When Champlain with his faithful band
Came o'er the stormy wave
To dwell within this lonely land,
Their hearts were blithe as brave;
And Winter, by their mirth beguiled,
Forgot his sterner mood,
As by the prattling of a child
A churl may be subdued.

Among the company there came
A dozen youths of rank,
Who in their eager search for fame
From no adventure shrank;
But, with the lightness of their race
That hardship laughs to scorn,
Pursued the pleasures of the chase
'Till night from early morn.

Sweet Lady, I have watched thee now for years,
Taking thy stand beneath the almond tree;
When twilight fades, when the shy moon out-peers,
And stars steal out, then also cometh thee.
Yes, we are chosen friends, the stars and me;
They are so patient, and they watch so late;
They may have lovers, too. Howe'er that be,
True love can wait.

But time is fleeting, like the silver light,
The fickle light, that leaves the river's breast;
The winds are robbing blossoms of their white,—
And ah, how lonely is an empty nest!

Where Foyle his swelling waters rolls northward to the main,
Here, Queen of Erin's daughters, fair Derry fixed her reign.
A holy temple crowned her, and commerce graced her street,
A rampart wall was round her, the river at her feet;
And here she sat alone, boys, and looking from the hill
Vowed The Maiden on her throne, boys, would be a maiden still.

From Antrim crossing over in famous eighty-eight
A plumed and belted lover came to the Ferry gate:
She summoned to defend her our sires—a beardless race—
Who shouted N O Surrender ! and slammed it in his face.

Farewell , kind heart! And if there be
In that unshored immensity
Child-Angels, they will welcome thee.

Clean-souled, clear-eyed, unspoiled, discreet,
Thou gav'st thy gifts to make Life sweet,—
These shall be flowers about thy feet!

At the end of all wrong roads I came
To the gates of the garden without a name.
There, till the spell should fail, I found
Sudden Elysium, strange with sound
Of unknown birds and waters wild
With voices unresolved for rest.
There every flower was fancy's child,
And every tree was glory's guest,
And Love, by darkness undefiled,
Went like the sun from east to west.

after five
times the poem
of thy remembrance
surprises with refrain

of unreasoning summer
that by responding
ways cloaked with renewal
my body turns toward

thee
again for the stars have been
finished in the nobler trees and
the language of leaves repeats

eventual perfection
while east deserves of dawn.
i lie at length, breathing
with shut eyes

the sweet earth where thou liest.

O Distinct
Lady of my unkempt adoration
if i have made
a fragile certain

song under the window of your soul

Men heard this roar of parleying starlings, saw,
A thousand years ago even as now,
Black rooks with white gulls following the plough
So that the first are last until a caw
Commands that last are first again,—a law
Which was of old when one, like me, dreamed how
A thousand years might dust lie on his brow
Yet thus would birds do between hedge and shaw.

Time swims before me, making as a day
A thousand years, while the broad ploughland oak
Roars mill-like and men strike and bear the stroke
Of war as ever, audacious or resigned,

Her Palace placed beneath a muddy road
And such the Influence of the dull Abode,
The Carrier's Horse above can scarsely drag his Load.
Here chose the Goddess her belov'd Retreat
Which Phoebus trys in vain to penetrate,
Adorn'd within by Shells of small expence
(Emblems of tinsel Rhime, and triffleing Sense),
Perpetual fogs enclose the sacred Cave,
The neighbouring Sinks their fragrant Odours gave.
In Contemplation here she pass'd her Hours
Closely attended by Subservient pow'rs:
Bold Prophanation with a Brazen brow,

As we sailed on the water blue,
Whisky Johnny,
A good long pull and a strong one too,
Whisky for my Johnny.

Whisky killed my brother Tom,
Whisky Johnny,
I drink whisky all day long,
Whisky for my Johnny.

Whisky made me pawn my clothes,
Whisky Johnny,
Whisky gave me this red nose,
Whisky for my Johnny.

Whisky stole my brains away,
Whisky Johnny,
The bos'n pipes and I'll belay,
Whisky for my Johnny.

The little bell still sounds as loud and clear
As when she rang it, standing at the door;
And still the happy children when they hear
Run in from play, though she will ring no more.

But whether they remember, as they storm
The threshold, who once rang it, none can tell,
Or if for them each night a ghostly form
From some dim threshold tinkles a ghostly bell.