The key of the lock of the Irish is missing; it has been lamented throughout Ireland; weak will they find the grip of the lock since its golden rivet is wanting. The key to seal it is missing: the peace of Ireland will be unsubdued; since the loss Ireland got no peace; her lock has gone abroad. The fostering of the daughter of Ó Domhnaill was the key to the peace of the Offspring of Conn; the taking of Gormlaith eastwards over the mountains closed the doors of war.

The grit blythnes, and joy inestimabil,
For to set furth the Scottis ar nocht abil;
Nor for to mak condigne solemnitie,
For the gude news, and tythings comfortabil,
Of the contract of maryage honorabil,
Betwix the Quene's maist nobil majestie,
And the gritist young prince in christentie,
And alsua to us the maist prositabil,
Of France the Dolphin, first son of King Henrie.

All lustie wowars, and hardie chevaleris,
Go dress your hors, your harnes, and your geiris,
To rin at lists, to just, and to turnay;

I sometimes fancy in France is left alone
The love of beauty. — What our world will be
When foul-breathed iron-clads possess the sea
That once was white-armed Venus white-waved throne —
When with one piteous cry, one deathless moan,
She feels that fragrance from her rose must flee, —
What then from earth will fade eternally
Art dimly guesses; not the worst is known.

America, with England in her wake,
Worships alone success and wealth. She strives
On the waste debris of uncounted lives
Babels to build that shadow the daybreak

The quyet pawse that silente night,
Doth bring from trauayles past:
Of daye no sooner had by sleight,
A slumber on me cast.
But in my sleepe there did appeare,
Sixe sauadge men in mosse and haire.

A Fagot bounde the foremost wight,
Me thought in hande did beare:
Which ioyntly and alone through might,
All sought to breake and teare,
Yet still in vaine their strength they tryde,
Eche parte to other was so tyde.

Till wresting long, a stick at last,
One forth by sleight doth wring,
Whereby the Bundell knitte so fast,

The poet sees the angel who will be
Within the eyes of woman. Mystic, bright
Within the face that man despises, he
Perceives a glory strange, an unknown light.

He sees the angel that, far centuries hence,
When many a path of agony is trod,
Will stand with brow superb and gaze intense
Within the golden palace-walls of God.

Where reason rules, affections fonde doe flye,
And bewties beames smale bittirnesse may breede:
Where wisdome will, by vertues skill doth tye,
C YPIDOS flames are quenched forth with speede.
Let reason then thy will by wisedome guyde,
So shalt thou safely shunne this stormie tyde.

The streaming stormes, that fast on me doe flowe,
The secrete sighes that waste my wofull breast:
The Isie colde I feele like flakes of Snowe,
The hidden harmes that breede my great vnreast.
By Fancies force doe cause such troublous tyde,
That shyp nowe shakes, which late in roade did ryde.

A SANG.

As absence is the greatest so
That Cupid's clients do suspect;
(Lang out of sicht engenders so
To presence the contrair effect;)
And as oblivion dois deject
The building of rememberance;

So lak of memorie dois neglect
The deids deserving recompance.
Of absence langour dois proceid;
And langour breids melancolie.
Melancolie procuirs the deid
Be sindrie kynds of maladie.
Thus may I gather easalie
That Absence is ane homiceid,
To martyre men maist crewellie,

I.

So many have gone before that now the further valleys
Are far more full of flowers and songs than sunlit alleys
Of earth's green woods forlorn. —
The hills of heaven resound to many a dead love's laughter: —
So many loves have gone! Shall we not hasten after?
So many loves are dead, — dead, or new-born!

II.

Oh, surely heaven is full of sweet familiar faces,
And hyacinths are there and ferns from forest-places
That here we know so well!

Take Marlowe's splendid and impassioned heart,
Full of divine Elizabethan fire:
Take Shelley's tenderness, and Shelley's lyre,
And touch dim heights wherethrough strange star-beams dart:
Take Hugo's sovereign love and sense of Art,
And Musset's sweet insatiable desire,
And Byron's wrath at king and priest and liar —
These diverse gifts to one swift soul impart: —
Then over and above these several powers
Add Christ's own changeless spirit of love for men;
Mix Shelley's love for stars and birds and flowers