Like Memnon's statue, grandly dumb,
Standing for ever bold, erect,
With open eyes that still expect
The sunrise that shall come-

Rome the Republic-Empire-she

The footstool of three hundred Popes-
Rome of the newer, wider hopes

That pulse through Italy

Aye, Rome the eternal city, throned
Upon the seven sacred hills,

And by the people's patient wills
Made new, her crimes atoned:

O unforgotten southern skies!

Though now I plough the northward sea, The white-winged memories fly with me, The young hopes re-arise.

And yet, though sweet the sunburnt South When daylight ebbs o'er west and east, The North shall not obtain the least

Of praises from my mouth;

For, now returned from golden lands,

I see Night lift her misty shroud,
And through the veil of morning cloud
The sun strikes northern sands;

I hail with joy the early ray

That gleams o'er valleys thrice more dear

My pulse beats quicker as I hear

Up from Killiney Bay

The whisper of familiar rills ;

And sudden tremors veil mine eyes

As, at a turn, before me rise

Long sought, the Wicklow Hills

LINES

SURELY a Voice hath called her to the deep-
The deep of heaven, star calling unto star:
Surely she passed but through the vale of sleep
That hideth from our hearts the things that are.

Surely the ringing music of the spheres

Sounds richlier to-day by one pure voice :
Ah! though we mourn its silence with our tears,
The stars we hear not, hearing it, rejoice.

WILLIAM KNOX JOHNSON,

Author of TERRA TENEBRARUM (1897), from which this poem is taken; a native of County Kildare, now a Civil Servant in Benares. Mr. Johnson has published a striking but unequal poem on the 'Death of Mangan,' and has written an admirable criticism on him as an interpreter of the Celtic genius to English readers.

AN ANNIVERSARY

How sweetly keen, how stirred the air!
The woods are thrilled at touch of spring;
Along the road from Château Vert

Gaily the thrushes sing.

No stranger here I come to-day!
I know the river winding slow,

This haze of blue, with green and grey;

And all the flowers I know.

With you I plucked them; now, alone.
The slope is starred with shaken flame
Three times the daffodils have blown
Since we together came.

A fire was in our souls; we spoke

Of Fate, the evil reign of things; How good men ever spurn the yoke That tyrant Nature brings.

'She knows no God; her law is hate.
Brave deed and duty still remain ;
Justice and Love we must create,
Whose quest of Love is vain.'

My hope was set across the seas;
I'd till a land with freer men,

Where greed no more the heart should freeze,
And Pity rule again.

In widening current from our shore

The great gulf-stream of joy should flow; Nations, their lethargy past o'er,

Should feel the answering glow!

Three years! and under dusking skies
To-night you cross the stream with me.
I cannot turn, those ardent eyes,
That eager mien to see.

I dare not look upon your face!

Our dreams I sold for daily bread!

I mingle with the accursed race,
Dead-with the living dead!

Yet hear -ah no! far northward now
In Aran of the mighty wave
The thunder of the surges slow
Rolls round your ocean grave.

High on the rocky spur you lie,

A splendour floods the solemn west,

The voices of the sea go by,

And night is thine-and rest.

W. E. H. LECKY

MR. LECKY is well known as the historian of the eighteenth century, whose deep research and unwavering rectitude in dealing with the stormy history of his own country have set so high an example to future writers. He was born in County Dublin, 1838. He was educated in Trinity College, and now (1900) represents his University in Parliament. His POEMS were published in 1891.

UNDEVELOPED LIVES

NOT every thought can find its words,

Not all within is known ;

For minds and hearts have many chords

That never yield their tone.

Tastes, instincts, feelings, passions, powers,
Sleep there unfelt, unseen;
And other lives lie hid in ours-

The lives that might have been.

Affections whose transforming force
Could mould the heart anew ;
Strong motives that might change the course
Of all we think and do.

Upon the tall cliff's cloud-wrapt verge
The lonely shepherd stands,

And hears the thundering ocean surge
That sweeps the far-off strands ;

And thinks in peace of raging storms
Where he will never be--

Of life in all its unknown forms

In lands beyond the sea.

So in our dream some glimpse appears,

Though soon it fades again,

How other lands or times or spheres
Might make us other men ;

How half our being lies in trance,
Nor joy nor sorrow brings,
Unless the hand of circumstance
Can touch the latent strings.

We know not fully what we are,
Still less what we might be ;
But hear faint voices from the far
Dim lands beyond the sea.

THE SOWER AND HIS SEED

HE planted an oak in his father's park
And a thought in the minds of men,
And he bade farewell to his native shore,
Which he never will see again.

Oh, merrily stream the tourist throng
To the glow of the Southern sky;

A vision of pleasure beckons them on,
But he went there to die.

The oak will grow and its boughs will spread,

And many rejoice in its shade,

But none will visit the distant grave,

Where a stranger youth is laid;

And the thought will live when the oak has died,

And quicken the minds of men,

But the name of the thinker has vanished away, And will never be heard again.