that has grown rich by reading and by thought, and refined by long self-culture; and he has at times attained loftier altitudes in poetry than most Irish poets have been able to approach. G. F. SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG.

Dr. John Todhunter, the elder son of an eminent Dublin merchant, was born in Dublin on December 30, 1839. Both his parents being members of the society of Friends, he received his early education at Quaker schools at Mountmellick and York. At the age of sixteen he was placed in a mercantile establishment in Ireland, but, emancipating himself from uncongenial employment, he entered Trinity College, Dublin, in 1861, with the intention of studying for the medical profession. After a college career of much distinction he took his degree of B.A. in 1865, M. B. in 1866, and M.D. in 1871, and in 1871 also a Diploma in State Medicine, which had been instituted in that year. After rambles and studies on the Continent he settled in Dublin, to practise, in 1870. Between 1870 and 1874 he was Assistant Physician to the Cork Street Fever Hospital in Dublin, and also Lecturer in English Literature at Alexandra College. He acted also as one of the Honorary Secretaries of the Dublin Sanitary Association, which did good service in examining and exposing the sanitary condition of the Dublin slums. In 1874, resigning his appointments for the purpose of devoting himself exclusively to literature, he left Dublin, and has since resided chiefly in London, making occasional visits to the Continent and more distant lands.

Dr. Todhunter's works are: LAURELLA AND Other Poems, 1876; ALKESTIS (a Drama), 1879; A STUDY OF SHELLEY, 1880; THE TRUE TRAGEDY OF RENZI, 1881; FOREST SONGS, 1881; HELENA IN TROAS (produced at Hengler's Circus as an imitation of a Greek play), 1885; THE BANSHEE AND OTHER POEMS, 1888; A SICILIAN IDYLL (produced at the theatre of the Club, Bedford Park, and at the Vaudeville), 1891; THE POISON-FLOWER (produced at the Vaudeville), 1891; THE BLACK CAT (produced by the Independent Theatre Society), 1893; A LIFE OF SARSfield, 1895; THREE BARDIC TALES, 1896; and various essays and pamphlets.

MORNING IN THE BAY OF NAPLES

From LAURELLA

LIKE a great burst of singing came the day,

After the dawn's soft prelude, from heaven's cave;
Swooping to clasp the billowy-bosomed bay

In his ecstatic arms, wooing each wave

To give him kiss for kiss. His glorious way

Was pioneered by the brisk winds, which gave
New life to the waking world, and filled each sense
With measureless desire and hopes immense.

In short, it was a most delicious morn-

What clouds there were soared in the upper sky,
Or round the mountains died as they were born
In the bright haze that clung mysteriously
To the dim coast. An Amalthea's horn

Of rathe delight seemed emptied from on high
On all the progeny of land and sea-

Shore-maidens sang and sea birds shrieked for glee.

There was a breath of fragrance in the air
That stole upon the spirit like young love;
An incense wafted from, you knew not where —
From thymy dell and seaweed-scented cove.
Ocean and earth had found each other fair,

And mingled their fresh lips-the tamarisk grove
Sighed for the kiss of the wave, and waves leapt up
To yield the winds dew for the myrtle's cup.

THE LAMENTATION FOR THE THREE SONS OF TURANN, WHICH TURANN, THEIR FATHER, MADE OVER THEIR GRAVE

THE LITTLE LAMENTATION 1

I

Low lie your heads this day,

My sons! my sons,

Make wide the grave, for I hasten

To lie down among my sons.

II

Bad is life to the father

In the house without a son,

Fallen is the House of Turann,

And with it I lie low.

' From THREE Irish Bardic TaLES, by John Todhunter, 1896.

A A

THE FIRST SORROW

I

The staff of my age is broken!
Three pines I reared in Dun-Turann :

Brian, Iuchar, Iucharba,

Three props of my house they were.

II

They slew a man to their wounding,
In the fierceness of their youth!

For Kian, the son of Caintè,

Their comely heads lie low.

III

A dreadful deed was your doing,

My sons! my sons!

No counsel ye took with me

When ye slew the son of Cainté.

IV

A bad war with your hands

Ye made upon Innisfail,

A bad feud on your heads

Ye drew when ye slew no stranger.

V

And cruel was the blood-fine

That Lugh of the outstretched arm,

The avenging son of Kian,

Laid on you for his father.

VI

Three apples he claimed, a sow-skin, A spear, two steeds and a war-car, Seven swine, and a staghound's whelp, A spit, three shouts on a mountain.

VII

A little eric it seemed

For the blood of Dé-Danaan ;
A paltry eric and foolish,

Yet there was death for the three !

THE SECOND SORROW

Crafty was Lugh, when he laid
The fine on the sons of Turann,
And pale we grew when we fathomed
The mind of the son of Kian.

II

Three apples of gold ye brought him
From the far Hesperian garden ;

Ye slew the King of Greece

For the skin that heals all wounds.

III

Ye took from the King of Persia

The spear more deadly than dragons ;

It keeps the world in danger

With the venom of its blade.

IV

Ye won from the King of Sicil
His horses and his war-car;

The fleetness of wings their fleetness,
Their highway the land and the sea.

V

The King of the Golden Pillars

Yielded the swine to your challenge; Each night they smoked at the banquet, Each morning they lived again.

VI

Ye took from the King of Iceland
His hound, like the sun for splendour ;
Ye won by your hands of valour

Those wonders, and brought them home.

VII

But short was the eric of Lugh

When your hearts grew hungry for Turann ;
For Lugh had laid upon you
Forgetfulness by his craft.

THE GREAT LAMENTATION

I

Death to the sons of Turann

Had Lugh in his crafty mind :

'Yet lacks of my lawful eric

The spit, three shouts on the mountain.'

II

The strength of the babe was left us

At the hearing of that word

Brian, Iuchar, Iucharba,

Like dead men they fell down.

III

But Brian your courage kindled,

My sons my sons!

For the Island of Finchory

A year long ye searched the seas.

IV

Then Brian set the clearness

Of crystal upon his forehead,

And, his water-dress around him,

Dived through the waves' green gloom.