The bread and the wine had a doom,
For these were the folk of the air;
He sat and played in a dream
Of her long dim hair.

He played with the merry old men,
And thought not of evil chance,
Until one bore Bridget his bride
Away from the merry dance.

He bore her away in his arms,

The handsomest young man there, And his neck and his breast and his

arms

Were drowned in her long dim hair.

O'Driscoll got up from the grass

And scattered the cards with a cry; But the old men and dancers were gone As a cloud faded into the sky.

He knew now the folk of the air,

And his heart was blackened by dread, And he ran to the door of his house;

Old women were keening the dead;

But he heard high up in the air
A piper piping away;
And never was piping so sad
And never was piping so gay.

THE SONG OF THE OLD MOTHER

I RISE in the dawn, and I kneel and blow Till the seed of the fire flicker and glow. And then I must scrub, and bake, and sweep,

Till stars are beginning to blink and peep;

But the young lie long and dream in their bed

Of the matching of ribbons, the blue and the red,

And their day goes over in idleness, And they sigh if the wind but lift up a tress;

While I must work, because I am old And the seed of the fire gets feeble and cold.

I am myriad years of pain Nearer to the fount of life.

When defiance fierce is thrown At the god to whom you bow, Rest the lips of the Unknown Tenderest upon my brow.

ΟΜ

A MEMORY

FAINT grew the yellow buds of light
Far flickering beyond the snows,
As leaning o'er the shadowy white
Morn glimmered like a pale primrose.

Within an Indian vale below

A child said "OM" with tender heart,
Watching with loving eyes the glow
In dayshine fade and night depart.

The word which Brahma at his dawn
Outbreathes and endeth at his night,
Whose tide of sound so rolling on
Gives birth to orbs of pearly light;

And beauty, wisdom, love, and youth,
By its enchantment gathered grow
In agelong wandering to the Truth,
Through many a cycle's ebb and flow.

And here the voice of earth was stilled,
The child was lifted to the Wise:
A strange delight his spirit filled,
And Brahm looked from his shining eyes.

IMMORTALITY

WE must pass like smoke or live within the spirit's fire,

For we can no more than smoke unto the flame return,

If our thought has changed to dream or will unto desire.

As smoke we vanish though the fire may burn.

Lights of infinite pity star the gray dusk of our days:

Surely here is soul; with it we have eternal breath:

In the fire of love we live or pass by many

ways,

By unnumbered ways of dream to death.

THE MUSIC-HALL

THE curtain on the grouping dancers falls, The heaven of color has vanished from our eyes;

Stirred in our seats we wait with vague

surmise

What haply comes that pleases or that palls.

Touched on the stand the thrice-struck baton calls,

Once more I watch the unfolding curtain rise,

I hear the exultant violins premise The well-known tune that thrills me and enthralls.

Then trembling in my joy I see you flash Before the footlights to the cymbals' clash, With laughing lips, swift feet, and brilliant glance,

You, fair as heaven and as a rainbow bright,

You, queen of song and empress of the dance,

Flower of mine eyes, my love, my heart's delight!

EXPECTATION

COME while the afternoon of May Is sweet with many a lilac-spray,

607

Come while the sparrows chirping fare
From branch to branch across the square.
Come like the dawn and bring to me
The fresh winds of an open sea,
Come like the stars of night and bear
All consolation in thine hair.

Bring me release from ancient pain, Bring me the hopes of joy found vain, Bring me thy sweetness of the dove, Come, sweet, and bring thyself and love!

A VAIN DESIRE

DEAR, did you know how sweet to me Was every glance of yours, how sweet The laugh that lights your face with glee, The passing murmur of your feet,

And seeing perchance with grief how vain

The love that makes you sadly dear Did grant for my unuttered pain

A whispered word, a smile, a tear

Dropped like a star from Paradise,

Then might I bless my weary state, Though you behold me from the skies And I on earth am desolate.

THE SEVEN WHISTLERS WHISTLING strangely, whistling sadly, whistling sweet and clear, The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor;

It was not in the morning, nor the noonday's golden grace,

It was in the dead waste midnight, when the tide yelped loud in the Race ; The tide swings round in the Race, and they're plaining whisht and low, And they come from the gray sea-marshes, where the gray sea-lavenders grow; And the cotton grass sways to and fro; And the gore-sprent sundews thrive With oozy hands alive. Canst hear the curlews' whistle through thy dreamings dark and drear, How they're crying, crying, crying, Pentruan of Porthmeor?

Shall thy hatchment, mouldering grimly in yon church amid the sands,

Stay trouble from thy household? Or the carven cherub-hands

Which hold thy shield to the font? Or the gauntlets on the wall

Keep evil from its onward course, as the great tides rise and fall?

The great tides rise and fall, and the cave sucks in the breath

Of the wave when it runs with tossing spray, and the ground-sea rattles of Death; "I rise in the shallows," 'a saith,

"Where the mermaid's kettle sings, And the black shag flaps his wings! Ay, the green sea-mountain leaping may lead horror in its rear, When thy drenched sail leans to its yawning trough Pentruan of Porthmeor!

Yet the stoup waits at thy doorway for its load of glittering ore,

And thy ships lie in the tideway, and thy flocks along the moor;

And thine arishes gleam softly when the October moonbeams wane,

When in the bay all shining the fishers set the seine;

The fishers cast the seine, and 't is "Heva!"

in the town,

And from the watch-rock on the hill the huers are shouting down;

And ye hoist the mainsail brown,
As over the deep-sea roll

The lurker follows the shoal;

To follow and to follow, in the moonshine silver-clear,

When the halyards creak to thy dipping sail, Pentruan of Porthmeor!

And wailing, and complaining, and whistling whisht and clear,

The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor!

It was not in the morning, nor the noonday's golden grace,

It was in the fearsome midnight, when the tide-dogs yelped in the Race: -The tide swings round in the Race, and they're whistling whisht and low, And they come from the lonely heather,

where the fur-edged foxgloves blow; And the moor-grass sways to and fro; Where the yellow moor-birds sigh, And the sea-cooled wind sweeps by. Canst hear the curlews' whistle through the darkness wild and drear, How they're calling, calling, calling, Pentruan of Porthmeor?

As the pale hedge-lilies around the dark elder wind,

Clasp thy white arms about me, nor look behind.

The rosy musk-mallow is closed, and the soft leaves' laughter Follows our footsteps after !