The Abbot of Inisfalen arose upon his feet; He heard a small bird singing, and O but it sung sweet!

It sung upon a holly-bush, this little snow-white bird; A song so full of gladness he never before had heard, It sung upon a hazel, it sung upon a thorn; He had never heard such music since the hour that he was born.

It sung upon a sycamore, it sung upon a briar; To follow the song and hearken the Abbot would never tire.

Till at last he well bethought him, he might no longer stay; So he bless'd the little white singing-bird, and gladly went his way.

But, when he came to his Abbey, he found a wondrous wondrous change; He saw no friendly faces there, for every face was strange.

The strange men spoke unto him; and he heard from all and each The foreign tongue of the Sa.s.senach, not wholesome Irish speech.

Then the oldest monk came forward, in Irish tongue spake he: 'Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress, and who hath given it to thee?'

'I wear the holy Augustine's dress, and Cormac is my name, The Abbot of this good Abbey by grace of G.o.d I am.

I went forth to pray, at the dawn of day; and when my prayers were said, I hearken'd awhile to a little bird, that sang above my head.'

The monks to him made answer, 'Two hundred years have gone o'er, Since our Abbot Cormac went through the gate, and never was heard of more.

Matthias now is our Abbot, and twenty have pa.s.s'd away.

The stranger is lord of Ireland; we live in an evil day.

Days will come and go,' he said, 'and the world will pa.s.s away: In Heaven a day is a thousand years, a thousand years are a day.'

'Now give me absolution; for my time is come,' said he.

And they gave him absolution, as speedily as might be.

Then, close outside the window, the sweetest song they heard That ever yet since the world began was utter'd by any bird.

The monks look'd out and saw the bird, its feathers all white and clean; And then in a moment, beside it, another white bird was seen.

Those two they sang together, waved their white wings, and fled; Flew aloft and vanish'd; but the good old man was dead.

They buried his blessed body where lake and green-sward meet, A carven cross above his head, a holly-bush at his feet; Where spreads the beautiful water to gay or cloudy skies, And the purple peaks of Killarney from ancient woods arise.

_William Allingham_

TWILIGHT VOICES

Now, at the hour when ignorant mortals Drowse in the shade of their whirling sphere, Heaven and h.e.l.l from invisible portals Breathing comfort and ghastly fear, Voices I hear; I hear strange voices, flitting, calling, Wavering by on the dusky blast,-- 'Come, let us go, for the night is falling; Come, let us go, for the day is past!'

Troops of joys are they, now departed?

Winged hopes that no longer stay?

Guardian spirits grown weary-hearted?

Powers that have linger'd their latest day?

What do they say?

What do they sing? I hear them calling, Whispering, gathering, flying fast,-- 'Come, come, for the night is falling; Come, come, for the day is past!'

Sing they to me?--'Thy taper's wasted; Mortal, thy sands of life run low; Thine hours like a flock of birds have hasted: Time is ending;--we go, we go.'

Sing they so?

Mystical voices, floating, calling; Dim farewells--the last, the last?

'Come, come away, the night is falling; Come, come away, the day is past.'

See, I am ready, Twilight voices!

Child of the spirit-world am I; How should I fear you? my soul rejoices, O speak plainer! O draw nigh!

Fain would I fly!

Tell me your message, Ye who are calling Out of the dimness vague and vast; Lift me, take me,--the night is falling; Quick, let us go,--the day is past.

_William Allingham_

FOUR DUCKS ON A POND

Four ducks on a pond, A gra.s.s-bank beyond, A blue sky of spring, White clouds on the wing: What a little thing To remember for years-- To remember with tears!

_William Allingham_

THE LOVER AND BIRDS

Within a budding grove, In April's ear sang every bird his best, But not a song to pleasure my unrest, Or touch the tears unwept of bitter love; Some spake, methought, with pity, some as if in jest.

To every word Of every bird I listen'd, or replied as it behove.

Scream'd Chaffinch, 'Sweet, sweet, sweet!

Pretty lovey, come and meet me here!'

'Chaffinch,' quoth I, 'be dumb awhile, in fear Thy darling prove no better than a cheat, And never come, or fly when wintry days appear.'

Yet from a twig, With voice so big, The little fowl his utterance did repeat.

Then I, 'The man forlorn Hears Earth send up a foolish noise aloft.'

'And what'll _he_ do? What'll _he_ do?' scoff'd The Blackbird, standing, in ancient thorn, Then spread his sooty wings and flitted to the croft With cackling laugh; Whom I, being half Enraged, called after, giving back his scorn.

Worse mock'd the Thrush, 'Die! die!

O, could he do it? could he do it? Nay!

Be quick! be quick! Here, here, here!' (went his lay).

'Take heed! take heed!' then, 'Why? why? why? why? why?

See-ee now! see-ee now!' (he drawl'd) 'Back! back!

back! R-r-r-run away!'

O Thrush, be still!

Or at thy will Seek some less sad interpreter than I.

'Air, air! blue air and white!

Whither I flee, whither, O whither, O whither I flee!'

(Thus the Lark hurried, mounting from the lea) 'Hills, countries, many waters glittering bright Whither I see, whither I see! deeper, deeper, deeper, whither I see, see, see!'

'Gay Lark,' I said, 'The song that's bred In happy nest may well to heaven make flight.'

'There's something, something sad I half remember'--piped a broken strain.

Well sung, sweet Robin! Robin sung again.

'Spring's opening cheerily, cheerily! be we glad!'

Which moved, I wist not why, me melancholy mad, Till now, grown meek, With wetted cheek, Most comforting and gentle thoughts I had.

_William Allingham_