English

But ye, — ye Hills that gather round this day,
Ye Mountains, and ye Vapours, and ye Waves,
Ye will attest the wrongs of men of clay,
When, in a World all hush'd, sits on our graves
The melancholy Maker. From your caves
Strange echoes of our old lost life shall come;
With still eyes fixed on your vast architraves,
Nature shall speak, though mortal lips be dumb.
Then God will cry: " Sadly the Waters fall,
Sadly the Mountains keep their snowy state,
The Clouds pass on, the Winds and Echoes call,

If I can help another bear an ill
By bearing mine with somewhat of good grace —
Can take Fate's thrusts with not too long a face
And help him through his trials, then I WILL!
For do not braver men than I decline
To bow to troubles graver, far, than mine?

Pain twists this body? Yes, but it shall not
Distort my soul, by all the gods that be!
And when it's done its worst, Pain's victory
Shall be an empty one! Whate'er my lot,
My banner, ragged, but nailed to the mast,
Shall fly triumphant to the very last!

I found Thee not by the starved widow's bed,
Nor in the sick-rooms where my dear ones died;
In Cities vast I hearken'd for Thy tread,
And heard a thousand call Thee, wretched-eyed,
Worn out, and bitter. But the Heavens denied
Their melancholy Maker. From the Dead!
Assurance came. nor answer. Then I fled
Into these wastes, and raised my hands, and cried:
‘The seasons pass—the sky is as a pall—
Thin wasted hands on withering hearts we press—
There is no God—in vain we plead and call,

Exert thy power, thy rights maintain,
Insulted, everlasting King!
The influence of thy law increase,
And strangers to thy footstool bring.

In one vast symphony of praise,
Let every race and clime unite;
And infidelity, ashamed,
Sink in the abyss of endless night.

Afric's emancipated sons
Shall shout to Asia's rapt'rous throng;
Europe resound her savior's fame,
And western climes the notes prolong.

From east to west, from north to south,
The savior's kingdom must extend;

The war-pies blow, and with joy I go from Aileach's Halls to the hosting-field,
I have roused my men from each Ulster glen in the glitter of rustless spear and shield.

They are yours for life, O'Cearbhall's wife, or yours for death in the battle's blare —
When our blue-sharp swords through Leinster's hordes shall cut a pathway for vengeance there.

Shall cleave and kill with a mighty will, shall hack and hew for your woe or weal,
Till one who is best on his foeman's breast shall press in triumph the victor heel.

Fathoms deep the ship doth lie,
Wreath'd with ocean weed and shell,
Still and deep the shadows lie,
Dusky as a forest dell:
Tangled in the twisted sail,
With the breathing of the Sea,
Stirs the Man who told this tale,
Staring upward dreamilie.

I laid him here, and scarcely wept; but look!
His grave is green and wild and like a wave,
And strewn with ocean-shells instead of flowers.

" The Lord on him forgot to put His mark ."

SANDIE .

O Lord above, swift is Thy wrath and deep!
And yet by grace Thou sanctionest Thy sheep;
And blest are they who till the day o' doom
Like haddocks bear the marking of Thy thoomb;
And curst, in spite of works and prayers, are they
On whom Thy mark has ne'er been printed sae.
For while the non-elected lie beneath,
And fast in flaming fire, and gnash their teeth,
Above their heads, where streams of honey spring,
Thine Elders stand in shining sarks, and sing,

" He crept close to Creation's brim, and heard a roar like water."

TIMOTHY .

Well, here's the cuckoo come again, after the barley sowing,
Down on the duck-pond in the lane the white-weed is a-blowing,
The gorse has got its coat of gold, and smells as sweet as clover,
The lady-smocks are blowing bold, the primroses nigh over,
On field and fold all things look fair, and lambkins white are leaping,
The speckled snakes crawl here and there, — but Holy Tommie's sleeping.

JACOB .

Skies are dusky, winds are keen,
Round Lallan Farm this Hallowe'en.

All is dark across the night,
But see! one glimmer of pink light!

What are those that in the air
Flit against the window-glare?

Falling flakes of snow they seem,
Or night-moths gather'd by the gleam.

Round and round they wind and wind, —
Tiny shades against the blind.

Child, wish now! while thou canst see!
'Tis the fairy companie!

Once a year, on Hallowe'en,
Are the fairy people seen.

Are there no prayers in heaven?
No holy questions ask'd?
No holy time in seven?
No holy wish advanc'd?
About their clay
That sleeps in dust,
How long it may,
How long it must.

Are there no sermons heard
On heaven's immortal plain,
No mighty preacher rear'd
Of everlasting fame?
To speak for God
With solemn awe,
Open his word,
Explain his law.

Is there no mighty man,
For wisdom sound and clear,
Whose mighty genius can
This noble title bear?
No Paul to plant,