When our kindly glances met her,
Deadly brilliant was her eye;
And she said that she was better,
While we knew that she must die.

She speaks of Munster valleys,
The pattern, dance and fair,
And her thin hand feebly dallies
With her scattered golden hair.
When silently we listen'd

To her breath with quiet care,
Her eyes with wonder glisten'd—

And she asked us, 'What was there?

The poor thing smiled to ask it,

And her pretty mouth laid bare,

Like gems within a casket,
A string of pearlets rare.
We said that we were trying

By the gushing of her blood
And the time she took in sighing
To know if she were good.

Well, she smil'd and chatted gaily,

Though we saw in mute despair The hectic brighter daily,

And the death-dew on her hair.
And oft her wasted fingers
Beating time upon the bed :
O'er some old tune she lingers,
And she bows her golden head.

At length the harp is broken;
And the spirit in its strings,
As the last decree is spoken,
To its source exulting springs.
Descending swiftly from the skies,
Her guardian angel came,

He struck God's lightning from her eyes,
And bore Him back the flame.

Before the sun had risen

Thro' the lark-loved morning air,
Her young soul left its prison,
Undefiled by sin or care.

I stood beside the couch in tears
Where pale and calm she slept,
And tho' I've gaz'd on death for years,
I blush not that I wept.

I check'd with effort pity's sighs
And left the matron there,

To close the curtains of her eyes
And bind her golden hair.

ELLEN MARY PATRICK DOWNING

6

6

KNOWN as Mary of The Nation,' her poems in that journal being generally signed by the name Mary' alone. She was born in Cork on March 19, 1828, and died on January 27, 1869. In 1849 she had entered a convent. Her religious poems have been collected in a couple of volumes, but her National and love poems are still uncollected. Her poetry has the simplicity and unconscious grace of a bird's song.

VOICES OF THE HEART, 1868, 1880; POEMS FOR CHILDREN, 1881.

MY OWEN

PROUD of you, fond of you, clinging so near to you,
Light is my heart now I know I am dear to you!
Glad is my voice now, so free it may sing to you
All the wild love that is burning within for you!
Tell me once more, tell it over and over,

The tale of that eve that first saw you my lover.
Now I need never blush

At my heart's hottest gush ;

The wife of my Owen her heart may discover.

Proud of you, fond of you, having all right in you!
Quitting all else through my love and delight in you!
Glad is my heart, since 'tis beating so nigh to you!
Light is my step, for it always may fly to you!
Clasped in your arms, where no sorrow can reach to me,
Reading your eyes till new love they shall teach to me,
Though wild and weak till now,

By that blessed marriage vow,

More than the wisest know your heart shall preach to me.

THE OLD CHURCH AT LISMORE

This poem, inscribed in the MS. My Last Verses,' was the last written by 'Mary' before entering on her novitiate in 1849.

OLD Church, thou still art Catholic !—e'en dream they as they

may

That the new rites and worship have swept the old away ;

There is no form of beauty raised by Nature, or by art,

That preaches not God's saving truths to man's adoring heart!

In vain they tore the altar down; in vain they flung aside
The mournful emblem of the death which our sweet Saviour died;
In vain they left no single trace of saint or angel here—
Still angel-spirits haunt the ground, and to the soul appear.

I marvel how, in scenes like these, so coldly they can pray,

Nor hold sweet commune with the dead who once knelt down as they ;

Yet not as they, in sad mistrust or sceptic doubt—for, oh,
They looked in hope to the blessèd saints, these dead of long ago.

And, then, the churchyard, soft and calm, spread out beyond the

scene

With sunshine warm and soothing shade and trees upon its green; Ah! though their cruel Church forbid, are there no hearts will

pray

For the poor souls that trembling left that cold and speechless clay?

My God! I am a Catholic! I grew into the ways

Of my dear Church since first my voice could lisp a word of

praise;

But oft I think though my first youth were taught and trained

awrong,

I still had learnt the one true faith from Nature and from song!

For still, whenever dear friends die, it is such joy to know
They are not all beyond the care that healed their wounds below,
That we can pray them into peace, and speed them to the shore
Where clouds and cares and thorny griefs shall vex their hearts no

more.

And the sweet saints, so meek below, so merciful above ;

And the pure angels, watching still with such untiring love;

And the kind Virgin, Queen of Heaven, with all her mother's care, Who prays for earth, because she knows what breaking hearts are there!

Oh, let us lose no single link that our dear Church has bound, To keep our hearts more close to Heaven, on earth's ungenial ground;

But trust in saint and martyr yet, and o'er their hallowed clay, Long after we have ceased to weep, kneel faithful down to pray.

So shall the land for us be still the Sainted Isle of old,

Where hymn and incense rise to Heaven, and holy beads are told;

And even the ground they tore from God, in years of crime and

woe,

Instinctive with His truth and love, shall breathe of long ago!

ARTHUR GERALD GEOGHEGAN

AUTHOR OF THE MONKS OF KILCREA, a collection of stories in verse, which for many years remained anonymous, and was much spoken of. It was first published in 1853, and a second

edition was issued, with other poems, in 1861. It was translated into French in 1858. Its author was born in Dublin on June 1, 1810, and entered the Excise in 1830. He became a collector of Inland Revenue in 1857, and retired in 1877. He died in Kensington on November 29, 1889, and was buried at Kensal Green. His poems appeared chiefly in The Nation and in other Dublin papers and magazines.

AFTER AUGHRIM

Do you remember, long ago,
Kathaleen?

When your lover whispered low,
Shall I stay or shall I go,

Kathaleen?'

And you answered proudly, 'Go!
And join King James and strike a blow
For the Green!'

Mavrone, your hair is white as snow,
Kathaleen ;

Your heart is sad and full of woe.

Do you repent you made him go,
Kathaleen?

And quick you answer proudly, 'No!
For better die with Sarsfield so

Than live a slave without a blow
For the Green !'

DENNY LANE

BORN in Cork in 1818, and died 1896 in that city, where he was a successful merchant and manufacturer. He is only known as a poet by two pieces, both of which appeared in The Nation in 1844 and 1845. The metrical structure of this poem, whether intentionally or otherwise, is curiously close to that of Gaelic verse.