The wandring Outlaw borne to woe,
and bred a banisht man:
Vntaught the suttle sleights of loue,
of loue this tale began.
When fyrst my sences dranke the sweete,
that gaue my body blood:
I felt no Foe to let my loue,
nor God against my good.
Tyll luste misreckned my delightes,
my wandring ioyes to ende:
And founde her out to stay such toyes,
to stande my trustie friende.
I boast the graunt if all were giuen,
it may, would God it might:
O happie man, more happie mayde,
if all had hit aright.

Woman herself is led astray by dreams
That lead the heart of man in turn astray.
Oh, will Night's blackness never change to day?
Shall we for ever chase elusive gleams?
Endless and vain the mad pursuing seems!
Soul after soul is born, — then hurled away,
Whither? Will Beauty's white foot ne'er delay.
Bright on an earth of flowers and sunlit streams?

Eternal Beauty, whom I wildly sought
When in my youth the long search first began.
If all my passionate seeking counts for nought,
That I was blinded by fierce light record,

I sometimes feel as if the dream divine
Of what fair Woman on this earth might be,
A dream that ever with sweet touch gladdened me
In the old days when youth and hope were mine,
A dream that met me in the soft starshine
Of even, or morn's sunlight o'er the sea, —
I sometimes feel that, if this dream must flee,
Distorted, baffled, is strong Love's design.

If England fails the dream to realize, —
If some pure Angel stooping from bright air
Met no response within dull human eyes, —
If back we have driven towards golden sunset-skies

Wondrous my vision in Eamhain on a still May morning: it indicates to me that something that has not been done will be done. I went one day to view Eamhain on a delectable, remarkable visit; it was a pleasant visitation; serene was my visit to the citadel. I sat in green Eamhain in the fortress of Macha Mongruadh, in the rath in which Mughain dwelt, the dwelling-place of Conchobhar and the rest. I was there a short while, sleep came upon me; about my eye there fell the drowsiness of slumber upon the down of a quilt of cool timothy-grass.

Thou art eternal, and thy flowers as well. —
The gold-brown ripples curling by the banks
Of Esk, — the meadow-sweet in tufted ranks, —
The vast eternal ocean's moonlit swell, —
The purple heather broidering moor and fell, —
The green rich grass, — the blossoms by the way, —
All that Love saw in Love's one perfect day, —
The yellow laughing corn, — the fern-lined dell: —

All these for ever, though we pass, abide:
The grey or green cliffs sloping to the tide;
The great black ships that clove the yielding deep;

Singer, who sawest that England loved of old
Was to herself and her own glory untrue, —
Singer, whose passionate heart, unerring, knew
That when the truculent foolish wild drums rolled
It was indeed that Honour's knell was tolled, —
Thou hast thy place among the nobler few
Whose spirits an austere destiny pursue,
Whose thoughts are flames, whose words are flawless gold.

Because thy voice condemned the deadly wrong,
Because thy sword flashed, quivering, from its sheath
When other bards stood mute, and robed in shame,

The boundless life of music now at times
Descends upon us: — lo! we form a part
Of music's wide unutterable heart,
And mix, in rapture, with the eternal rhymes.
We traverse, in a dream, strange spirit-climes;
We hear strange oceans beating on white shores;
We thread strange rivers to the plash of oars
Unearthly, ringing round us silvery chimes.

The spirit of music lifts us, — and our love
Becomes a passion every change above:
The spirit of music aids us, and its fire
Is one with us in one intense desire:

Here is the history of Muan from the battle of Carraig of ancient Cuan, such that the kings of Banbha may be considered, their deeds and the branches of their pedigree. Niall Naoighiallach of the mighty strength was the grandfather of Muan of the tapering fingers; as far as Muir nIocht there is no place where his grandfather's descendants cannot be found. The son of Eoghan, son of modest Niall, was the father of Muan of the great encounters; curly Muireadhach of the hundred slayings was the lock of the gory Men of the Western Land.

Eternal God, O tak away thy scourge
[Now] from us Scottis for thy grit mercìe!
Send us thy help this land to clenge and purge
Of discord, and [of all] inamitie,
Betwix the legis and authoritie,
That we may leif in peax, withoutin deir;
In lawtie, law; in luif and libertie;
With merrines, now into this new yeir.

Almichtie God, send us support and grace!
Of mannis help for we ar all desparit,
To mak concord that had sic tym and space;
And nane, as yet, hes eir] thair lawbor wairit;
As na man war that for this country carit.

How few there are on whom their City fair
And sweet as Athens in the old days shines!
London I loved, — her houses smoke-veiled lines,
Her towers, her sunless stream, her fog-damp air,
The tiger-lily in a London square
To me meant all things. What the soul divines
Of mystery, thrilling through a thousand signs,
This is our own, — this, fearless, we declare.

London I loved, — each Park, and every tree
In each, the red-billed swans, the sparrows gay,
The teeming busy life of every day.
Not the blue wavelets of a summer ocean