sod Of Irish earth they sleep, in death still one; While I, the houseless one, from year to year Follow the free herds of the plains out here In far-away Wyoming! [158] Have yon felt yearning for a father's care? Have you felt thirsting for a mother's tears'? Then you must know, and surely you will share My yearning and my thirsting down the years, Alone out here, where God seems far away, Where the sweet prayers you know are seldom said. Where Sunday seems like any other day, Where the same endless round of life is led. I miss the prayerful greeting when men come, I miss their prayerful parting when they go; [159] 1 hear no Angelus at set of sun Calling the heart to prayer with chim- ing low. Sometimes I say : ' ' Dear Grod, let me die Here where my every breath is like a sigh, In far-away Wyoming ! ' ' I've lain upon the ground a summer night, When every star was leaping in the sky, When the moon softened all the land with light. And dreamed myself at home again. Each sigh Of wind brought back a golden memory From long-lost vistas of my boyhood days. [160] I dreamed tlie daisies shone in front of me, The shamrocks grew beside untrodden ways, Forever faithful and forever green, — The symbol of the race. Then I awoke : The shamrocks and the daisies were un- seen, And all the splendor of the vision broke ! A thousand dreams have stood before my view. To vanish, vanish — never to come true. In far-away Wyoming. "Some day!" my heart pants in its feverish beat; ' ' Some day ! ' ' my eyes say, filled with hopeful tears. [161] ''Some day will turn the exile's wander- ing feet!" Says Memory, looking back across the years. The wheat will all be yellow on the land, The shamrocks will lie close beneath the grass, The tide that scatters seaweed on the strand Will sing "a thonsa^nd welcomes" when I pass. Dear God, to see the green hills of the child, The man prays here upon the houseless wild, In far-away Wyoming I [162] LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 015 906 155 3