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She breathed divinity into his heart,
Trust in'a God still lives, That rare divinity of watching those
And the bell at morn Slow growths that make a nettle learn to Floats with a thought of God dart
O'er the rising corn. The puny poison of its little throes.
God comes down in the rain, Her miracles of motion, butterflies,
And the crop grows tall Rubies and sapphires skimming lily-crests,
This is the country faith, Carved on a yellow petal with their eyes
And the best of all ! Tranced by the beauty of their powdered
A DEAD FRIEND
Beneath this great blue shell of sky
The bursting rosebud's edge of flame, Or down sweet avenues of scented lime. Or watch the blackbird's swelling throat
While he is but a name. And Nature trained him tenderly to know The rain of melodies in coverts heard. No more the chaffinch at his step Let him but catch the cadences that flow Pipes suddenly her shrill surprise, From bollybush or lilac, elm or sloe, For in an ecstasy of sleep And he would mate the music with the bird. Unconsciously he lies, The faintest song a redstart ever sang, Not knowing that the sweet brown lark Was redstart's piping, and the whitethroat From off her bosom's feathery lace knew
Shakes down the dewdrop in her flight No cunning trill, no mazy shake that rang To fall upon his face. Doubtful on ears unaided by the view. But in his glory, as a young pure priest
CONTENT In that great temple, only roofed by stars, An angel hastened from the sacred East Though singing but the shy and sweet To reap the wisest and to leave the least. Untrod by multitudes of feet, And as he moaned upon the couch of death, Songs bounded by the brook and wheat, Breathing away his little share of breath, I have not failed in this, All suddenly be sprang upright in bed ! The only lure my woodland note, Life, like a ray, poured fresh into his face, To win all England's whitest throat ! Flooding the hollow cheeks with passing O bards in gold and fire who wrote, grace.
Be yours all other bliss ! He listened long, then pointed up
above ; Laughed a low laugh of boundless joy and love
THE FIRST KISS That was a plover called, he softly said, And on his wife's breast fell, serenely On Helen's heart the day were night! dead !
But I may not adventure there :
Her breast is guarded by a right,
And she is true as fair.
And though in happy days her eyes
The glow within mine own could please,
She's purer than the babe who cries
For empire on her knees.
A CURLEW'S CALL
You 'll cross dark an' light times and agin
between Creggan and Kandahar. "Έκλυον αν εγώ ουδ' αν ήλπισ' αυδάν. WHETHEN is it yourself, Mister Hagan ? And is Norah along wid you? Well, Norah an' lookin' right hearty you are ;
jewel, how 's yourself all this year
? 'T is a thrate to behold you agin. You 'll Sure she's thin grown and white, sir, to be waitin' to take the long car
what I remember her last time we For Kilmoyna, the same as meself, sir ?
were here. They're late at the cross-roads to- Took could in the spring ? Ah, begorrah, night,
the March win 's as bad as a blight; For I mind when the days ’ud be long, But the weather we git in Afghanistan,
they'd be here ere the droop of the troth, 't would destroy her outright. light,
For in summer Ould Horny seems houldin' Yet out yonder far over the bog there's the earth in the heat of his hand, the sunset beginnin' to burn
And in winther the snow 's the great ghost Like the red of a camp-fire raked low, and of a world settled down on the land, no sign of thim roundin' the turn. Wid a blast keenin' over it fit to be freezin'
the sun where he shone ; So the dark 'll git ahead of us home on this If they'd lease you that counthry rint-free, jaunt; we've good ten mile to go,
you 'd do righter to let it alone. And thin afther the rain-pours this mornin',
we're apt to be draggin' an' slow- Glad enough to be ought of it? Well, in Ay, you're right, sir : alongside the road a way, but I've this on me mind,
I've been thravellin' you'd scarce That I'm come like the winther's worst day, count that far ;
after lavin' me betthers behind ;
An' the nearer I git to the ould place at The way of it ? Our picket was ridin' in home, it's the stranger I seem,
be the wall of the little white town, Missin' thim I 'll behold there no more till That's stuck like a blaiched wasps' nest in me furlough I take in a dream.
the gap where the ridge of the hills But the divil a dream 's in it now, and I'd breaks down, liefer dream ugly than think
And the big fat plain spreads out and What Jack Connolly's folk 'll remember about, you might say 't was a bog
whinever they notice the blink Of me coat past their hedge, and I goin' | Lookin' nathural enough till you notice,
their road. Jack's poor mother be- pricked up ʼgin the light in the sky, like
Their two thin towers, like an ould snail's 'Ill be feedin' her hins in the door, or else horns be the shell of their haythin gath'rin' her clothes at the dyke,
dome, And it's down to the gate she 'll be runnin' Peerin' out of a purpose to put you in and callin', an' biddin' me step in ;
mind where you've thravelled from And she 'll say to me : “Well, Dan, you 're
home. home, and I'm glad, sure, to see We were ridin' too close ; I remember you agin.”
along on the white of the wall Quare an' glad, I'll be bound, wid the The front men's helmets went bob, bob,
thought in her heart of how long bob, in blue shadow, sthretched she might wait,
won'erful tall, Ere she'd see her own slip of a redcoat For the sunbames were raichin' their fur
come route-marchin'in at her gate ; thest aslant from the edge of the He that 's campin' apart from us, joined day,
wid the throop who shift quarters Where the light ran, dhrained over the no more ;
earth, like a wave turnin' back to Crep' in under the tent that 's wide worlds
beyond call, tho' 't was pitched at All hot gold. Howane'er, when we past your door.
where their straight-archin' door Ah, the crathur: 't is poor bits of hope opened black,
folk take up wid whin luck's turnin' Wid the dust - thracks they thramp into bad !
roads glamin' in at it, off went a She that not so long since 'ud be thinkin' crack,
she'd soon git a sight of the lad, And ere ever an echo got rappin' the hills, There she 'll stand wid her eyes on
or the smoke riz to float, face, till I see all as plain 's if I 'T was a plunge, and a thud, and Jack Conheard
nolly down wid him, shot in the How she's wond'rin', an dhreadin' to ask,
So be raison of we two bein' neighbors, That's the notion's come home wid me ; they bid me mind Jack while they faix, I get thinkin' it every odd
To make out what the mischief at all the Maybe oft as a lamed horse shrinks his fut rapscallion that potted him meant ; in the len’th of a stony mile.
Some ould objic' wisped up in his rags head
and fut, the crow's notice to quit, You 'll remember Jack Connolly, sir ? Ay, Wid a quare carabine 'ud scarce fright
for sure, 't is good neighbors you 've e'er a bird who'd a scrumption of been
wit. Since he was n’t the height of your stick, But it was able enough for that job, and and meself but a bit of spalpeen.
be hanged to it; Jack's business was Great the pair of us both were ; out most done,
whiles off over the bog and away, As you could n't misdoubt. All the west But the end of it happint us yonder at sun
swam clear fire round the smooth, set last Pathrick's Day.
Dropped down steady as a shell thro' still And the people widin at their suppers wather ; but 't would n't be sunk out
ne'er thinkin' no great while ago of sight
It was dazzlin' Jack's eyes as he looked for Ere the lad had got finished wid dyin', and me face wid the last of his sight.
gone beyond darkness and light. And sez I to him, “ What is it, lad ?" but And between whiles 't was divil as much
I knew I might listen all night could I do to be helpin' him ; just And no answer; the sorra a chance to Keep beside him, and dhrive the black fly
be bringin' thim a word we'd ha' buzz, and lift up his head from the
On'y Jack had more sinse in him yet And hear tell had he aught in his mind. than meself that was hearty and But, och man, if his heart was to
For he looked towards the rim of the west Every whisper of voice he had in him was wid the sun hangin' ready to fall,
kilt, not a word could he spake. And he whistled two notes quick and lowSure now that was conthrary. An instant
well I knew it: the curlew's call. before 't was no odds what he said, And he'd laughed, and he'd gabbed on I'd not aisy mistake it ; sure out on these galore, any blathers come into his bogs scarce a minit goes by,
But anear or afar on the win' comes a But wid on'y a minit to hold all his speech flicker of the crathur's cry in for ever and a day,
Faith I heard wan just thin — and on many Just one breath of a word like a hand
a day, ere the sun 'ud be up, raichin' worlds' worlds an' years' | And around and around stood the gray of years away,
the air like a big empty cup, 'T is sthruck dumb he was, same as his Fit to hold every sound ever stirred, and to crathur of a baste that stood watch
catch all the light ever shone, in' us there,
I'd be out wid me on to our bogland, all Wid big eyes shinin' fright, and snuffin' desolit lyin', and lone the throuble up out of the air. As they say whin you've watched the low
shore till it dips where the ridges 'T was a throuble swep' nearer, an' blacker,
an'surer; the whole world stood And I'd spy was there e'er a wan out, and still ;
belike not a sowl to be seen You'd as aisy turn back a cloud's shadow, Save Jack whistlin' away to me down be that 's tuk to slide over a hill.
the lough ; you'd ha' swore 't was There was Jack wid the life failin' out
the bird, of him fast as the light from the Barrin' just the laste differ; Jack done it
the likest that ever I heard. That came fingerin' the grass wid long And there's plenty that thry at it. Seldom rays, blade be blade, an' thin twin
a sunsit throops out of the west klin' up high
But some lad 'll be whistlin' his sweetOn the gold spark atop their green dome. heart, that's sittin' and listenin' her And I thought to meself how the best,
While the corners grow dark, and she 's Blamed ould sunset ’ud thrapese away to
reckonin' the shadows for 'fraid he the west till the shine of it came,
might fail. Flarin' red in the bog-houles, an' bright So his cali lit the world like a star. Ne'er
past the turf-stacks, and in at the a sweetheart had Jack, I 'll go bail, door
For the truth is his mind was tuk up Of the little ould place down the lonin', wid his own folk; it could n't be that Jack 'ud set fut in no more,
tould And 't would dance on their bits of gilt The opinion he had and consait of the
jugs, till they glittered like stars in whole of thim, young wans and a row,