Accursed is he who, without affection for his pale face with its soft, grassy down, caused Giolla Pádraig to blush and reddened the cheek of the pale, noble hero—woe to him who ought not have done so—over the matter of a gift. Cursed is he who embarrassed the smiling cheek of the ruddy, dark-taloned hawk; to bring colour to the expanse of the white level of his countenance was a thing unheard of. Accursed is the tongue that brought anger across his royal, havoc-bringing face; O God, to anger the hero as he drank with my kinsmen was an unjust deed.

The Muses calde a Courte of late,
Wherein they deemde of sundry deedes:
To scan eche cause in seate they sate,
The summond peere and law proceedes.
The truth they sought of all mens harts,
And deemde of eche by his desarts.

So some were saude, and some I sawe,
Condemde to dye by Iustice might:
Among the which by course of lawe
Approcht to barre a worthy wight,
Whome festred Enuy sought to spoyle,
By forged lyes his fayth to foyle.

Vpon whose talke he was araynde,
Holde vp thy hande quoth Doubt by name,

Yet deeper is my passionate tenderness.
The nearer that thou art, the more thine eyes
Are ever to me, love, a sweet surprise;
Purer than fancy's is thy warm caress.
If at a distance I had cause to bless,
What shall I say now that God's bluest skies
Of cordial summer, deep with ecstasies,
Beam round me, freed for e'er from each distress?

Oh whiter than the soul of which I dreamed
Is this thine own soul, now its wealth has gleamed
Upon me, brought by God for ever close;
Sweeter the body of wonder I adored,

Something of the awe has vanished from my strain,
It may be; now that thou art wholly near
It is a softer task to sing thee, dear;
There is not the old yearning, nor the pain.
We cannot crave the rose that we retain
In our own hands, made fragrant from the touch:
We cannot long for present joys so much
As for the gifts no passionate prayer could gain.

O white rose, perfect lady of my song,
Desired and sought and struggled for so long,
Now that thy petals sweet within my clasp
Abide, the passionate agony is over,

I accuse you, O Áth Seanaigh; everyone has died in your unequal combat; one met guile and shame upon you; poor your profit to the Irish. I accuse you, O ford in the east, at which ere now my fortune was not slight; it is no reproach to you if the fact is whispered: poorly did you withstand the Foreigners. O Éirne, it is a cause for laughter, how Grainne frequented your mouth and all of your pure estuary with its blue eddies; you have now relinquished your pleasant tumult. O Éirne of Fathadh Canann, about whom every fine apple-tree ripened, what ship does not chance your harbour?

The force of Christ, his everlasting might
We need, the spirit superb that through him flows.
We also need the Christ within the rose:
We also need the sun-god's glance of light.
No one Ideal can content us quite.
Ever man's unextinguished yearning glows,
Fervent and deep the more, the more he knows.
Christ's hands were pierced. Apollo's limbs were white

O God, whom all the universe explains,
Reveals, expresses, surely thou art found
Enthroned in every heart, whose shrine contains
The love of thee! Not in earth's sunless fanes

My life is hid with Beatrice in God, —
And hidden with her in all things sweet as well;
In every flower whereon her footstep fell,
Each rose rich-blushing on the sunny sod.
She, being sweet, can clothe my soul with sweetness
And subtle mystic power too fair to tell,
And all poetic passionate completeness;
She, being glad, can lift from sorrow's hell.

My life is hid with Beatrice in pleasure, —
My life is hid with her beyond the sky:
My fair delight, my love, my sweet-winged treasure,
The utter gift of God, she is; and I

Conall, champion of the Sons of Niall, was the noblest son of the proud stock; with him every kin that is in the north went forth in the beginning from Midhe. What brought the Sons of Niall of the nine hostages to Teamhair of Conn, whatever sent them from Lios Floinn there is no-one of us who does not know. Conall's foster-father — hard the oppression — a warrior of the province of Connaught, took up residence in Gulbain; he pressed hard against the rear of the Ulaidh.

Pessimist.

The world grows dark. — The poet's heart is dreaming;
But when he wakes from sleep,
Will he not see proud War's red harvest gleaming
Beneath white moons that weep?

Will he not understand the bitter anguish
Of all things here below?
Will he not mark the flowers and green leaves languish,
The sweet loves fade and go?

Will he not learn that God dwells at a distance,
Far past the reach of prayer?
Will he not teach, and teach with stern insistence,

Rejois, Henrie, most Christine King of Fraunce!
Rejois, all peopill of that regioun!
That with manheid, and be ane happy chance,
Be thy Levetennent trew, of greit renown,
The Duik of Gweis, recoverit Calice towne.
The quhilk hes bene, twa hundreth yeirs begane,
Into the hands of Inglis natioun;
Quha never thocht be force it micht be tane.

But we may se that mennis jugement
Is all bot vaine, when God plesis to schaw
His michtie power: quha is omnipotent;
For, quhen he plesis, he gars princes knaw
That it is he alane quha rewlis aw: