O, little lonely mountain spot!

Your place within my heart will be Apart from all Life's busy lot A true, sweet, solemn memory.

_Rose Kavanagh_

THE CHILDREN OF LIR

Out upon the sand-dunes thrive the coa.r.s.e long gra.s.ses, Herons standing knee-deep in the brackish pool, Overhead the sunset fire and flame ama.s.ses, And the moon to Eastward rises pale and cool: Rose and green around her, silver-grey and pearly, Chequered with the black rooks flying home to bed; For, to wake at daybreak birds must couch them early, And the day's a long one since the dawn was red.

On the chilly lakelet, in that pleasant gloaming, See the sad swans sailing: they shall have no rest: Never a voice to greet them save the bittern's booming Where the ghostly sallows sway against the West.

'Sister,' saith the grey swan, 'Sister, I am weary,'

Turning to the white swan wet, despairing eyes; 'O,' she saith, 'my young one.' 'O,' she saith, 'my dearie,'

Casts her wings about him with a storm of cries.

Woe for Lir's sweet children whom their vile step-mother Glamoured with her witch-spells for a thousand years; Died their father raving--on his throne another-- Blind before the end came from his burning tears.

She--the fiends possess her, torture her for ever, Gone is all the glory of the race of Lir; Gone and long-forgotten like a dream of fever: But the swans remember all the days that were.

Hugh, the black and white swan with the beauteous feathers; Fiachra, the black swan with the emerald breast; Conn, the youngest, dearest, sheltered in all weathers, Him his snow-white sister loves the tenderest.

These her mother gave her as she lay a-dying, To her faithful keeping, faithful hath she been, With her wings spread o'er them when the tempest's crying, And her songs so hopeful when the sky's serene.

Other swans have nests made 'mid the reeds and rushes, Lined with downy feathers where the cygnets sleep Dreaming, if a bird dreams, till the daylight blushes, Then they sail out swiftly on the current deep, With the proud swan-father, tall, and strong, and stately, And the mild swan-mother, grave with household cares, All well-born and comely, all rejoicing greatly: Full of honest pleasure is a life like theirs.

But alas! for my swans, with the human nature, Sick with human longings, starved with human ties, With their hearts all human, cramped in a bird's stature, And the human weeping in the bird's soft eyes.

Never shall my swans build nests in some green river, Never fly to southward in the autumn grey, Rear no tender children, love no mates for ever, Robbed alike of bird's joys and of man's are they.

Babbled Conn the youngest, 'Sister, I remember At my father's palace how I went in silk, Ate the juicy deer-flesh roasted from the ember, Drank from golden goblets my child's draught of milk.

Once I rode a-hunting, laughed to see the hurly, Shouted at the ball-play, on the lake did row; You had for your beauty gauds that shone so rarely': 'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.'

'Sister,' saith Fiachra, 'well do I remember How the flaming torches lit the banquet hall, And the fire leaped skyward in the mid-December, And amid the rushes slept our staghounds tall.

By our father's right hand you sat shyly gazing, Smiling half and sighing, with your eyes aglow, As the bards sang loudly, all your beauty praising'; 'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.'

'Sister,' then saith Hugh, 'most do I remember One I called my brother, you, earth's goodliest man, Strong as forest oaks are where the wild vines clamber, First at feast or hunting, in the battle's van.

Angus, you were handsome, wise and true and tender, Loved by every comrade, feared by every foe: Low, low lies your beauty, all forgot your splendour': 'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.'

Dews are in the clear air, and the roselight paling, Over sands and sedges shines the evening star, And the moon's disk high in heaven is sailing, Silvered all the spear-heads of the rushes are-- Housed warm are all things as the night grows colder, Water-fowl and sky-fowl dreamless in the nest, But the swans go drifting, drooping wings and shoulder, Cleaving the still waters where the fishes rest.

_Katharine Tynan Hinkson_

ST. FRANCIS TO THE BIRDS

Little sisters, the birds, We must praise G.o.d, you and I-- You with songs that fill the sky; I, with halting words.

All things tell His praise, Woods and waters thereof sing, Summer, winter, autumn, spring, And the nights and days.

Yea, and cold and heat, And the sun, and stars, and moon, Sea with her monotonous tune, Rain and hail and sleet.

And the winds of heaven, And the solemn hills of blue, And the brown earth and the dew, And the thunder even,

And the flowers' sweet breath,-- All things make one glorious voice; Life with fleeting pains and joys And our brother--Death.

Little flowers of air, With your feathers soft and sleek And your bright brown eyes and meek, He hath made you fair.

He hath taught to you Skill to weave on tree and thatch Nests where happy mothers hatch Speckled eggs of blue.

And hath children given: When the soft heads overbrim The brown nests; then thank ye Him In the clouds of heaven.

Also in your lives, Live His laws who loveth you.

Husbands, be ye kind and true; Be homekeeping wives.

Love not gossiping; Stay at home and keep the nest; Fly not here and there in quest Of the newest thing.

Live as brethren live; Love be in each heart and mouth; Be not envious, be not wroth, Be not slow to give.

When ye build the nest Quarrel not o'er straw or wool; He who hath, be bountiful To the neediest.

Be not puffed or vain Of your beauty or your worth, Of your children or your birth, Or the praise you gain.

Eat not greedily: Sometimes, for sweet mercy's sake, Worm or insect spare to take; Let it crawl or fly.

See ye sing not near To our church on holy day, Lest the human-folk should stray From their prayer to hear.

Now depart in peace, In G.o.d's name I bless each one; May your days be long i' the sun And your joys increase.

And remember me, Your poor brother Francis, who Loveth you, and thanketh you For this courtesy.

Sometimes when ye sing, Name my name, that He may take Pity for the dear song's sake On my shortcoming.

_Katharine Tynan Hinkson_

SHEEP AND LAMBS

All in the April morning, April airs were abroad; The sheep with their little lambs Pa.s.sed me by on the road.

The sheep with their little lambs Pa.s.sed me by on the road; All in the April evening, I thought on the Lamb of G.o.d.

The lambs were weary, and crying With a weak human cry, I thought on the Lamb of G.o.d Going meekly to die.

Up in the blue, blue mountains Dewy pastures are sweet: Rest for the little bodies, Rest for the little feet.