English

(To Prince Bran in his own house the Queen of the Islands of the Ever Living came, bearing a blossoming branch, and she chanted this lay to him.)
Crystal and silver
The branch that to you I show:
'Tis from a wondrous isle —
Distant seas close it;
Glistening around it
The sea-horses hie them:
Emne of many shapes,
Of many shades, the island.

They who that island near
Mark a stone standing:
From it a music comes,
Unheard-of, enchanting.
They who that music hear
In clear tones answer —

Cryin', who's that yonder
comin' down the road
comin'
down the road
Mmmmm, who's that yonder
comin' down the road
Well it
look like Maggie, baby,
But she walk too slow

Now, sun goin' shine
my back door some day
my back
door some day
Mmmmm, sun goin' shine in
my back door some day
And the
wind gon' change, gon'
Blow my blues away

Now, see see rider
see what you done done
see what
you done done
Mmmmm, see see rider
see what you done done

Crushed by the waves upon the crag was I,
Who still must hear these waves among the dead,
Breaking and brawling on the promontory,
Sleepless; and sleepless is my weary head!
For me did strangers bury on the coast
Within the hateful hearing of the deep,
Nor Death, that lulleth all can lull my ghost.
One sleepless soul among the souls that sleep!

Crumbs for the robin; well he knew
The click of that old garden gate,
Among the leaves he somewhere flew,
Nor came to breakfast ever late.

From twig to twig he ventures near,
With sidelong bright dark eye he comes,
Not for the poems but the crumbs:
We take good care he need not fear.

Is that the garden gate again?
Comes the maid to gather peas?
It is the gardener, well-known swain:
Our robin likes old friends like these.

But hark! that click once more, we see
A caller feathered for the day,

Crowning a bluff where gleams the lake below,
Some pillared pines in well-spaced order stand
And like an open temple show.
And here in best of seasons bland,
Autumnal noon-tide, I look out
From dusk arcades on sunshine all about.

Beyond the Lake, in upland cheer
Fields, pastoral fields, and barns appear,
They skirt the hills where lonely roads
Revealed in links through tiers of woods
Wind up to indistinct abodes
And faery-peopled neighborhoods;
While further fainter mountains keep

A CROWN of ivy! I submit my head
To the young hand that gives it,—young, 'tis true,
But with a right, for 'tis a poet's too
How pleasant the leaves feel! and how they spread
With their broad angles, like a nodding shed
Over both eyes! and how complete and new,
As on my hand I lean, to feel them strew
My sense with freshness,—Fancy's rustling bed!

Tress-tossing girls, with smell of flowers and grapes
Come dancing by, and downward piping cheeks,
And up-thrown cymbals, and Silenus old

Crowd back the hills and give me room,
Nor goad me with the sense of things;
Earth cramps me like a narrow tomb,
Your sunlight is too dense for wings;
Away with all horizon bars;
Push back the mountains and the stars.

A Crow sat perched upon an oak,
And in his beak he held a cheese.
A Fox snuffed up the savory breeze,
And thus in honeyed accent spoke:
"O Prince of Crows, such grace of mien
Has never in these parts been seen.
If but your song be half as good,
You are the Phoenix of the wood!"
The Crow, beside himself with pleasure,
And eager to display his voice,
Opened his beak, and dropped his treasure.
The Fox was on it in a trice.
"Learn, sir," said he, "that flatterers live
On those who swallow what they say.

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud
Not of war only, but detractions rude,
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed,
And on the neck of crownèd Fortune proud
Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pursued,
While Darwen stream with blood of Scots imbrued
And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud,
And Worcester's laureate wreath; yet much remains
To conquer still; peace hath her victories
No less renowned than war; new foes arise,

"Crom Cruach and his sub-gods twelve,'
Said Cormac, "are but craven treene;
The axe that made them, haft or helve,
Hath worthier of our worship been.

"But He who made the tree to grow,
And his in earth the iron-stone,
And made the man with mind to know
The axe's use, is God alone.'

Anon to priests of Crom was brought--
Where, girded in their service dread,
They minister'd on red Moy Slaught--
Word of the words King Cormac said.

They loosed their curse against the king;