They sink together silent, and, stealing side to side,

They fling their lovely arms o'er their drooping necks so fair; Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide,

For their shrinking necks again are bare.

Thus clasped and prostrate all, with their heads together bowed,

Soft o'er their bosoms beating-the only human soundThey hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd, Like a river in the air gliding round.

Nor scream can any raise, nor prayer can any say,
But wild, wild the terror of the speechless three ;
For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away—
By whom, they dare not look to see.

They feel her tresses twine with their parting locks of gold,
And the curls elastic falling, as her head withdraws;
They feel her sliding arms from their trancèd arms unfold,
But they dare not look to see the cause.

For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies

Through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze ; And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quivering eyes, Or their limbs from the cold ground raise.

Till out of Night the Earth has rolled her dewy side,
With every haunted mountain and streamy vale below;
When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning-tide,
The maidens' trance dissolveth so.

Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may,

And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain —
They pined away and died within the year and day,
And ne'er was Anna Grace seen again.

THE FAIR HILLS OF IRELAND

FROM THE IRISH

A very close translation, in the original metre, of an Irish song of unknown authorship dating from the end of the seventeenth century. The refrain means 'O sad lament.'

A PLENTEOUS place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,

Vileacán dubh O!

Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear,
Vileacán dubh O!

There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand,
And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fann'd;
There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i' the yellow sand
On the fair hills of holy Ireland.

Curl'd he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee,
Vileacán dubh O!

Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea,
Vileacán dubh O!

And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand,
Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand,
And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command,
For the fair hills of holy Ireland.

Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground,

Uileacán dubh O!

The butter and the cream do wondrously abound,
Uileacán dubh O!

The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand,

And the cuckoo's calling daily his note of music bland,

And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i' the forests grand On the fair hills of holy Ireland.

LAMENT FOR THOMAS DAVIS

I WALKED through Ballinderry in the spring-time,
When the bud was on the tree;

And I said, in every fresh-ploughed field beholding
The sowers striding free,

Scattering broadcast forth the corn in golden plenty

On the quick seed-clasping soil,

'Even such, this day, among the fresh-stirred hearts of Erin, Thomas Davis, is thy toil!'

I sat by Ballyshannon in the summer,

And saw the salmon leap;

And I said, as I beheld the gallant creatures

Spring glittering from the deep,

Thro' the spray, and thro' the prone heaps striving onward

To the calm clear streams above,

'So seekest thou thy native founts of freedom, Thomas Davis, In thy brightness of strength and love!'

I stood on Derrybawn in the autumn,

And I heard the eagle call,

With a clangorous cry of wrath and lamentation

That filled the wide mountain hall,

O'er the bare deserted place of his plundered eyrie;
And I said, as he screamed and soared,

'So callest thou, thou wrathful-soaring Thomas Davis,
For a nation's rights restored !'

And, alas! to think but now, and thou art lying,
Dear Davis, dead at thy mother's knee;

And I, no mother near, on my own sick-bed,
That face on earth shall never see:

I may lie and try to feel that I am not dreaming,
I may lie and try to say, 'Thy will be done '-
But a hundred such as I will never comfort Erin
For the loss of the noble son !

Young husbandman of Erin's fruitful seed-time,
In the fresh track of danger's plough!

Who will walk the heavy, toilsome, perilous furrow
Girt with freedom's seed-sheets now?

Who will banish with the wholesome crop of knowledge
The flaunting weed and the bitter thorn,

Now that thou thyself art but a seed for hopeful planting
Against the Resurrection morn?

Young salmon of the flood-tide of freedom

That swells round Erin's shore !

Thou wilt leap against their loud oppressive torrent
Of bigotry and hate no more :

Drawn downward by their prone material instinct,

Let them thunder on their rocks and foam

Thou hast leapt, aspiring soul, to founts beyond their raging Where troubled waters never come !

But I grieve not, eagle of the empty eyrie,
That thy wrathful cry is still;

And that the songs alone of peaceful mourners
Are heard to-day on Erin's hill ;

Better far, if brothers' war be destined for us
(God avert that horrid day, I pray !),

That ere our hands be stained with slaughter fratricidal
Thy warm heart should be cold in clay.

But my trust is strong in God, who made us brothers,
That He will not suffer those right hands

Which thou hast joined in holier rites than wedlock
To draw opposing brands.

Oh, many a tuneful tongue that thou mad'st vocal
Would lie cold and silent then;

And songless long once more, should often-widowed Erin
Mourn the loss of her brave young men.

Oh, brave young men, my love, my pride, my promise, 'Tis on you my hopes are set,

In manliness, in kindliness, in justice,

To make Erin a nation yet:

Self-respecting, self-relying, self-advancing,

In union or in severance, free and strong

And if God grant this, then, under God, to Thomas Davis

Let the greater praise belong.

BOOK V

AUBREY DE VERE

THE family of the De Veres has followed high traditions in English poetry. The influence of Wordsworth, an intimate friend, is predominant in the work of Sir Aubrey and Mr. Aubrey de Vere; but, determined by the natural bent of their genius, both father and son achieved success in a form uncongenial to Wordsworth-the drama; while the poetic faculty was never more happily wedded to fine scholarship than in the TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE of Mr. De Vere's elder brother, Sir Stephen.

To achieve high distinction in poetry it is before all things essential to maintain the balance between the intellectual and sensuous elements. Simple in theme and method, strong in its intellectual apprehension of life, nobly plain in diction, the poetry of the De Veres is deficient in the qualities which arrest popular attention; it is not sensuous enough, it is not passionate enough. Distinguished, too, by moral breadth and depth rather than by natural magic, it suffers amid the poetry of the day comparative neglect, and finds a narrow though appreciative audience. It may be claimed for it, and with justice, that if not throughout successful as art it is nevertheless conceived and executed in the school of the great masters ; and where successful, it is successful in their manner. Read Sir Aubrey de Vere's SONNETS or his MARY TUDOR; read Mr. Aubrey de Vere's ALEXANDER or his 'Autumnal Ode,' and the impression received is that one is on elevated ground, on the higher slopes of Parnassus. We are not spoiled for