UC-NRLF 
 
 B ^ IDD 7ED 
 
illC. rr-'^F!..rY ? mr^ARV 
 
SONGS FROM AN ULSTER VALLEY 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 POETRY 
 
 Selected Poems (1917) 
 
 FICTION 
 
 A Vampire of Sonls (1903) 
 
 The Man with Thirty Live* (1909) 
 
 PHILOSOPHY 
 
 The Pessimist, a study of the problem of pain (1914) 
 A Short History of Celtic Philosophy (In the frets) 
 
 SOCIAL STUDIES 
 
 Unconquerable Ulster (In the firess) 
 Adventures in Ireland (Shortly) 
 
 CHARACTER STUDIES 
 Unknown Immortals (1917) 
 
 PRESS OPINIONS 
 
 The Daily Graphic says : " We begin to appreciate the 
 fantastic genius of the author, and his wonderful insight into 
 the unrevealed." 
 
 " A.E." in the Irish Homestead, says : " Mr. Pirn has been 
 in Arcady." 
 
 The Universe says: "A true artist, whose work it is our 
 privilege and our pleasure to acclaim," 
 
HERBERT MOORE PIM 
 From a painting by R. Ponsonby Staples 
 
SONGS FROM AN 
 ULSTER VALLEY 
 
 BY 
 
 HERBERT MOORE PIM 
 
 « 
 
 LONDON 
 
 GRANT RICHARDS LTD. 
 
 ST. martin's street 
 
 MDCCCCXX 
 
?f<u>- 
 
 PREFACE i'i'ZO. 
 
 As I -svrite I have before me a folio volume of typed 
 poems bearing my name, which has never been published, 
 and which I sincerely hope may never be published. 
 Indeed, it is my intention to present it as a burnt offering 
 to the High Muses on some suitable occasion. I have 
 also within reach of my hand sufficient verse to prove me 
 a poet, if sheer bulk were the test of merit. But I have 
 gone through this mass of verse, written in early 
 youth, and have rejected all, save three pieces, 
 Memento Mori, Child Rowland, and To a Mother. , 
 From the poems written in later years, I have selected 
 those which seem to be worthy of selection. This ex- 
 planation will serve to show on what principle the 
 present edition of collected poems has been formed. 
 
 Though I had been writing verse for twenty-five years, 
 I offered none of my poems to the public until 1917, 
 when a rather exquisite edition was produced at his own 
 risk by a Dublin publisher. To his surprise and my own 
 the entire edition of five hundred copies was sold out 
 within two months. But as the sale of this first poetical 
 venture was confined to Ireland, I have hopes that the 
 present collected edition may be as kindly received. 
 
 HERBERT MOORE PIM. 
 
 DUNMUBRY. 
 
 5 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Poems — 
 
 A Madrigal : p. 11 
 
 In Pace : p. 11. 
 
 A Dream of Great Poets : 
 
 p. 12. 
 A Pagan Hymn : p. 23. 
 The Hymn to Aphrodite : 
 
 p. 25. 
 To Ireland : p. 25. 
 An Ulster Lyric : p. 26. 
 Derriaghy Chapel-of- 
 
 Ease : p. 27. 
 Memento Mori : p. 28. 
 A Love Letter : p. 29. 
 Charles Stewart Parnell : 
 
 p. 30. 
 Casus Conscientiae : p. 32. 
 Questions : p. 33. 
 The Call : p. 33. 
 Ode to Uncertainty : 
 
 p. 34. 
 To My Old Nurse : p. 35. 
 To a Mother : p. 37. 
 A County Down Lyric : 
 
 p. 38. 
 
 Sonnets — 
 
 Amorosa Mia : p. 45. 
 A Promise : p. 45. 
 
 Italy : p. 46. 
 
 To-day and To-morrow : 
 
 p. 47. 
 Release : p. 47. 
 The Song of Silence : 
 
 p. 48. 
 Leander to Hero : p. 49. 
 A Poet's End : p. 49. 
 A Miltonic Sonnet : 
 
 p. 50. 
 Very Early in the Morn- 
 ing : p. 51. 
 The Wine of Love : 
 
 p. 51. 
 With Beauty for a 
 
 Shield: p. 52. 
 To a Dead Nobleman : 
 
 p. 53. 
 A Shakespearian Sonnet : 
 
 p. 53. 
 
 One of Thine Agonies : 
 
 p. 54. 
 A Welcome : p. 55. 
 To One Beloved : p. 55. 
 De Profundis Clamavi : 
 
 p. 56. 
 De Retour : p. 57. 
 Laus Amoris : p. 57. 
 
Sonnets {continued) — 
 
 Of the Great War : p. 58. 
 Fort Augustus : p. 59. 
 Unutterable Woe : p. 59 
 
 Miscellaneous Pieces — 
 
 The Ballad of Brother 
 
 Death : p. 63. 
 The Ballad of Saint 
 
 Peter of Alcantara : 
 
 p. 65. 
 
 The Ballad of Derry: 
 
 p. 67. 
 The Ballad of the 
 
 Famine Martyrs : 
 
 p. 70. 
 Patraic and the Gael : 
 
 p. 71. 
 Child Rowland : p. 85. 
 Twilight Farm : p. 92. 
 Of Such is the Eangdom 
 
 of Heaven : p. 93. 
 A Night in May : p. 94. 
 
POEMS 
 
A MADRIGAL 
 
 Sad, fretful wind 
 Thou art unkind, 
 Rushing to shroud 
 Our moon with cloud. 
 This Autumn night, 
 Chilly and white, 
 She eyes the com 
 But newly shorn. 
 Harvest should hold 
 Amber and gold 
 In field and sky. 
 So tell us why, 
 Sad, fretful wind. 
 Thou art unkind. 
 
 IN PACE 
 
 He sleeps his long, sure sleep at home : 
 No screeching shell may wake him now. 
 Through years of warfare he has come, 
 Yet warfare has not laid him low. 
 
 Most lovely is his resting-place : 
 Upon a gentle hill he lies ; 
 While at his feet twin rivers trace 
 Their pathways 'neath his Ulster skies. 
 
 The rooks make curious melody, 
 And all the air is full of song ; 
 
 11 
 
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, 
 For Spring is here, and days are long. 
 
 Ye': d=i3'S for him have had their end ; 
 And nights for him are dark no more. 
 It matters not though Summer spend 
 The riches of her magic store, — 
 
 With beauty round him for a shroud 
 He sleeps most wondrously at ease. 
 It matters not though long and loud 
 The wind roar through his sheltering trees,- 
 
 For him the storms of earth are still ; 
 For him all wars have closed in peace. 
 He sleeps upon a holy hill. 
 And may not wake till Time shall cease. 
 
 A DREAM OF GREAT POETS 
 
 Ere Time has cut the knot of misery 
 
 Which holds us bound to this confused scheme, 
 
 With them that are immortal I would be. 
 
 To dream with them of beauty, — yea, to dream 
 
 Until all glorious things that eyes may see 
 
 Should be lit up by that celestial gleam 
 
 Which pours on loveliness, when genius knows 
 
 The meanest flower on earth made fairer than the rose. 
 
 Come ye sad, splendid lovers to this Earth, 
 And make our soil thrice blessM with your feet. 
 Yea, come to us and claim a kingly seat 
 
 12 
 
Where once you suffered. Put away the dearth 
 
 That withers up all growing, gentle things. 
 
 Come to this Earth again, and you shall reign as kings ! 
 
 How shall false pleading lure you from your thrones ? 
 
 You who have looked on Falsehood in the face, 
 
 And measured man's ingratitude, whose groans 
 
 May still be heard from out each resting-place 
 
 Where your thoughts sleep. How shall a race of drones 
 
 Entice you from the splendour of all space. 
 
 And charm you to an earthly life again. 
 
 Where miseries abound, and love is wed to pain ? 
 
 Were I your only kindred drawing breath 
 
 I should keep silence, and pass on alone, 
 
 A riddle for all littleness, till death 
 
 Should waft me to the meadows you have known 
 
 So long in Heaven. But our wisdom saith : 
 
 Your kindred live, and Beauty shall atone 
 
 For all you suffered in a rebel world. 
 
 Beauty shall triumph now ; and Truth's flag float unfurled. 
 
 And as you live on Earth and dwell in Heaven, 
 
 So men who breathe may see you to the soul ; 
 
 For now the fragile garment that was whole 
 
 Lies tattered, while you stand more beauteous even 
 
 Than when you dwelt among us ; for your tears 
 
 In skies unseen by men are set as glittering spheres. 
 
 No hand can harm you now, no frown dismay ; 
 You stand untouched by evil things or hate. 
 For you the night has brightness like the day ; 
 And from the tower of a jewelled gate 
 
 13 
 
You tutn the gentlest eyes in Heaven away 
 From one pale star with sorrow for her mate, 
 Where once, in what seem endless years ago. 
 You drank the wine of pain and ate the fruit of woe. 
 
 Hearken ! My voice may reach you where you stand I 
 These words have wings : their language is your own. 
 Though you be servitors at God's right hand. 
 And glow with love before His awful throne, 
 Beauty the vault of Heaven may command ; 
 For Truth is Beauty. These make Beauty known ; 
 And (iod is altogether beautiful ; 
 
 So throb to Heaven these thoughts of which my heart 
 is full ! 
 
 Dante, most strange of lovers, we have loved 
 
 One Beatrice together. She is mine. 
 
 My love was boyhood's love ; and so was thine. 
 
 Yours were the words which first my child-heart moved. 
 
 And lonely, among terrors, I have gone 
 
 Up to Hell's gate with you, and read the sign thereon. 
 
 Thou wondrous soul, thou splendid messenger. 
 
 Who bearest the sad tidings of the dead, 
 
 Who passed unharmed through Hades to confer 
 
 Thy beauty on a world all perished ; 
 
 Yet not all perishM, for see, there stir 
 
 Great lights among the shadows ; we are led 
 
 To where the noblest of the Greeks may move 
 
 As Hellas knew them once in Academe and grove. 
 
 Thou who hast seen the Poetess of God, 
 The Mother of our Lord, Immaculate, 
 
 14 
 
Thou earnest to me ere my feet had trod 
 The road which leadeth to her blessed state, 
 Before the stripes from many a fearful rod 
 Had scarred me in the struggle for high fate. 
 Et exultavit spiritus she sang, 
 Beatum me dicent down through the ages rang. 
 
 She is thy Mother, splendid Florentine, 
 And to her feet thy song hath carried thee. 
 Stella Matutina shall ever be 
 Mother of all high poets and of mine- 
 Yea, she hath surely fondled Sophocles, 
 And gazed on him with love beneath eternal trees. 
 
 Out of sad Hell and Limbo shall I lead 
 
 All those great souls whom you have stationed there. 
 
 Gaze upon them. These are of Heaven indeed. 
 
 They have bought peace with misery and care. 
 
 They held but Truth and Beauty for a creed ; 
 
 And even the holiest justice could not bear 
 
 To starve them of their Maker's majesty. 
 
 In Heaven they must dwell : in Hell they cannot be. 
 
 You who have walked in darkness and despair. 
 
 You who have slept with sorrow for a mate, 
 
 Shall you condemn to wander anywhere 
 
 Save in God's light the highest of the great ? 
 
 Theirs is a song whose melodies repair 
 
 The ruin sin hath fashioned in our state. 
 
 Thou tenderest heart in all fair Tuscany, 
 
 Speak from High Heaven and say they are with thee ! 
 
 15 
 
' ' The curfew tolls the knell of parting day ; 
 
 The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea," — 
 
 Turn to me, Gray, for I would speak with thee. 
 
 Thou knowest in thine heart what I would say. 
 
 Thine was the first majestic song I sang. 
 
 While all the day was glad, and night with music rang. 
 
 Gray, it is he whom thou hast learned to love 
 To whom I turn my gaze in gratitude. 
 Though through these lines a magic power should move, 
 Beside his glory they are dull and rude ; 
 For he died young, and youth alone can prove 
 The perfect form, the splendid amplitude. 
 From thy heart's own complete simplicity 
 Thy glory, Keats, was formed before Time dulled thine 
 eye. 
 
 How often have I sighed for southern skies. 
 
 And tuned my sighs to thine ! How often, too, 
 
 Has there passed on before my wondering eyes, 
 
 Brushing from freshest thyme the morning dew, 
 
 A heifer meetly garbed for sacrifice. 
 
 " Most musical of mourners, mourn anew ! " 
 
 Thou jewel in the crown of poesy, 
 
 O Adonais, hear, for I would speak with thee ! 
 
 There, by thy side I see him ! It is he. 
 Who in his life once trod quite unafraid 
 The farthest path of space which God has made. 
 Tiiou hast thy friend for all eternity. 
 Shelley, strange child of beauty and despair, 
 Thou art triumphant now. No pain may reach you, 
 there, 
 
 16 
 
Why have we spent ourselves in vain dispute 
 
 For power, principalities, and dust ? 
 
 The muses called to us, and we were mute, 
 
 Although we held the Beautiful in trust. 
 
 Folly may answer for us. Take thy lute, 
 
 And play to me new music, when a gust 
 
 From Heaven's breezes may entice your song 
 
 Down to this weary Earth where tired man lives too long. 
 
 Sorrow was needful for thy fashioning ; 
 
 But folly was the bane which made thee sad. 
 
 With sorrow in remembrance thou art glad. 
 
 Thou hast shed folly like an evil thing. 
 
 And now I see thee perfect as the dawn 
 
 Upon a world from which all sorrow has withdrawn. 
 
 Thou champion of weakness, call for me 
 
 That saddest child of " unfulfilled renown," 
 
 Chatterton, martyr for high poesy. 
 
 Ah, boy ! This would a fellow singer own : — 
 
 WTien I lay locked in dull captivity 
 
 "Within a house of thieves, to me alone 
 
 Thou camest in the prison's gloom, and said : — 
 
 " My love, my love is dead, and gone to his death bed." 
 
 Thy soul is " whiter than the morning sky ; " 
 Yea, it is " whiter than the evening cloud," 
 Thou art secure from grim adversity ; 
 And though the world have praises long and loud 
 For greater songs than thine, yet misery 
 Has wrought a throne before which kings have bowed. 
 That throne is thine. Come to our Earth again. 
 In triumph shall you walk where once you passed in pain, 
 B 17 
 
Milton ! thy sombre day on Earth quite failed 
 
 To dull thy spirit. Yet thou art for me 
 
 No mighty voice that thunders prophecy ; 
 
 For on the winged sonnet thou hast sailed 
 
 Where none may reach thee. Dignity sublime 
 
 Incarnate hast thou made in this most perfect rhyme. 
 
 I see the eyes that looked on Lycidas 
 
 Rise trembling from thy page in wonderment. 
 
 Most wonderful of mourners, who can pass 
 
 The beauty which alone thy pen hath lent 
 
 To trees eternal and unwithering grass, 
 
 When, in L' Allegro, thou wert well content 
 
 To brush aside the " twisted eglantine," 
 
 Ere darkness fell on thee, and made thee half divine. 
 
 lord of epic, I have loved thee best 
 When thou wert wed unto simplicity. 
 
 As for the world, — I give them all the rest ; 
 
 But claim the unexampled majesty 
 
 Of thy most perfect sonnets. For the test 
 
 Of thy true greatness in this form shall be. 
 
 AVhen I am dead, of thee one boon I crave : — 
 
 jMay I your sonnets bear with me beyond the grave. 
 
 1 see that thou hast company indeed ! 
 For Wordsworth is thy friend eternally. 
 When came his wondrous spirit unto thee 
 
 With childlike heart ? I hear thine answer speed 
 To me through space : — " His coming was the morn 
 Of his own life on Earth, when his first song was born." 
 
 18 
 
Divested of unworthiness you stand, 
 
 Truest of singers, Wordsworth. You are now 
 
 Able without an effort to command 
 
 The youth you claimed to lose. And Beauty's bow 
 
 Shall never tremble in your tireless hand. 
 
 Sower of songs, when you went forth to sow, 
 
 Some seed on stony ground grew but to die ; 
 
 But some an hundred-fold has graced thy husbandry ! 
 
 With thee a soul I see whose Damozel 
 Leaned weeping on the golden bar of Heaven. 
 She weeps no more. With her all things are well ; 
 And from her grave his beauties were raised, even 
 Though round those words was weaved the golden spell 
 Of her dead locks.* Indeed, the stars were seven 
 Which lit corruption's labour ; while grim Death 
 Guarded those songs to which your pen had given breath. 
 
 Thou hast thy place with greatness for the love 
 Thou gavest beauty. Who shall now deny 
 That thou art meetly in the company 
 Of those majestic melodists who move 
 Before the face of Gk)d in Paradise ? 
 Rossetti, I can see God's beauty in your eyes. 
 
 And there is Poe. I see him, chastened still 
 By suffering in a world unmade for him. 
 
 * Rossetti, broken hearted at the death of his wife, buried the 
 only existing MS. of his poems with her in the grave. His friends 
 persuaded him, many years after, to obtain the consent of the Home 
 Secretar}' for the opening of the grave. His wife's hair had grown 
 and twined about the poems. 
 
 19 
 
Distract him not ; for now he has his fill 
 Of sute repose. Where all was drab and dim, 
 Now all is light. Dull canker may not kill 
 A soul which gazeth on the Seraphim. 
 Thou solitary poet from a land 
 
 Mammon-devoured, at last in Heaven's streets you 
 stand ! 
 
 Thou art well linked with Coleridge, I perceive, 
 Strange, disappointed, and half-fettered one. 
 Though he would nurture grief, he may not grieve. 
 Because for him rejoicing is begun. 
 Though he would walk in mists, he may not leave 
 A land which needs no brightness from the Sun. 
 See ! he has closed his eyes in " holy dread." 
 'Tis many days since he " on honey dew hath fed." 
 
 And now he drinks the " milk of Paradise " 
 
 In place of the dull poison of the world. 
 
 How changed a cup. Once slumbrous vapour curled 
 
 Through his God-given soul. He paid a price 
 
 Too heavy for all human flesh to bear. 
 
 Now has he rest and song and beauty everywhere. 
 
 Who Cometh as a herald for the Sun ? 
 Who passeth thus before Song's Emperor ? 
 Marlowe — I know thee. Thou alone art one 
 In form with him whose glory shall confer 
 Even glory upon Heaven. Lightnings run 
 To herald him. My vision cannot err. 
 Marlowe, he owes to thee his perfect form. 
 Thy lute is manifest in all his music's storm. 
 
 20 
 
And he is here ! I bow me at his feet. 
 Thou perfect and unstained majesty, 
 Most beautiful, most lovely, most complete. 
 Thou seer of seers, whose god-like destiny 
 Cast to the winds oblivion's winding-sheet. 
 The brightness of thy glory blinds mine eye. 
 Shakespeare, thou wondrous lord of poesy, 
 Can it indeed be true that now I gaze on thee ? 
 
 " 'Gainst death and all oblivious enmity " 
 Hast thou paced forth with beauty for a shield. 
 
 Shakespeare, turn, if thou wilt speak to me. 
 And what thou sayest shall not be revealed. 
 
 " The rest is silence " ; for eternity 
 Will be no whit too long when truth unsealed 
 Lies clear at last. Though I am dazzled now. 
 If thou wilt speak to me, my secrecy I vow. 
 
 " Yes, Falstaff is a wondrous, glorious man. 
 
 1 thought of that. You hid the sonnet there ? 
 No. I shall keep that secret, as a fan 
 
 Hides a fair face. And Edgar's song — you stare. 
 Where had I found it ? Ah, you greatest man, 
 I have a secret too ! Is that not fair ? 
 
 And you were Yes. I thought so. Every page 
 
 Says that the Creed you held was older than your age." 
 
 " I know you now. So to the world I'll say . 
 
 What I Must I keep your silence ? Well, thy will 
 Is mine for ever and a — holiday ! 
 You tell me that of praise you've had your fill ; 
 And that you long to sweep the tribe away 
 Who fatten on your name, and work you ill. 
 
 21 
 
I know thee now, most human of us all : — 
 We see thee best within Dick's Madrigal." 
 
 And who is this with thee ? Can eye believe 
 That this is Homer ? Greatness is a child ! 
 Unless thou wert a child, how couldst thou weave 
 Such tapestries of song ? All undefiled 
 Must be a poet's heart. This I perceive. 
 And this is Homer, innocent and mild. 
 Homer ! Thou poet-dreamer unsurpassed. 
 Into thy splendid care I give my song at last. 
 
 Now is the trinity of song complete ; 
 
 For Virgil stands with Shakespeare at thy side ! 
 
 How shall an earthly bard with music greet 
 
 So fair a vision ? Centuries divide 
 
 Your glory in the world. Yet is it meet 
 
 That you should move, for ever sanctified. 
 
 And with the voice of seraphim repeat 
 
 A perfect song, a heavenly litany. 
 
 The vision groweth dim . . . Oh, Virgil, speak to me ! 
 
 Virgil ! ere these world-eyes shall lose thy form, 
 
 Look upon me, and tell me by what spell 
 
 Of holy words thou didst encompass Hell, 
 
 And lead down pious ^neas through a storm 
 
 Of furies to the deeps where Pluto reigns, 
 
 To seek a father's soul across the Stygian plains. 
 
 I know thou speakest, though I cannot hear . . . 
 Gone are the forms of Heaven from mine eye ; 
 Gone are the words of Heaven from mine ear : — 
 Passed quite away, and faded utterly. 
 
 22 
 
Now is the world about me pale and drear ; 
 The forest makes a murmur like the sea ; 
 The sky is clothed with clouds most menacing ; 
 Yet still within my soul the bells of beauty ring. 
 
 A PAGAN HYMN 
 
 Beauty may mock when we are dumb, 
 And joy find us expressionless, 
 And passion clothe us like a dress, 
 When words, for calling, will not come. 
 
 Sing dirges to the waning moon, 
 
 And hymn the dawn with due lament ; 
 
 While silence holds the firmament 
 
 Thou shalt not draw forth rhyme or rune. 
 
 Catch the sea spray upon your lips, 
 And glut your eyes on surge and swell. 
 And let tempestuous voices yell 
 In frenzy for the death of ships. 
 
 Spread the calm waters like a sheet 
 Of burnished copper to the West : 
 Make Evening's glory manifest, 
 And feel day's dying pulses beat. 
 
 Watch the new opened eyes of heaven 
 Gaze calmly on a warring world. 
 And see the lips of Saturn curled. 
 Most ominous of the Sacred Seven. 
 
 23 
 
Call dreams to fill your slumbering brain ; 
 Lay scroll and pen beside your bed ; 
 Walk pleasant meadows with the dead, 
 Andfclaim secession of your pain. 
 
 Struggle no more ; but wait thine hour, 
 And grasp the gift that hour must bring ; 
 So shall the bells of beauty ring, 
 And whispers pass from flower to flower. 
 
 And when the moon hath climbed her throne 
 Lead forth thy beauty to the hills, 
 Follow some rivulet which fills 
 A lake with lilies overgrown. 
 
 Then stand upon the weedy brim, 
 And let the silent waters show 
 The secret which your soul would know ; 
 And chant the Danann's ancient hymn, 
 
 To lure from out the glittering deep 
 Love's ultimate reflected light. 
 Then get you gone into the night, 
 And pass unto the gates of sleep. 
 
 24 
 
THE HYMN TO APHRODITE 
 
 Though we must till the fields of Death, 
 And reap the harvest Life hath sown, 
 Yet have we Beauty for our own, 
 And Love until our latest breath. 
 
 Ask from the vagrant air a sign, 
 And garner wisdom from the fields ; 
 Our wondrous Mother gladly yields 
 The words that make her sons divine. 
 
 None is too mean to lack a friend, 
 Nor poor enough to die unloved. 
 There are no hearts but may be moved : 
 Beauty shall conquer in the end ! 
 
 TO IRELAND 
 
 I TREAD the ground that felons tread. 
 And sleep within a house of thieves ; 
 High is my window, hard my bed ; 
 But whoso loves thee never grieves. 
 
 Men stole me from my liberty, 
 And swiftly, as a spider weaves, 
 They set their snares to compass me ; 
 But whoso loves thee never grieves. 
 
 They came in scarlet and in gold, 
 And said : — ^" The man is wise who leaves 
 
 25 
 
His native land when he is told ! " 
 But whoso loves thee never grieves. 
 
 Thus felony and honour blend ; 
 
 The weeds are garnered with the sheaves. 
 
 Hell upon earth shall have its end, 
 
 So whoso loves thee never grieves. 
 
 AN ULSTER LYRIC 
 
 O LET not night 
 End love's delight ; 
 For beauty's sake 
 No parting make ; 
 But stay with me 
 Eternally. 
 
 The stars are wise : 
 Go read their eyes, 
 And you shall find 
 Their counsel kind : — 
 That from my heart 
 You should not part. 
 
 The trees implore 
 Around our door : — 
 Stay here, nor go ; 
 We love you so ; 
 And we shall keep 
 Watch while you sleep. 
 
 26 
 
This flower-lit grove 
 Is full of love : 
 The very wind 
 To us is kind, 
 And every moon 
 Bringeth a boon. 
 
 Strange forest things 
 Do flash their wings, 
 And stir the night 
 For love's delight. 
 Stay but with me 
 And you shall see. 
 
 DERRIAGHY CHAPEL-OF-EASE 
 
 Strange place of prayer 
 Upon a hill, 
 Where feet are rare, 
 And song-birds fill 
 Your sheltering trees 
 With melodies ; 
 And mountain folk 
 Their God invoke 
 On Holy Days, 
 And the Priest prays 
 And says the Mass, 
 While six days pass 
 And see your door 
 Opened no more. 
 
 27 
 
From the dark years 
 Alone you came 
 With penal fears 
 To shroud your fame. 
 Weak and afraid 
 Your people prayed, 
 For twice a foe 
 Had laid you low. 
 Yet still you stand, 
 For bigot's hand 
 Shall nevermore 
 Assail your door 
 With blows and flame 
 In Christ's fair Name. 
 
 MEMENTO MORI 
 
 Darkness blinds my vision now, 
 Wraps my soul in black despair. 
 As in agony I bow, 
 Yielding tribute of a prayer. 
 
 Thoughts of peace and plenty lost 
 Drift in endless, grim array ; 
 And I dare not count their cost 
 Else life's ransom I should pay. 
 
 Stillness softly calls to me ; 
 Rest lays down her weary head'; 
 For the land, across the sea, 
 Claims me one among the dead. 
 
 28 
 
A LOVE LETTER 
 
 All partings make for joy if love be true ; 
 And for us both love's bliss is ever new ; 
 
 Therefore our partings should be beautiful. 
 How may we meet unless I part from you. 
 
 When you are all alone believe me there ; 
 For love gives power over earth and air ; 
 
 So while you sleep I shall caress your cheek, 
 And twine my fingers softly in your hair. 
 
 And while you walk abroad I shall be near 
 
 To hear your laughter, or to dry your tear. 
 
 Unseen I shall protect your innocence ; 
 
 And when you call me I shall surely hear. 
 
 If I enchained myself in servitude. 
 
 And did your bidding, not as one who wooed, 
 
 But gave my will and all my life to you. 
 Would it repay your heart's beatitude ? 
 
 How shall I value this unwavering love. 
 And all the measure of your goodness prove ? 
 I have drained many treacherous chalices ; 
 But from your cup my parched lips shall not move. 
 
 Most perfect child, whose passionate, good heart 
 Beats ever for me, who shall tell a part 
 
 Of all the virtue which your soul enshrines ? 
 Music is silent ; impotent is art. 
 
 29 
 
Shall words enclose celestial communings ? 
 Or sound recall a passing angel's wings ? 
 
 How much less shall my art suffice to show 
 The rapture which to me your presence brings ? , 
 
 I 
 
 CHARLES STEWART PARNELL 
 
 A STRONG man wrestling with his fate, 
 A giant towering to the gods, 
 Stricken about his feet with rods, 
 
 And risen in his wrath — too late. 
 
 We watched him as men watch the sun 
 
 Rising in majesty of flame ; 
 
 We mourned him as he sank in shame, 
 When only half his life had run. 
 
 Can greatness vanish from the world ? 
 
 Can hatred blot the fairest name ? 
 
 Can envy write eternal shame 
 Upon a pennon that is furl'd ? 
 
 The strongest have their hour of sin : 
 'Tis oftentimes their very strength 
 That brings them to their death at length 
 
 'Tis oftentimes the weak who win ! 
 
 And he who in the blaze of day, 
 
 Staggering beneath a nation's cheers, 
 By very greatness moved to tears. 
 
 Has the more need of peace to pray. 
 
 30 
 
For greatness is a fatal gift — 
 
 A prize that loads its bearer down, 
 A heavy burden of renown, 
 
 A golden anchor that may drift. 
 
 Dirt upon drab is seldom seen ; 
 
 But when it stains the brighter tints, 
 It jars upon the eye, and prints 
 
 A scandal for the small and mean. 
 
 'Tis greatness that makes weakness great, 
 That writes sin large before mankind, 
 That almost forces men to bind 
 
 The fallen with strong cords of hate. 
 
 We loathe another's infamy ; 
 
 But love to sin ourselves, unseen. 
 And draw a fair, bejewelled screen 
 
 Between our vices and the sky. 
 
 Say, are our lives so full of bliss 
 That we can spare to suffer pain ? 
 Is life so long that there is gain 
 
 In torturing what we should kiss ? 
 
 Why add a measure to the grief 
 
 That makes our fellow-mortals writhe ? 
 Why lend assistance to the scythe 
 
 That mows us down past all belief ? 
 
 Great ones we carry to their grave 
 
 With noble pomp and darkened grief ; 
 Believe me, it is past belief, 
 
 That we should kill an one so brave ! 
 
 31 
 
CASUS CONSCIENTI^ 
 
 There is love in your laugh ; 
 There is love in your tears. 
 
 tell me but half 
 That the wonderful years 
 Have writ in your heart ; 
 Of the hearts that have bled 
 With anguish and smart 
 For a word left unsaid. 
 
 And that word was for me ; 
 And for me you were made. 
 With the world you were free, 
 But with me were afraid. 
 For you smiled as you came 
 To your kingdom at last ; 
 Yet the sound of my name 
 Drew forth dread of the past. 
 
 You were fashioned for love ; 
 
 1 was moulded for pain. 
 It were wisdom to prove 
 That our love is in vain. 
 Yet we parted to find 
 
 A safe path for our feet ; 
 And if fate be unkind 
 We shall nevermore meet. 
 
 But we live for one day ; 
 And we love unreproved ; 
 And we hope and we pray 
 For an hour when, unmoved 
 
 32 
 
By the wisdom of men 
 Or the anger of Grod, 
 I shall clasp you again 
 On the path we once trod. 
 
 QUESTIONS 
 
 Say, when you come to this sad, crooked world, 
 
 All unexpectant of its many ills. 
 
 Opening your eyes upon man's squalidness, 
 
 And nurtured in the aftermath of war, — 
 
 Shall you ask of us what we called you for, 
 
 And why we gave to you so strange a dress ? 
 
 Or when you see glad sunlight on the hills. 
 
 And, by the twilight, day's fair banner furled, 
 
 Or gaze at clouds by warm winds tossed and curled, 
 
 Shall you be thankful that two human wills 
 
 Shrank not away from love's remote distress ? 
 
 Say, do you come to blame or come to bless, 
 
 And shall this cup hold peace which fortune fills ? 
 
 THE CALL 
 
 Come, scatter all your sorrows with the dawn, 
 And float upon those winds that Eastward blow j 
 For lo I the hands of darkness are withdrawn, 
 And dayspring's eyes are sparkling and aglow. 
 
 Come to the secret spaces of the woods. 
 And hear the music that our dryads make ; 
 
Or seek some haunted spot where sunshine floods, 
 And learn to live alone for beauty's sake. 
 
 Forget the dusty labyrinths of men, 
 And wreathe a dance with us who never die ; 
 Come as a child, or be a child again ; 
 And in our land no tear shall fill your eye. 
 
 ODE TO UNCERTAINTY 
 
 O Goddess whose unnumbered worshippers 
 
 Fill all the world, and people the pale sky, 
 
 Your shrines are everywhere : the ether stirs 
 
 Perpetually with low lament and cry 
 
 Ascending to your never-listening ears. 
 
 Even Olympus stoops to sacrifice ; 
 
 And all the gods have given you of their prayers ; 
 
 You are the deity of hopes and fears ; 
 
 Life and the grave are yours, and Paradise ; 
 
 Yet none in Heaven or Hell your habit wears. 
 
 Apollo was your client when he wooed 
 His false Cassandra ; and from Pluto's throne 
 Kore gave supplication when she viewed 
 Demeter wandering upon earth alone. 
 Yet you have many lovers : — Ares claims 
 Your tremulous lips ere he goes forth to war ; 
 Helios delights you when he robes in cloud ; 
 And Dionysus leaves his Bacchic games, 
 Descends to greet you from his triumph-car ; 
 And while he sleeps you spin his funeral shroud. 
 
 84 
 
Each absent lover is your minister ; 
 
 And each unsentenced captive is a priest 
 
 Tending your altar, pleading in his prayer 
 
 By liberty or death to be released. 
 
 O Goddess merciful and merciless, 
 
 Whose heart is cold, yet ever seeming warm, 
 
 Whose eyes search all men's souls, and yet are blind, 
 
 Whose unheard voice can neither curse nor bless ; 
 
 Who shall escape the magic of your charm 
 
 Which makes men hope that cruelty is kind ? 
 
 TO MY OLD NURSE 
 
 In infancy 
 It seemed to me 
 I could possess 
 No happiness 
 So wonderful, 
 So warm with love. 
 As I could find 
 When we would wind 
 Through wondrous lanes 
 And wide demesnes, 
 Past fall and mill 
 And stiles and hill 
 To reach your door. 
 And pause before 
 We raised the latch 
 Beneath the thatch ; 
 And waiting found 
 Your mother gown'd 
 In ancient clothes, 
 
 85 
 
While starched caps rose 
 In layers round 
 Her brow, and crowned 
 A wrinkled face 
 Compassed with lace. 
 So sweet she was 
 That I would pause — 
 With heart content, 
 With merriment, 
 With a whole day 
 In which to play — 
 To stand and stare 
 At sight so rare. 
 Now she is gone ; 
 And yet upon 
 The same old fire, 
 I still admire, 
 The kettle sings. 
 And the tea-things 
 Are set for me ; 
 Or I can see 
 The old broth pot 
 With cheer so hot ; 
 While overhead 
 The rafters spread . . . 
 With the same grace 
 You take her place ; 
 And it is I 
 Who bring a shy 
 And happy boy 
 To taste the joy 
 Which may be found 
 The whole world round 
 
 36 
 
Only for me 
 In the country. 
 And thus we come 
 To share your home, 
 And let you know 
 We love you so. 
 
 TO A MOTHER 
 
 Make his childhood naught but joy. 
 Spend your love without recall, 
 Let the voice of " virtue " fall 
 Softly on your baby boy. 
 
 Teach his tiny hands to weave 
 While he yet remains to thee. 
 All that's strong and fair and true 
 For his splendid destiny. 
 
 Let him not usurp a place 
 
 As a priceless ornament ; 
 
 But with wisdom and with grace 
 
 Build a home of true content. 
 
 Shield him from the cruel air 
 Of life's sin and misery ; 
 Keep his feet from every snare ; 
 Of his thoughts retain the key. 
 
 Let one holy spot on earth 
 Claim his heart if he should roam ; 
 
 37 
 
So the hour that brought his birth 
 Shall have led love to your home. 
 
 A COUNTY DOWN LYRIC 
 
 HoLYW^ooD town 
 Comes back to me : 
 Though old I've grown, 
 My memory 
 Glides down the years ; 
 And once again — 
 Eyes without tears, 
 Heart without stain, 
 All innocence, 
 I feel once more 
 The influence 
 Of hill and shore. 
 I'm four again, 
 And all is plain. 
 Come down this hill ; 
 You'll see a rill 
 Crossing the lane ; 
 And there again 
 Kissing Bridge stands. 
 Let's clap our hands ! 
 Come on with me 
 And you shall see 
 An ancient wall — 
 For you that's all — 
 But once a snail 
 With horns and tail 
 And sparkling shell 
 
 38 
 
Was there as well. 
 And so for me 
 With memory 
 That wall is full 
 And wonderful. 
 
 Then down that road 
 There once abode 
 A friend of mine. 
 Her home was fine, 
 With stately lawns, 
 And marble fauns. 
 And cool, great rooms, 
 And drawing-room glooms, 
 And things to eat, 
 And every treat 
 That children love. 
 And " next days " prove I 
 
 But memory calls ; 
 And twilight falls 
 In Summer's glare. 
 And cool flowers stare 
 With wondering eyes 
 At leafy skies. 
 Bluebell and tree 
 Have company ! — 
 A grey cottage 
 Of wondrous age 
 Grows in this wood ! 
 And clean and good 
 Two children stand 
 Locked hand in hand. 
 
 39 
 
Looking at me. 
 
 mystery ! 
 Had I not found 
 Something profound :- 
 Two forest things 
 Worthy of wings. 
 
 We'll leave the wood. 
 Just here I stood 
 With bracken leaves 
 Up to my sleeves. 
 
 1 looked in there 
 To find a bear, 
 Or hungry eyes 
 Lit with surprise. 
 What a strange ring 
 Of trees that spring 
 Out of the heath ! 
 Come underneath 
 These twining shrubs ; 
 We'll find bear cubs, 
 Or strange hill men. 
 
 I found them then. 
 I may have dreamed ; 
 But so it seemed 
 Long years ago, 
 I tell you so. 
 
 Come on with me. 
 'Twas there a bee 
 Stung my small hand ; 
 And where we stand 
 A gipsy said : — 
 
 40 
 
" Come, curly head, 
 Come off with me ! " 
 And naturally 
 I yelled for Nurse ; 
 And what was worse, 
 My poor Nurse came. 
 Mine was the blame : 
 I cried for fear ; 
 But O how near 
 Was freedom then 
 In plain and glen. 
 
 This is the town, 
 Quiet and brown, 
 Old and sedate 
 And out of date. 
 The maypole's there 
 In the old Square. 
 Come to the place 
 Where we'd a race, 
 Cissy and I, 
 Too scared to cry. 
 Pursued by geese 
 As white as fleece, 
 With long, strong necks, 
 And snaps and pecks, 
 And hissing throats. 
 My mail-car floats 
 On this live wave 
 With none to save. 
 Poor Cissy fled. 
 And I remained 
 Mid long necks craned, 
 
 41 
 
And tongues so red, 
 Tied by a strap 
 Poor little chap, 
 In a mail-car. 
 You see how far 
 One's memory goes 
 When yet one's toes 
 Reach to one's nose. 
 
SONNETS 
 
AMOROSA MIA 
 
 Most gentle child, most passionate, dear love, 
 You came to me when I was desolate ; 
 And, by your coming, fixed my earthly fate. 
 Which no world power nor enemy can move. 
 Through all my life I longed to know and prove 
 One woman faithful, pure and passionate, 
 And steadfast as the stars, that I might mate 
 And seek rest with her like a weary dove. 
 
 Dearest, I cherish all my horrid years. 
 Because they led me to your waiting arms 
 Open for me, to your sad, splendid eyes. 
 To your most tender voice, to your glad tears, 
 To all that robs my life of dull alarms, 
 And to your love ; for true love never dies. 
 
 A PROMISE 
 
 YouKS is a love unstained by selfishness. 
 And jewelled with nobility and grace ; 
 So by love's power you look fame in the face 
 And claim immortal robes of loveliness. 
 The path that Hebe trod your feet shall press ; 
 Psyche and Hestia shall give you place : 
 For they chose love or virtue for a space ; 
 While you love me as only gods can guess. 
 
 And for myself I shall write deep your name, 
 That men may read when our sad world is older 
 
 45 
 
By countless days : my art shall make you known 
 To all who scan the chronicles of Fame : 
 Ladies who read shall sigh : brave men be bolder ; 
 And lovers make your deathless love their own. 
 
 ITALY 
 
 Shall my desire be granted, lady mine : 
 
 That you and I in some Italian toAvn, 
 
 Shall tread a soil made sacred by renown, 
 
 And feast on beauty that is all divine ? 
 
 Over our home should be a trailing vine ; 
 
 And I would lead you, as the sun went down, 
 
 Through gardens, where most ancient founts have thrown 
 
 To heaven their sprays since sang the Florentine. 
 
 And there, alone with beauty, we should tell, 
 
 Again and yet again our still-new love ; 
 
 And by the starlight, I could watch your eyes. 
 
 Even now I hear some crumbling campanile 
 
 Utter its evening prayer-call from above. 
 
 Come with me, child : leave wisdom to the wise ! 
 
 46 
 
TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW 
 
 To-day we wrestle with uncertainty, 
 And play with hope, or hide us from despair. 
 Loneliness fills the land ; you are not there. 
 Your world is empty, for you have not me. 
 The day holds beauties which we cannot see. 
 And spreads a banquet that we may not share. 
 Though we are one, yet Time doth rudely tear 
 In twain at every parting unity. 
 
 But God shall give you to me very soon ; 
 
 And without speech, or struggle, or unrest, 
 
 I shall be yours, you altogether mine. 
 
 Then, in our garden, I shall watch the moon 
 
 Stir by her beams the jewels on your breast ; 
 
 And through our trees the lights of home shall shine. 
 
 RELEASE 
 
 See how the meadows greet the glittering air 
 New-purged from the night's miasmal breath ! 
 Like them my spirit, given up to death, 
 Strides from the tomb, while cerements of care 
 Drop from my soul ; and all things everywhere 
 Seem young and fine. Mine ear discovereth 
 The voice of summer in the land, which saith :— 
 " Come, be a child again ; for life is fair." 
 
 How shall the bird ensnared escape to flight ? 
 And how shall scorched hands feel cool again ? 
 
 47 
 
Or may the thrice-tormented hope for peace ? 
 Even as the dawn stands poised upon the night, 
 And as men pass to death when hope is vain, 
 So to the prisoned Hfe there comes release. 
 
 THE SONG OF SILENCE 
 
 Would that my soul might pass away from hence. 
 And with majestic dumbness tell its joy. 
 Then could no force of years my song destroy ; 
 For art should conquer Time's magnificence. 
 Human and winged choirs can hold the sense 
 Enthralled but tamely by their sound's alloy. 
 Silence in heaven the morning stars employ, 
 And mine might be their beauteous eloquence. 
 
 Thus would I sing of your most gracious love. 
 And crown you with devotion's diadem, 
 And strew the air with rune and madrigal 
 Formed for your hearing only, as you move 
 Upon the tide which fortune may not stem : — 
 Silence alone shall hold such love in thrall ! 
 
 48 
 
LEANDER TO HERO * 
 
 To-day I drained the cup of loneliness 
 And longed for you, as slaves for freedom sigh. 
 With heart distracted, though I knew not why, 
 I traced alone a path of wretchedness, 
 Until the memory of your last caress 
 Proved that this pain of soul, this agony, 
 Would pass from me the instant you drew nigh, 
 And flee away before your loveliness. 
 
 Sweet child, sweet girl, sweet mistress of my soul. 
 Take from my hand this token of a love 
 Born of your beauty and your gentle heart. 
 Though waves of sad despair should sweep and roll 
 With menace for our hope, yet shall we prove 
 That death alone can truest lovers part. 
 
 A POET'S END 
 
 Shall we content our soul in idleness. 
 Or fashion drowsy days with taskless hands ? 
 How nobly still the fairest mountain stands ! 
 And doth that stillness make its beauty less ? 
 With splendid grace unmoving waters dress 
 Their cool depths with the spoil of fairy lands. 
 While on their glittering surface there expands 
 The pale flame of a lily's loveliness. 
 
 * Suggested by Ovid's poem, in which he causes Leander to ex- 
 plain that he is prevented from swimming the Hellespont from 
 Abydos to Sestos, according to his usual custom, by reason of the 
 prevailing storm, 
 
 D 49 
 
Thus would we end ourselves, and live at ease, 
 When we have formed all glory that we may, 
 And when upon the breast of our Beloved 
 The last gem glows ; and 'neath eternal trees 
 We lie at rest, with never word to say 
 Nor word to hear, — unmoving and unmoved. 
 
 A MILTONIC SONNET 
 
 I LOVE you with a hopelessness which wraps 
 My love in tender beauty, for I know 
 That this sad life of mine is pledged to woe, 
 And wed with loneliness. And yet, perhaps 
 You know I love you, as the cloud which caps 
 A mountain's beauty, or as gentle snow 
 Reveals the passage of the airs which blow 
 Its flakes to sure oblivion. Lethe laps 
 The shore on which I stand to dream of you. 
 My love is not for you, nor yours for me. 
 Nor must you know the secret of my heart. 
 As I love truth, in silence am I true. 
 So your sweet beauty and my destiny 
 Stand clear in this ; we may not love nor part. 
 
 50 
 
VERY EARLY IN THE MORNING 
 
 There seems abroad a horrid influence, 
 As though the town had drunk an opiate. 
 And some had risen in a maddened state 
 To stalk and jeer and stagger, while the immense, 
 Dull army of the poor, bereft of sense. 
 Stretches around me, dreaming dreams of hate. 
 But even the foulest prison has a gate : 
 And lo ! the voice of Beauty calls me hence. 
 
 The slumber and the dust are left behind. 
 
 I take a path on ever-rising land, 
 
 And mounting nearer heaven I greet the sun ; 
 
 And as I ride, the morning air is kind. 
 
 The trees flash smiling by, and the cool hand 
 
 Of nature takes my tired and fevered one. 
 
 THE WINE OF LOVE 
 
 Could I redeem one moment with a rhyme, 
 Or make this web of sense perpetuate. 
 Chained in uncorroding gyves should Fate 
 Stand captive to my will, and even slime 
 Speed faster in its slough than rushing Time 
 And, like a bird that calleth to its mate, 
 My voice should call to you, and you would wait 
 To hear me, as some woman of the Prime. 
 
 For how we love, none but ourselves can know ; 
 None, save the Grod of Love whose love we hold : 
 
 51 
 
We are espoused to our destiny. 
 Believe me, child, there presently shall grow 
 Upon our desert, vines with grapes of gold ; 
 And you shall drink the wine of love with me. 
 
 WITH BEAUTY FOR A SHIELD 
 
 When you went forth with beauty for a shield, 
 The sad world smiled, and innocence was glad ; 
 And as you passed, the winter woodlands clad 
 Their nakedness with spring, and every field 
 Longed to caress your feet, while unconcealed 
 Stood countless forest things. Then to the sad 
 There came a balm for sorrow, and they who had 
 No heart to break looked on you and were healed. 
 
 Yet sin conspired with infamy the while, 
 And Hell reared up its head to challenge you ; 
 Hatred and lust laid snares upon your track ; 
 Falsehood came forth to greet you with a smile. 
 And though Gommorah's gates spewed out their crew 
 To turn you back, you prayed, and turned not back. 
 
 52 
 
TO A DEAD NOBLEMAN 
 
 How shall I find an honourable word 
 That it may show your rich and splendid soul, 
 And for the world, which knew you not, unroll 
 The charter of your deeds, whose fame has stirred 
 A people to the deeps ? No singing-bird 
 Sang tenderer song ; and never glowing coal 
 Scorched sweeter clouds from incense than should roll 
 To honour you, whom jealous fame preferred ! 
 
 Most noble friend, you bore a splendid name ; 
 And you were subtle, courtly, innocent. 
 Devoid of guile, most brave, most dignified ; 
 And when our hopes seemed swallowed up in flame, 
 And I had sought for death, my heart was rent. 
 My very soul was stunned ; for you had died. 
 
 A SHAKESPEARIAN SONNET 
 
 Children are angels sent to comfort men 
 Wayward and tender from the deeps of Heaven, 
 Gazing in startled wonder now and then 
 At the world's bread so strangely light of leaven. 
 Their souls are foreign to our atmosphere ; 
 And oftentimes it yieldeth them their life, 
 So that they leave us for another sphere ; 
 And pass so gently from the smoke and strife 
 That some in wisdom whisper they are dead. 
 While others supplicate with weary words, 
 
 53 
 
Making an altar of an infant's bed, 
 
 Till, like a sacrifice of singing birds. 
 
 Their prayers tlirob up in agony to God, 
 
 And love treads once again where pain has trod. 
 
 ONE OF THINE AGONIES 
 
 How could man bear to paint Thine agony ? 
 Or having dared, how could these eyes of ours 
 Witness that twitching anguish, which the flowers 
 Strewn by devotion hide from mortal eye ? 
 Great painters paint you placid as the sky 
 When summer winds are low, and twilight's hours 
 Lag slowly to their end. Yet with Hell's powers 
 Your human nature strove, strove but to die ! 
 
 In ancient Spain a fearful thing was done : — 
 A painter drew one torture ; only this — 
 The torture of the Crown ; and through your brow 
 A thorn passed in, passed out ; a single one. 
 This thing survives ; yet men who pray to kiss 
 Your spike-rent feet, fly from it even now. 
 
 54 
 
A WELCOME 
 
 See the pale beauty of our winter sky- 
 Has flushed for love, and from the West there blows 
 A curious wind that searches as it goes ; 
 The trees are listening, and they know not why, 
 And the last dying leaves are loath to die, 
 Beyond its time there waits the Autumn rose ; 
 Our birds are restless in their night's repose, 
 For you are come ; and Nature cannot lie. 
 
 You who have walked with sorrow hand in hand, 
 And gathered wondrous words from agony. 
 And plucked the very lilies of desire. 
 You live at last within our holy land. 
 Where truth is loved, and honour cannot die ; 
 And see, she greets you in a queen's attire ! 
 
 TO ONE BELOVED 
 
 There are no dreams of my imagining 
 Which shall encompass all your loveliness. 
 Never hath spirit worn a fairer dress, 
 Nor flesh contained so beautiful a thing. 
 You are all hallowed from the Heavenly King 
 And His choice angels round about you press, 
 Lest even the shadow of unrighteousness 
 Should shade your form, or set you sorrowing. 
 
 Less fair in lustre is the Evening Star ; 
 And yet you shine upon my darkened ways, 
 
 55 
 
And step down from your firmament for m€. 
 Glowing with love, as saints and angels are ! 
 For this I'll worship you while I have days : 
 And when days end, till ends eternity. 
 
 DE PROFUNDIS CLAMAVI 
 
 If sorrow has ensnared your gentle feet, 
 
 And if the sensible and worldly-wise 
 
 Have come to stare into your frightened eyes. 
 
 And fill your ears with threatenings, and the neat 
 
 Proprieties, each in her winding sheet, 
 
 Have strangled your new love, and choked its cries, 
 
 In due time, and despite them, it shall rise 
 
 To claim its true beloved, as is meet. 
 
 If blame be mine, I beg for punishment ; 
 
 Were you afraid, let me be fearful too ; 
 
 And have you wept, mine shall be tears of shame. 
 
 But may no messenger of doubt be sent 
 
 To bind these arms that fain would shelter you, 
 
 And steal from me the magic of your name. 
 
 56 
 
DE RETOtm 
 
 Come now with me, my soul, and let us count 
 The tribute of our dual monarchy. 
 Our kingdom has been torn by anarchy. 
 And justice has been fouled at the fount ; 
 Yet each day surely sees our fortunes mount ; 
 And soon shall every broken landmark be 
 Set in its place again. Our hierarchy 
 May yet in peace its fading woes recount. 
 
 Fate has been prodigal of bitterness ; 
 There seems in us and in our world a change ; 
 Beauty has fled from minstrelsy and song ; 
 That which delighted, now provokes distress ; 
 And all the dear, familiar sights are strange — 
 We have been exiled from our land too long. 
 
 LAUS AMORIS 
 
 Could I extract the venom from my soul, 
 
 Which lingers, though the fangs of them that hate 
 
 Have long since been withdrawn, ah, then would fate 
 
 Come with caresses, and the opening scroll 
 
 Of life unlived, calmly I could unroll, 
 
 To read with fearless eyes, or, childlike, wait 
 
 Till kindly time should call me mean or great 
 
 When, while I slept, my passing bell should toll. 
 
 But foul deceit has fearful harvesting ; 
 And treachery leaves an mihealing wound. 
 
 i, 57 
 
Dull hate can wither all life's gentlest bloom. 
 If death have fangs, Life also has her sting ! 
 Yet love revives me when my soul has swooned, 
 And she has power to claim it from the tomb. 
 
 OF THE GREAT WAR 
 
 Lonely, and infinitely small she sails, 
 
 This tortured Earth whose soil is moist with blood ; 
 
 Only a bubble in the celestial flood, 
 
 A tear-drop driven before eternal gales. 
 
 But ours she is ; and though our reason quails 
 
 Before the tree of which we are a bud. 
 
 It is ours also. Stars are not mere mud ; 
 
 And to the soul who hears, the Universe wails. 
 
 Sorrow has come ; the helpless can but weep ; 
 For mighty lands are in the clutch of death. 
 Engines of murder drown the thunder's roar ; 
 And men made in God's image die like sheep 
 To please the Imperial maniac who saith : — 
 " Though I hold much, yet shall I grasp for more." 
 
 58 
 
FORT AUGUSTUS 
 
 Peace makes her home on thy thrice-laved soil ; 
 She steals down from the mountains, and the lake 
 Lies placid to her feet, and for her sake 
 Your rapids whisper low. No winds embroil 
 In tumult round your towers, nature has toil 
 To find fresh beauties that your scene may take, 
 All glittering and fair when day shall wake : 
 Yours is a splendour that no stain can spoil. 
 
 World-weary souls have come to you for rest ; 
 And to their ears your heaven-song has seemed 
 Like that of angels, and your sanctuary 
 Has held for them relief — place surely blessed 
 By God and all His saints, by such as deemed 
 The world but poor, and lived their life with thee. 
 
 UNUTTERABLE WOE 
 
 If it be true that we may now emerge 
 From out this valley of untold despair. 
 In which there is no shelter anywhere 
 While waves of living hatred swell and surge, 
 Where Death alone is friendly, and the dirge 
 For them that die, and are released from care, 
 Brings envy to the heart, then let us share 
 The terror we have known on Hell's grim verge. 
 
 From horror have we passed to horridness. 
 And have consumed the very dregs of pain 
 
 59 
 
Out of a cup accursM and defiled. 
 There is no torment that may wound and press 
 The soul of man, yet leave that soul unslain, 
 But to whose sting we have been reconciled. 
 
 60 
 
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES 
 
THE BALLAD OF BROTHER DEATH 
 
 We trod a path among the trees, 
 My grim old brother Death and I, 
 
 And sat us down to take our ease ; 
 
 And Death said : " Talk before you die. 
 
 " Weeping is pleasant to mine ear, 
 And mourning is my merriment. 
 
 There never fell a single tear 
 
 Which failed to add to my content. 
 
 " I know you all. I know your loves ; 
 
 I know your lusts ; I know your hates. 
 I know the secret power which moves 
 
 The fury of contending states. 
 
 " I've seen men smile ; I've seen them frown. 
 
 I've seen them close their teeth, and grin ; 
 I've seen men spluttering while they drown. 
 
 I've seen them pray, and seen them sin. 
 
 " But yet I cannot see the power 
 By which the poets conquer me ; 
 
 And so I've claimed from you an hour. 
 Come, tell me what this thing may be ! " 
 
 I looked my brother in the eyes. 
 
 " Pray, put away that frown," I said, 
 " If you would win your long-sought prize 
 
 From these poor lips before I'm dead. 
 
 63 
 
*' You have our bones, that's true, my friend. 
 
 You have our lust, you have our hate. 
 You claim our riches in the end. 
 
 You call the poor ; you call the great. 
 
 " And each of us obeys your call 
 
 With joyful eyes or sad distress. 
 You watch the proudest of us fall ; 
 
 And yet, my friend, you cannot guess 
 
 " Why one sad soul in all the throng 
 
 Which presses towards your dwelling place. 
 
 Should make you powerless by a song. 
 And triumph over time and space. 
 
 " For you are blind to loveliness ; 
 
 And beauty cannot charm your ear. 
 You see but in Earth's summer dress 
 
 A covering for winter's bier. 
 
 " Thus beauty mocks you unperccived. 
 And art, untouched, may pass you by. 
 
 Unseen by you some shrouds are weaved 
 From threads of immortality." 
 
 64 
 
THE BALLAD OF SAINT PETER OF ALCANTARA 
 
 In the great days of splendid Spain 
 There flourished an holy eremite : 
 The joy of this earth to him was pain, 
 And the pain of the earth was his delight. 
 
 He took strange sorrows into his hand. 
 
 And he clad himself in terrible clothes. 
 
 He loved to do his Lord's command ; 
 
 And he bruised his flesh with whips and blows. 
 
 He sought the freezing pond at night ; 
 
 And he slept (when he slept) in a small, stone hole ; 
 
 For the light of God was his delight 
 
 Because unto Christ he had given his soul. 
 
 Yet his face was ever glad with smiles ; 
 And his eyes were rich with innocence ; 
 And he travelled on foot for countless miles 
 With the poor who live by begging for pence. 
 
 Yet his name was uttered over the land 
 As men utter the name of a noble king ; 
 And the wise declared he could understand 
 The worth of the greatest or meanest thing. 
 
 And they brought him a lady whom men had held 
 To be half a fool or a pious fraud ; 
 And on her he looked, and said he beheld 
 Before his eyes a saint of (iod. 
 
 E 65 
 
And with her he ate a simple meal ; 
 And while they did eat there sat at the board 
 The gentle Christ, that they might feel 
 The tender love of their Sacred Lord. 
 
 Thus with his lovers the fair Christ ate ; 
 And they saw His Face, and they saw His Feet ; 
 And the Lord of all was given a plate ; 
 And the Lord of all ate simple meat. 
 
 He ate with these holy Saints of His 
 
 In a simple room, at a simple board ; 
 
 And He gave them His pierced Hands to kiss, 
 
 As they sat before their crucified Lord. 
 
 Saint Peter of Alcantara was 
 The Saint to whom this favour was given ; 
 And the lady who sat before him was 
 Teresa the well-beloved of Heaven. 
 
 And the Lord to Saint Teresa said 
 
 That whoso should pray to Him, and name 
 
 Saint Peter, the thing for which he prayed 
 
 Should be granted ; and he should receive the same. 
 
 Through sorrow and pain, in days of peace. 
 Saint Peter followed the way of his Lord ; 
 And his love for Christ did much increase, 
 And Heaven did favours to him afford. 
 
 For he passed where bridges never stood. 
 As a man would walk on firm, dry land. 
 While beneath his feet there roared a flood, 
 Or a great river spread on every hand. 
 
 66 
 
And once he said farewell to a friend ; 
 And passed out alone, yet at his side 
 Was seen in loving talk to bend 
 One like unto the Crucified. 
 
 And thus with Christ through lordly Spain, 
 Saint Peter of Alcantara passed ; 
 And gave up all that he might gain 
 The treasure that maketh rich at last. 
 
 He dwells in high heaven where angels dwell ; 
 And whoso prayeth to Christ to-day, 
 And the name of Saint Peter to Christ doth tell, 
 In vain that suppliant shall not pray. 
 
 THE BALLAD OF PERRY 
 
 Lord Antrim marched to Berry's walls, 
 And said : " Give up your city to me." 
 So the magistrates and the aldermen 
 Said : " Wait a while, and we shall see." 
 
 Then Colonel Lundy, the Governor, said : 
 " Let good Lord Antrim enter now. 
 You've sworn allegiance to King James ; 
 So give up your keys and keep your vow.' ' 
 
 But the keys in no wise could be found ; 
 For the 'Prentice Boys had taken them all. 
 And locked the gates in Lord Antrim's face 
 While her rulers were scheming that Derry should fall. 
 
 67 
 
'Twas thus the gates were banged and barred ; 
 And barred and locked they all remained 
 When Lieutenant General Hamilton 
 Came North to find his powers disdained. 
 
 Then Murray and Baker held the walls, 
 And roared defiance in his ear : — 
 " We serve no cast-off English King. 
 We are Ulstermen who have no fear." 
 
 So Hamilton spread out his lines, 
 
 And ringed brave Derry round with steel, 
 
 And flung a boom across the Foyle, 
 
 And cried : — ^" I'll make those traitors kneel." 
 
 Then many a thundering cannon spoke ; 
 And many a man by famine died. 
 Guns roared and flashed outside the walls, 
 While hunger fought for James inside. 
 
 Death peered and stared into Ulster eyes 
 As never death peered or stared before. 
 Men slept their sleep in famine's arms. 
 And wakened to greet the cannon's roar. 
 
 Then up and down the stricken town 
 Brave Walker passed with a smiling face, 
 And strengthened many a drooping soul 
 Who dreamed of peace at the price of disgrace. 
 
 When Baker was dead he took command ; 
 And under him one and all grew strong. 
 Then again and again from Derry's throats 
 Roared " No Surrender " loud and long. 
 
 68 
 
The women and men fought side by side 
 With musket and stone and rousing cheer, 
 While Roaring Meg, Derry's grim old gun, 
 Hurled many a shot that cost James dear. 
 
 Every day that came was an enemy 
 That tightened the belt, and paled the cheek ; 
 And men took turns on the great church tower 
 For some relief to stare and seek. 
 
 And for long they seemed to search in vain ; 
 But at length a cry from the watch was heard : — 
 " Thirty ships are sailing up the Foyle ; 
 And WilUam of Orange has kept his word ! ' ' 
 
 Then glittering eyes, with hunger glazed. 
 Stared down the Foyle, and grew dull with dread, 
 For Commander Kirke feared Hamilton's guns. 
 And came not ; but anchored his ships instead. 
 
 And Derry watched her hopes from afar 
 For forty-six unspeakable days. 
 Her powder failed ; her best men lay dead ; 
 But she faced her foe with a hero's gaze. 
 
 At last three ships of the thirty broke clear. 
 And snapped the boom like a piece of thread ; 
 And Derry was given the victor's crown ; 
 For she would have yielded none but dead. 
 
 Thus Derry fought and thus Derry won, 
 And wrought for herself a lasting fame. 
 In Derry the spirit of Ulster glowed ; 
 And that Ulster spirit is still the same. 
 
 m 
 
THE BALLAD OF FAMINE MARTYRS 
 
 They came with soup, they came with bread, 
 They came with blankets by the ton ; 
 They raised up many a dying head, 
 And asked for one thing, only one ! 
 
 They passed across a corpse-clothed land 
 Like things rejected even by Hell ; 
 For, set beside this horrid band, 
 A saint was sin-stained Jezebel. 
 
 They offered to the famishing poor 
 Life, warmth, and ease, and smoking broth. 
 Their smiles were sleek, their accents sure 
 If any with God would break his troth. 
 
 But the Famine Martyrs looked on Death, 
 And smelt the soup, and eyed the bread ; 
 And each replied with his dying breath : — 
 " Who cares for life if Faith be dead ? " 
 
 And thus they kept their Faith, and died ; 
 And gnawed the ground though food was near ; 
 But for them the gates of God spread wide. 
 And to Heaven they passed from pain and fear. 
 
 70 
 
PATRAIC AND THE GAEL 
 
 Canto I 
 
 There was no murmur in the morning air, 
 And silence held the land in fealty, 
 Save where a crafty and reluctant wave 
 Lifted his voice in a rebellious song, 
 Or where some half-awakened streamlet called 
 Its message to the dew-drops, saying : Come ! 
 Marry with me, and we shall swim the earth. 
 And rise triumphant to the clouds of heaven. 
 And dull the sun, and drench a thirsty world. 
 
 Even the trees kept silence, and the birds 
 Were stiff with sleep, and all the sun's fair work 
 Waited his coming in the dusk of dawn. 
 On the huge crest of Donard lay a light. 
 Pale and yet strong, frail and yet full of power, 
 A light no fire could dim, no darkness quench, 
 A light that kept the sundered things of Heaven 
 Gnashing and trampling on their torment-floor. 
 And gave a joy to all the sons of God. 
 And in this light there moved two holy ones, 
 High o'er the world, enshrined in solitude, 
 On the fair brow of Ulster's sentinel, 
 That watches from her eastern battlement 
 The grey, far hills of Alba and of Mann, 
 And the dark, half-imagined Albion, 
 From which such things were destined to emerge 
 As would dry up the blood, and melt the heart. 
 And snuff out all the joy of pretty things. 
 The wind-cleansed brow of Donard has a sward 
 Of grass most delicate ; and on this floor, 
 
 71 
 
Hidden, save from the stars, Saint Patraic stood. 
 And with him one of Christ's bright ministers, 
 Resplendant in the armour of God's Truth, 
 And ghttering with the joy of Paradise, 
 Exceeding mightily empowered with love. 
 How shall I fashion in the garb of words 
 So fragrant and so beautiful a life. 
 And one so heaven-contained as Ireland's Saint ? 
 For he had trod the last step of the way 
 Which leads to full perfection, and his soul 
 Had by celestial alchemy been cleft, 
 One half to dwell in Heaven and one on Earth. 
 Thus, while he lived, he saw the Face of God, 
 And dwelt among the Saints by Mary's side, 
 And breathed the air of infinite repose. 
 And knew the beauty and the peace of Christ. 
 Unfathomable mysteries were his : 
 He saw the dove-wings of the Paraclete. 
 By no brief ecstasy these things he knew ; 
 For long ago his ecstasy had changed 
 Into a calm and undisturbed reign 
 Among the crowned and honoured ones of Heaven. 
 So while he dwelt in Heaven, he walked on Earth ; 
 And unto him they brought distracted ones. 
 And them whose souls were sad, and many sick. 
 And men outwearied with an old desire 
 Wliich Pagan thought could never satisfy ; 
 And when they saw him they were straightway healed. 
 Kings bent their souls to him ; and princes knelt 
 To take from his anointed, sacred hands 
 The gentle yoke of Christ. And men most wise, 
 Philosophers, exceeding subtle ones. 
 Found in his wisdom all that they had sought. 
 
 72 
 
Great was his fame, and strange his miracles. 
 Once, when he came from Tara of the Kings, 
 It was put out on rumour's fastest steeds 
 That he was laden with rich ornament 
 And many offerings from the treasury. 
 So certain robber men of Madigan, 
 To prove the truth of this enticing tale, 
 Descended from their cave, and garbed themselves 
 As mourners for the dead, while one of them 
 Lay with a corpse-sheet on his breathing form. 
 Like one who needs a coffin for his home. 
 And in this manner they beset the Saint, 
 Who came upon them clad by Poverty. 
 And when the robber chieftain begged an alms 
 To bury his poor, dead, uncoffined friend. 
 Saint Patraic passed him as he had been air. 
 So that he waxed exceeding furious. 
 And called his partners to pursue the Saint. 
 Yet when he called, the man who had mocked death 
 Heeded him not ; and when the sheet was drawn, 
 Death indeed lay where mimic death had been. 
 Then with much terror they pursued the Saint, 
 And offered him implorings and requests. 
 And weepings, and much penance, and besought 
 His mercy for the dead that had played death 
 And played his part too well. So Patraic turned ; 
 And at his summons life came back again 
 To the fast-cooling body of the dead ; 
 And by this miracle Saint Patraic made 
 Out of the robber chief of Madigan 
 A saint that robbed Hell of much harvesting. 
 Dante hath shrined for ever in his song 
 The wonders of the cave where Patraic prayed 
 
 73 
 
Upon the holiest island of Lough Derg ; 
 And how he saw the purgatorial fires. 
 So holy is that place that to this day 
 Wild birds are tame as it were Paradise, 
 And prayers come to the lips as naturally 
 As air is breathed ; while hunger has no power ; 
 And the rough stone is gentle to the foot ; 
 While sleep is set aside, and cold takes flight, 
 And life becomes a daily miracle. 
 Princes and Knights came to this holy place ; 
 And one. Sir Owen, rich in penances, 
 Saw Purgatory and the flame of Hell, 
 And the fair path that leads to Paradise. 
 Then on this path he walked until his gaze 
 Lit on a gate adorned with precious stones. 
 Henry of Saltry told the world of this ; 
 And many poets chose it for a theme, 
 Until the gentle and great Florentine 
 Caught up the tale in his majestic song. 
 And passed it, ringing, down the centuries. 
 Tiernan Ua Rourke the Prince of Breffny 
 Followed the knightly Owen to this place, 
 And one, Nicolo of Beccario, 
 And one, Ungaro, Lord of Rimini, 
 For whom Edward Plantagenet the Third 
 Wrote honourable letters to confirm 
 And fix a patent on his pilgrimage. 
 Ramon the Viscount of Perellos came, 
 And one, Sir William Staunton, followed him. 
 For seven hundred years there poured a stream 
 Of pilgrims from all Europe, till at last 
 A horrid thing was done, and murder shown 
 Where penances and visions had been seen, 
 
 74 
 
Sir Ugolino slew Count Raymond there ; 
 For Raymond had dispatched his sister's life 
 To keep her from a marriage with the knight 
 Who was less honourably born than she. 
 And Ugolino fell upon the Count, 
 And with the dagger which had slain his love, 
 Still rusted with her blood, split Raymond's heart. 
 And thus by murder was the cave defiled. 
 Pope Alexander Sextus closed the cave, 
 And grass now covers up its entrance-door ; 
 Yet to this day unnumbered pilgrims come, 
 And tread this holy soil, and there are shriven, 
 And taste the bitterest cup of penitence 
 That may be drunk in all the Christian world. 
 At Lough Derg Patraic prayed ; but at Armagh, 
 The ancient capital of Ulster's Kings, 
 He held the sceptre of a ghostly prince. 
 And ruled the land most gra,ciously for Grod. 
 Now at Armagh there is a holy well ; 
 And since the Saint departed, this same well 
 O'erflows its edge upon Saint Patraic's Eve. 
 Through all the year its waters lie asleep. 
 Deep sunken in their bed ; yet do they rise 
 And give sweet honour to his memory. 
 Out on the Western frontier of the Gael, 
 Sheer from the sea there rises up that mount 
 Upon which Patraic fought for Ireland's soul, 
 And won it from the Fiend. Long was his fight. 
 For forty days he prayed in hunger there ; 
 While things of Hell, cruel and horrible. 
 Flapped and tormented all the Western air. 
 And pressed about Saint Patraic as he prayed. 
 Then with his sacred bell he scattered them, 
 
 75 
 
And with the sign of Christ His Holy Cross 
 
 He held the fiends transfixed in misery ; 
 
 Yet came they on in ever-growing swarms, 
 
 Legion on legion panting for the fray ; 
 
 For in this fasting, weary man they saw 
 
 That which would drive them hence, and with them too 
 
 All that they might inhabit that has life. 
 
 From all the plains of Ireland they were called : 
 
 From mountain caves, and from accursed spots 
 
 Where murder had been done ; and from the sky 
 
 The high Prince of the Power of the Air 
 
 Strode down to slay an ancient, weary man. 
 
 But Patraic grew in strength by hungering more ; 
 
 And each hour as his body grew more weak, 
 
 His soul the more was braced for victory. 
 
 For forty nights that holy man was ringed 
 
 With the blue glare of Hell, and through the day 
 
 Familiars of the Fiend, with raven wings. 
 
 Croaked out their hate ; and every horrid shape 
 
 That wrings a scream from frightened little ones 
 
 Clouded about Saint Patraic, and his eye 
 
 Saw only horrors most unspeakable. 
 
 He heard the sullen choiring of the fiends. 
 
 With jibberings and groans and utterances, 
 
 Mockings at God, and most false sentences, 
 
 And all the hell-steeped and ungracious talk 
 
 That fell on angels' ears in Sodom's streets. 
 
 But stronger every day grew Patraic's prayer, 
 
 And the vast love in his blessed human heart 
 
 Spread over all the land ; while every day 
 
 The Fiend grew weaker and more impotent ; 
 
 And yet he raged more furious as his power 
 
 Was sapped from him, and as the smile of God 
 
 76 
 
Shone fair upon the land that Patraic loved. 
 Then unto Patraic there came blissful truths, 
 And words fell from the very lips of God, 
 And the Saint saw with famine-sparkled eyes 
 Uncounted choirs of angels, and the light 
 That glows from God's fair throne eternally. 
 And the Most Holy unto Patraic said : 
 
 Take comfort to thine heart most faithful child ; 
 Heaven shall ratify thy victory ; 
 And make thy weakness strength, thy love a bond 
 To hold the children of the Gael for me. 
 Thou who hast fought mine enemies so well 
 And wrestled for the sake of Ireland, 
 Shall keep what thou hast won : and on this land 
 There shall perpetually pour from heaven 
 Graces and blessings till the Judgment Day. 
 
 And Patraic lifted up his heart to God, 
 And his tired limbs grew strong in ecstasy. 
 With mighty love for Ireland was he filled, 
 And for her children whom he had redeemed. 
 And thus Saint Patraic spake unto his God : 
 
 Most Holy Lord, in my unworthiness 
 I offer you the homage of my heart ; 
 I offer you the children I have won ; 
 I offer you my tiny penances 
 And my poor vigils kept for love of thee. 
 Look on my people, Lord, with tenderness, 
 For they are gentle, and the yoke of Christ 
 Is borne by them with joy. They love thy Name ; 
 They honour God's fair Mother ; and their hearts 
 Enkindle at the sight of Christ His Cross, 
 And they do weep when they behold his wounds ; 
 And they rejoice to walk in penitence. 
 
 77 
 
Give me these people for mine heritage ; 
 Give me these children whom I came to save, 
 And whom by thy rich mercy I have saved, 
 That I may judge them on the Judgment Day. 
 Then the Most Holy unto Patraic said : 
 
 That which thou askest shall be given thee. 
 And Patraic bent him low before his God 
 To offer up this prayer of gratitude : 
 
 How shall thy servant give thee thanks, O Lord ? 
 If love can thank thee thou hast all my love : 
 If tears can thank thee, thou hast all my tears. 
 If service can express my gratitude, 
 Be pleased to take the little I have done, 
 And add to that the little I may do. 
 Thou hast my love, my service, and my praise ; 
 Yet these are all thine own, not mine to give. 
 My Lord, I am emboldened by thy grace. 
 And strengthened by the Lady Mary's prayer. 
 I crave two favours from thy bounteous hand. 
 There is no land save Ireland which has heard 
 The teaching of thy Holy Catholic Church 
 Without the shedding of a martyr's blood. 
 These children of the Gael have breathed in truth 
 As men breathe pleasant air. Their souls are tuned 
 Unto the gentle music of thy Grace. 
 I came a stranger to this noble land ; 
 Yet was I welcomed and heard patiently. 
 Here have I fought with fiends, but not with men. 
 For Ireland took from me the seed of truth 
 As well-prepared soil accepteth grain. 
 Thou, with thine Infinite Intelligence, 
 Knowest of this. And therefore do I pray 
 That Ireland, where no prophets have been stoned, 
 
 78 
 
Where men have grasped thy Grace with eager hand, 
 
 Shall be encompassed by the powers of Heaven, 
 
 So that her people may not fall away, 
 
 But that they may prove faithful to the end. 
 
 Do ^vith me what thou wilt, but grant me this. 
 
 Yet do I crave another gift from thee. 
 
 By the most sacred Cross of Christ Thy Son, 
 
 And by the grace of his Most Holy Wounds, 
 
 And by the flame of his Most Sacred Heart, 
 
 Have I, a weak and wretched sinner, kept 
 
 These forty days the enemies of Heaven, 
 
 The subtle ones of Hell, the foul, the fierce, 
 
 The cruel and the cowardly and the bold. 
 
 These in uncounted legions have I kept 
 
 A hand's breadth from my soul for forty days. 
 
 And this I ask of thee, my loving Lord : 
 
 Be pleased to grant me power to banish hence 
 
 All that shall harbour messengers of Hell, 
 
 Familiars of the Pit, and crawling things. 
 
 And serpents in whose frame may dAvell a fiend. 
 
 Then the Most High made answer from His throne : 
 
 I know your love and your humility ; 
 And I have watched your penitence and tears ; 
 And I am pleased to give you all you ask. 
 Yet more than what you ask shall I bestow ; 
 For I shall give you from my Court of Heaven 
 Four strong and sanctified angelic ones. 
 That they may guard this land which you would purge. 
 All this I do because thou lovest me. 
 
 And Patraic bent him down unto the ground, 
 To offer thanks unto (rod's Majesty. 
 And while he gave the homage of his soul, 
 He was encompassed by the Power of God, 
 
 79 
 
And all that strove to hurt him fled away. 
 
 Then was the air most sweet, most sanctified ; 
 
 The very soil grew holy to the toueh ; 
 
 The sunlight brought a blessing on its beams, 
 
 And in a thousand-thousand forest trees 
 
 Birds sang fair songs of homage unto God. 
 
 The streams rejoiced ; and tender, happy waves 
 
 On Ireland's lakes played holy melodies ; 
 
 And all men in the land awoke to joy. 
 
 Then down the mountain side Saint Patraic passed 
 
 To say the Holy Mass on Easter Morn. 
 
 And he it was who with an angel stood. 
 
 And kept a vigil upon Donard's brow, 
 
 And left upon that mountain last of all 
 
 The fourth great warden of our innocence, 
 
 To guard us from Hell's hosts until the end — • 
 
 A splendid and unsleeping sentinel. 
 
 Clothed with the love of God, and armed with truth. 
 
 Before whose glance the Fiend should sink and swoon, 
 
 And at the hearing of whose blessed voice 
 
 Demons should stop their ears, and speed away, 
 
 To drown its echoes in accursed blares. 
 
 Or in the ceaseless cryings of the damned. 
 
 Canto II 
 
 There is a dreary hour before the dawn. 
 When the pulse slows, and weakness grows more weak. 
 This selfsame hour men dying choose for death 
 And have their choice confirmed, so that their ghosts 
 Pass unto judgment ere the stars have paled. 
 Unto this hour had Saint and Angel kept 
 An earthly silence in their high-placed shrine 
 
 80 
 
Whose floor was Donard's crest, whose roof the sky. 
 
 Chill winds had played about their praying forms. 
 
 And through the night, as mother watches child, 
 
 Had their souls gazed in rapture upon God, 
 
 Making of silence speech most eloquent, 
 
 Compared with which the chatter of the world 
 
 Was as a mute's vain struggle for his voice, — 
 
 Speech which no phrase could house, no thought confine ; 
 
 But as their vigil drew unto its end 
 
 These words took life upon Saint Patraic's lips : 
 
 Most gracious minister of God Most High, 
 Thou art a gift unasked from Heaven's store, 
 An overflowing from the bounteous hand 
 Of our Supreme, Majestic and Dear Lord. 
 At sight of thee my poverty starts up. 
 And my un worthiness accuseth me. 
 For who am I that pure and seemly spirits 
 Should stand obedient to my governance ? 
 Yet hast thou seen, majestic one, this worm. 
 This clay-conceived and earthly penitent. 
 Place on three corner mountains of the Gael 
 Them that descended out of Heaven with thee. 
 Thou hast beheld at a poor sinner's beck 
 Thy three companions, who have never sinned, 
 Stand eager and obedient. Who shall tell 
 The condescension of the Lord our God ? 
 Believe me, I had asked no more than this : — 
 Grace that my people might not fall away, 
 Power to drive hence the harbingers of Hell, 
 The judging of my people at the last. 
 Three favours had I asked, and seven are given ! 
 AVhen first thou camest from thy Lord of Heaven, 
 Who doth inhabit all eternity, 
 F 81 
 
The eyes of my poor soul beheld in thee 
 
 Some mark that gave thee power above thy peers. 
 
 I pray thee tell me if I judge aright, 
 
 And if thou hast held honourable place 
 
 In Heaven's war when mighty Lucifer 
 
 Arrayed himself against the Throne of God. 
 
 Then did the glittering minister of Christ 
 Make answer unto Patraic's questioning. 
 
 It hath seemed right unto our most wise Lord 
 To make thy servant bear peculiar rank 
 For this small service dutifully done : 
 When Lucifer conceived his wickedness, 
 He called to him with a most cunning choice 
 Innumerable angels ; and by stealth 
 He plucked their due allegiance unto Grod 
 From their unstained souls. How this was done 
 Is a dark mystery, a fact so foul 
 That none may give it utterance. It is hid 
 Far from the thought of Heaven by God's decree. 
 It came to pass upon that cursed hour 
 That, by the will of Him whom we adore, 
 I was returning unto Heaven's court ; 
 And by no speech or sight, but by the power. 
 Which all the ministers of Christ hold dear, 
 I learned the infamy of Lucifer. 
 He had selected well his camp for sin ; 
 And I alone, by God's most gracious will. 
 Stood between him and those High Sanctities 
 Which cannot suffer utterance. Thus I stood 
 For God, between the holiness of God 
 And them that had cast off their innocence. 
 There is no time in Heaven ; but for a space. 
 I bore the fury and the hate of them 
 
 82 
 
Whose number is uncountable by man. 
 
 He that is filthy mindeth not a stain ; 
 
 But on the fresh and primal purity 
 
 Of our Celestial Home the dirt of Hell 
 
 Has foulness past believing. Here on Earth 
 
 Men love and hate ; but Heaven is all love. 
 
 And in the Court of Heaven hatred has 
 
 A cruel and a screeching horridness 
 
 That, if encased in language for your ears, 
 
 Would melt the very words with damned fire. 
 
 Here upon Earth men disobey their God ; 
 
 But with obedience Heaven is beautiful ; 
 
 And on the airs of Heaven defiance falls 
 
 As though the sky on earth had rained slime. 
 
 Strife and contention breed in this sad world ; 
 
 But when the Peace of Grod in Heaven is broke 
 
 I have no words to tell you what is done ; 
 
 I can but say that where perfection dwells 
 
 The stain of imperfection leaves a scar. 
 
 Thus, while by God's most gracious providence, 
 
 I bore the hate and fury concentrate 
 
 Of Lucifer and them that fell with him. 
 
 So fearful was the shock, that I have borne, 
 
 By God's most holy grace and providence, 
 
 A mark of warfare. It was this you saw 
 
 When you beheld me with my three fair friends* 
 
 Then Patraic leaned upon the years, and gazed 
 Down the sad centuries ; and what he saw 
 Gave comfort to his soul, yet tore his heart 
 With sympathy and love for them unborn, 
 Who should stand faithful even unto death. 
 And thus he spake unto God's minister : 
 
 Well have I chosen thee, thrice blessdd one ; 
 
 88 
 
For our fair Lord hath shown me many things 
 Which arc to come upon this peaceful soil. 
 And I have giv'n to thee that bastion, 
 To hold for Heaven, which shall be assailed 
 Not once, but many times. Hell can prevail 
 As far as Hell may round your very feet. 
 And like an inky sea of ignorance 
 Shall pride of heart and human consequence 
 Lap round this mountain base ; and in thine ear 
 Shall bray the iron voice of heresy. 
 The night of Ireland's horror shall disclose 
 The glitter of a thousand martyrdoms ; 
 Sweet lovers of our God shall keep the Faith 
 Though many cunning engines rend their flesh. 
 And horrid men drive them as beasts are driven. 
 And though to Heaven the smoke of blessed homes, 
 Burned for a bigot's pleasure, shall rise up. 
 Thou knowest the beauty of tormented saints ; 
 Thou knowest of the blissful martyrdoms 
 Beneath Italian skies, in Africa, 
 In Gaul, in Greece, or where the Imperial hand 
 Stretched out to wound. And yet I tell you this : 
 Thou shalt behold upon this Gaelic soil 
 A struggle which shall make blood-drunken Rome 
 A tender mother by comparison. 
 Yet shall men hold their faith though Albion 
 Outrun the ghosts of long-dead Emperors, 
 And shake the very patience of the Christ. 
 Still my tormented people shall remain 
 True to the Faith which they have learned from me. 
 And it shall come to pass when children die, 
 Such as are left alive shall say of them : 
 " They are well out of this sad, stinking world ! " 
 
 84 
 
And when a martyr swoons in agony 
 
 His friends shall look with envy on his pain. 
 
 " Blessed art thou," a mother shall declare, 
 
 ^Vlio sees her son crowned well in martyrdom. 
 
 Yea, blessed shall they be who suffer so ; 
 
 For they shall sail the vast infinity, 
 
 Well piloted for Heaven ; and their blood 
 
 Shall strew this land with sweet, celestial flowers, 
 
 And give the air a fragrance like the wind 
 
 That plays among the trees of Paradise. 
 
 It is this people thou must champion. 
 
 To thee and to thy fellow guardians 
 
 I now commit the safety of their souls. 
 
 CHILD ROWLAND 
 
 "Child Rowland to the dark tower came." — Edgar's unfinished 
 song in Lear. 
 
 Sir Oliver 
 
 Of this vain search I grow most monstrous sick ! 
 Why came we forth upon this Irish bog ? 
 
 Child Rowland 
 
 You came with me to search for a dark tower. 
 
 Sir Oliver 
 
 To search for something that has no existence, 
 Save in the mind, is madness gone insane ! 
 
 85 
 
Child Rowland 
 
 You know that since the hght first looked on me, 
 
 I've dreamed of towers, and thought of their dark walls 
 
 Creeping in majesty to meet the moon 
 
 That skips across the cloud-spume of the sky. 
 
 A dark tower is my destiny, my all ; 
 
 My very life : it is a friend whose face 
 
 Ever before me lingers. 
 
 Sir Oliver 
 
 Foolish boy, 
 You are the prey of dreams and lunacies ; 
 Whilst I, a wise and sober alchemist. 
 Am howling and most miserably mad 
 To wander after phantoms and dark towers. 
 
 Child Rowland 
 
 You may be mad ; but I feel strangely sane, 
 And hot enough to set my clothes on fire. 
 Indeed, with all my heart, I'd lend my ears, 
 And shave my eyebrows, if by doing so 
 I could produce in this most brilliant noon 
 A dark tower and a cellar full of beer, 
 Where I could cool my broiled anatomy. 
 
 Sir Oliver 
 
 A cellar full of beer is beautiful 
 To contemplate. The thought of it inspires 
 A man to greatness. But what chance could turn 
 So fair an image to reality ? 
 
 86 
 
Child Rowland 
 
 Men say, Sir Oliver, that you are wise 
 In all that appertains to ghostly learning. 
 Say, can you make no use of magic here, 
 To form a fountain at our very feet, 
 Or build a dark tower in this horrid heat ? 
 
 Sir Oliver 
 
 Such learning as I have is dangerous ; 
 For spirits are most wayward, and the world 
 That swarms about us is more terrible 
 Than ignorant men believe. Yet will I try 
 K magic can release us from our plight. 
 
 Sir Oliver steps from his horse ; begins to utter strange 
 words, and to make signs with his hands in the air. 
 
 Child Rowland (aside) 
 
 I tremble in my saddle, though I trust 
 That good may come of this ; and yet I fear, 
 In drawing forth his powers. Sir Oliver, 
 Has laid his hand upon the door of death. 
 By Jupiter ! The spell is acting now : 
 Apollo's flame-fanned face sinks in the West, 
 And Night rides out upon her sable steed, 
 While children of the darkness strew her path 
 With silver shadows ; and the birds of eve 
 Come forth to sing a tired world's lullaby. 
 
 Sir Oliver 
 
 My charm has proved that magic is not dead ! 
 Methinks it was a dark tower you desired ; 
 
 87 
 
And is not all the world a tower of datkness ? 
 
 And is not all the darkness but a tower 
 
 Into which night leads this unhappy orb, 
 
 So that the weary may have time to sleep, 
 
 And thieves an hour or so to call their own, 
 
 And devils freedom to torment good men ? 
 
 Come ! turn your eyes, and you shall see, methinks, 
 
 A curious vision of three withered men 
 
 Who sit upon a heap of rotting bones. 
 
 And laugh insanely at the harvest moon. 
 
 Child Rowland 
 
 It is no vision ! They are beauteous ! 
 
 They are most lovely, most delectable ! 
 
 What has the world to offer after this ? 
 
 What dainties of the mind can satisfy 
 
 Since I have looked on these most glorious men ? 
 
 Surely in heaven no treasures can exist — 
 
 In all the stars that people the pale sky — 
 
 That may be compeers of these withered men 
 
 Who sit upon a heap of rotting bones, 
 
 And laugh insanely at the harvest moon. 
 
 I cast my dark tower to oblivion, 
 
 Sir Oliver, and lodge me in this land ; 
 
 So that beside these gracious men I may 
 
 Repose in splendid happiness, and gaze 
 
 With rapture on them — ravish my tired eyes, 
 
 So tired of searching for a trivial tower — 
 
 And gaze for ever at these withered men 
 
 Who sit upon a heap of rotting bones 
 
 And laugh insanely at the harvest moon. 
 
 8S 
 
Sir Oliver 
 
 And for this folly we have travelled so far i 
 
 Child Rowland 
 
 Say not for folly, good Sir Oliver ; 
 Say rather that the dark tower was a flare 
 Of madness troubling our diseased minds. 
 What is a dark tower to three withered men 
 Who sit upon a heap of rotting bones 
 And laugh insanely at the harvest moon ? 
 
 Sir Oliver 
 
 Child Rowland, you are captured of Hell : — 
 Strange spells have wotind themselves about your soul, 
 And you are dragged into delirium, 
 And see in this foul sight a noble thing. 
 
 Child Rowland 
 
 Aye, Oliver, the noblest in the world ! 
 
 Sir Oliver 
 
 Then am I certain you are surely lost. 
 
 Child Rowland 
 
 Rather say found, my dear Sir Oliver. 
 
 Sir Oliver 
 
 To reason with you is to waste good wofds. 
 I leave you to your foul and withered men 
 
Who sit upon a heap of rotting bones, 
 And laugh insanely at the harvest moon. 
 Say, when the moon has fled her from the sky. 
 How shall your glorious and most withered men 
 Make idiot mirth at the dark dome of heaven ? 
 
 Child Rowland 
 
 For them the moon is always in the sky ; 
 
 And always too it is the harvest moon ; 
 
 Yet should the moon forsake them, they have light, 
 
 The flame of fermentation from the bones 
 
 On which they sit. 
 
 Sir Oliver 
 
 It is high time to fly 
 From this detestable insanity. 
 
 Child Rowland 
 
 Though you should go, my home's for ever here ; 
 Yet how unkind a friend to leave me thus ! 
 
 Sir Oliver 
 
 'Tis you who stay ; 'tis I who must away. 
 
 Child Rowland 
 
 Where would you go, when three most withered men 
 
 Do sit upon a heap of rotting bones 
 
 And laugh insanely at the harvest moon ? 
 
 90 
 
Sir Oliver 
 
 I go to Bath. To Bath goes Oliver. 
 There is a goldsmith in that ancient town 
 Who carves most cunningly on coffin lids. 
 I go to have a name engraved in gold 
 Upon a coffin-plate ; and it shall be 
 Most useful when you twist you off the world, 
 And spill your soul in this least loveliest land, 
 And fall a corpse before your withered men 
 Who sit upon a heap of rotting bones, 
 And laugh insanely at the harvest moon. 
 
 Child Rowland 
 
 Thus ends our pilgrimage ! But, ere you go. 
 See where I sit ; and take my horse from me. 
 Then set you forth with your gold graven plate ; 
 And if you see a dark tower, take three nails — 
 Three nails in memory of three withered men — 
 And spike the inscription on the dark tower's door ; 
 And have it written thus, Sir Oliver : — 
 This is Child Rowland's golden coffin-plate, 
 Nailed to the dark tower which he never found. 
 And now for endless days doth Rowland sit 
 Upon a great stone in the wilderness. 
 Before a sacred sight : three withered men 
 Who sit upon a heap of rotting bones. 
 And laugh insanely at the harvest moon. 
 
 91 
 
TWILIGHT FARM 
 
 I SET out for a trudge to-day ; 
 
 And when I'd gone a little way, 
 
 I left the broad, main road, 
 
 In spite of late December damp, 
 
 And chose to splash my boots, and tramp 
 
 Towards a strange abode. 
 
 It seemed to me that something peered 
 
 Upon me as I slowly neared 
 
 Tills most uncanny place. 
 
 The chimney-top was fringed with grass ; 
 
 The panes seemed, with their lifeless glass, 
 
 Like eyes in a dead face. 
 
 I never saw such emptiness, 
 
 Nor such a sight of dumb distress 
 
 As this small farm displayed. 
 
 The walls were sound, 
 
 But all around 
 
 Was broken and decayed. 
 
 " A curse," I said, " must surely lie 
 
 On this deserted masonry. 
 
 The very stones seem dead. 
 
 Even the track 
 
 Is bogged and black 
 
 Which once knew human tread. 
 
 The barn and byre lie in decay ; 
 There is a twilight here all day. 
 And in the twilight grow 
 
 92 
 
The flowers of long-forgotten things ; 
 No birds mate here ; no insect wings 
 This air of long ago." 
 
 OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN 
 
 Child, with vision sure and true, 
 What does all this mean to you : 
 All this world of funny things 
 Where the bumble-bees have stings, 
 And the fishes swim for hours 
 In a land of water-flowers ? 
 
 Answer me while Heaven's light 
 Giveth wisdom to your sight ; 
 Child, with vision sure and true, 
 What does all this mean to you ? 
 
 Books that you will never read 
 I have read ; and yet I need 
 Just one thing to make me wise : — 
 Power to use your baby eyes. 
 Child, with vision sure and true, 
 What does all this mean to you ? 
 
 83 
 
A NIGHT IN MAY 
 
 When Twilight, herald of the night, 
 Paced slowly through this lovely land, 
 I saw him pass across the height 
 Where palaces of Faerie stand. 
 
 And through the woods I followed him ; 
 Beside the river's misty marge 
 I watched the lithe rats dive and swim, 
 And heard hoarse laughter from a barge. 
 
 My feet seemed tireless as I wound 
 With every bend the river made. 
 The cool air trembled with the sound 
 Of distant music strangely played. 
 
 No soul I saw ; and yet I thought 
 That some sweet lady of the Shee 
 A spell upon the night had wrought 
 To hold the gift of love for me. 
 
 I looked to where the lights of home 
 Shone o'er the valley ; but their glow 
 Held not mine eyes ; for in the gloam 
 I saw a wondrous light below. 
 
 And in this light there sat alone. 
 Beneath an ancient, haunted tree, 
 As queen upon a mossy throne, 
 A lovely lady of the Shee. 
 
 94 
 
A sable cloak around her fell, 
 And sable was her glistening hair. 
 The primrose and the sweet blue-bell 
 About her waist were twined with care. 
 
 A warm light glowed upon her face. 
 Warm love shone from her beauteous eyes. 
 No throne e'er held such gentle grace ; 
 No knight e'er strove for such a prize. 
 
 She rose to greet me as I came, 
 Lovely and full of wonderment ; 
 And then she called me by my name ; 
 And as she spoke, the pale moon bent 
 
 To listen through a rustling pine, 
 And catch the name she gave to me, 
 A name which proved her half divine, 
 Finola, Princess of the Shee. 
 
 I took her hands in mine, and gazed 
 Deep, deep into her splendid eyes ; 
 And then her lips to mine she raised. 
 And gave me kisses for a prize. 
 
 Beside her through the night I sped, 
 With feet that trod the trackless air. 
 Was ever man so strangely led ? 
 Was ever maid so sweet and fair ? 
 
 But soon we reached a gloomy vale. 
 Where stood a dark tower, at whose door 
 She turned. Her face with love was pale. 
 By love made lovelier than before. 
 
 95 
 
My soul upon her lips I laid, 
 To bid her one sad, long adieu, 
 Before she vanished like a shade, 
 And passed in silence from my view. 
 
 And thus was Beauty for an hour 
 My bride, my life, my very own. 
 'Twas thus she passed beyond my power. 
 And left me in this world alone. 
 
 PRINTED IN GKEAT BRITAIN BY WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD., PLYMOUTH 
 
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