In the Valley of Shanganagh, where the sullen sea-gulls gleam, And the pine-scent fills the sighing breeze as death the lover's

dream,

'Twas there I lost my Maggie. Why that fate upon us fell
The powers above us knew, perhaps, if only they would tell.

Oh like the tread of mournful feet it fell upon my heart,
When, as the wild bee leaves the rose, her spirit did depart.
In the Valley still I linger, though it's fain I am to die,
But it's hard to find a far-off heaven when clouds are in the sky.

A BUDGET OF PARADOXES

CHILD in thy beauty; empress in thy pride;
Sweet and unyielding as the summer's tide;
Starlike to tremble, starlike to abide.

Guiltless of wounding, yet more true than steel
Gem-like thy light to flash and to conceal ;
Tortoise to bear, insect to see and feel.

Blushing and shy, yet dread we thy disdain ;
Smiling, a sunbeam fraught with hints of rain;
Trilling love-notes to freedom's fierce refrain.

The days are fresh, the hours are wild and sweet,
When spring and winter, dawn and darkness meet;
Nymph, with one welcome, thee and these we greet.

ARTHUR PALMER

BORN in Canada about 1842; scholar of Trinity College, Dublin, 1861; Fellow, 1867; Professor of Latin, 1880, Mr. Palmer won high distinction in the world of learning by his editions of Ovid (HEROIDES) and Propertius. He died in 1897. His contributions to KOTTABOS, whether in English or the classical tongues, show a peculiar delicacy as well as dignity of

phrase; and some of his Latin lines, such as In tacitis silvis altum finivit amorem, for Keats's 'There in the forest did his great love cease,' dwell in the memory like certain lines of Virgil. T. W. R.

EPICHARIS

TAC. ANN.' xv. 57

MOTIONLESS, in a dark, cold cell in Rome,

A woman, bruised and burnt, but breathing still,
Lay all alone, and thus her weak, wan lips
Whisper'd to high Jove from that dungeon floor:
'I am a poor weak woman, O ye gods,
And now I ask forgiveness, lying here
(I have no strength to rise upon my knees),
For all the heavy sins that I have done.
Remember, O just gods, that this is Rome,
And I a woman, and the weakest born.
Could such a woman, nursed in such a city,
Live righteously, as high-born maidens live?
A poor, fair slave, on Rome's waste ocean thrown,
I had but Heaven to turn to in distress,

And Heaven always turn'd away from me.
But if I have offended by my life,

Oh, let me make atonement by my death!
I bore the torture yesterday, kind gods,
Bravely, and would have died before a word
Escaped me; but my cunning torturers,
Seeing the ensign of my ally-Death-
Advancing swiftly, seeing me still dumb,
Released me, hoping that another trial
Would quell me, and I fear, I fear it may—
For, oh, the pain was horrible! But yesterday
A sort of trance was on me all the time

That let me triumph over any pain,
And made me secretly deride the fools
For wasting all their cruel toil in vain.

But to begin the agony again!—

The burning bricks, the red-hot plates, the scourge

Kind gods, assist me! let me not die a traitor!
Take from me this weak breath, or give me means
To stop it, so men may say when I am gone:
"This was a poor, weak woman, but no traitor!"
And so, perhaps, when poor Epicharis

Is cast away, without a grave or name,

Some man who fears the gods, and loves not traitors,
May come and lay a penny on my lips,
That I may want not Charon's passage-fee,
Nor flit for ever by the bank of Styx'

She ceased for very weakness, but her words
Mounted as high as heaven from the stones,
And on the moment Nero's messengers
Came in to lead her to the torment-room;

But finding that she could not stand, they brought
A litter, and so bore her through the streets.
And thus the gods granted the harlot's prayer ;
For in the litter's roof she spied a ring,

And quickly loosed the band that bound her waist,
And did it round her neck, and through the ring,
And, calling up her torture-broken strength,
Crush'd out her little life—a faithful girl!
And on the soldiers bore her through the streets,
Until they reach'd the hall of doom, and there
Open'd the litter's door, and she was gone;
More nobly dead, though a freedwoman,
Than many a Roman swoln with pedigree.1

PERCY SOMERS PAYNE

SON of the Rev. Somers Payne, of Upton, County Cork. He died in 1874, aged twenty-four. He contributed to Kottabos two or three poems marked by an intensity and sincerity of feeling, and a certain creative power, which gave promise of high distinction.

T. W. R.

Cf. Juv. SAT. viii: Tumes alto Drusorum stemmate.'

REST

SILENCE sleeping on a waste of ocean-
Sun-down-westward traileth a red streak-
One white sea-bird, poised with scarce a motion,
Challenges the stillness with a shriek--
Challenges the stillness, upward wheeling

Where some rocky peak containeth her rude nest; For the shadows o'er the waters they come stealing, And they whisper to the silence: There is Rest.'

Down where the broad Zambesi River

Glides away into some shadowy lagoon
Lies the antelope, and hears the leaflets quiver,
Shaken by the sultry breath of noon--
Hears the sluggish water ripple in its flowing;

Feels the atmosphere, with fragrance all opprest ; Dreams his dreams; and the sweetest is the knowing That above him, and around him, there is Rest.

Centuries have faded into shadow,

Earth is fertile with the dust of man's decay; Pilgrims all they were to some bright El-dorado, But they wearied, and they fainted, by the way. Some were sick with the surfeiture of pleasure, Some were bow'd beneath a care-encumber'd breast; But they all trod in turn Life's stately measure, And all paused betimes to wonder, 'Is there Rest?'

Look, O man! to the limitless Hereafter,

When thy Sense shall be lifted from its dust,
When thy Anguish shall be melted into Laughter,
When thy Love shall be sever'd from its Lust.
Then thy spirit shall be sanctified with seeing
The Ultimate dim Thulé of the Blest,

And the passion-haunted fever of thy being
Shall be drifted in a Universe of Rest.

INDEX TO FIRST LINES

A CABIN on the mountain-side hid in a grassy nook
A little sun, a little rain

A nation's voice, a nation's voice

A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer
A poor old cottage tottering to its fall

A spirit speeding down on All Souls' Eve.

A star has gone! a star has gone!

A terrible and splendid trust

A wind that dies on the meadows lush

PAGE

489

379
124

308

216

442

62

467

427

Adieu to Belashanny! where I was bred and born

371

Adown the leafy lane we two

186

Ah, see the fair chivalry come, the companions of Christ

468

Ah, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel

75

All day in exquisite air

414

All hail! Holy Mary, our hope and our joy!

155

An' the thought of us each was the boat; och, however'd she stand
it at all

432

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly

Away from the town, in the safe retreat

BARD! to no brave chief belonging

16
48

102

417

45

448

63