ST. FRANCIS AND THE WOLF

THIS wolf for many a day

Had scourged and trodden down
The folk of Agobio town ;
Old was he, lean and grey.

Dragging a mildewed bone,
Down from his lair he came,
Saw in the sunset flame
Our Father standing alone.

Dust on his threadbare gown,
Dust on his blessed feet,
Faint from long fast and heat,
His light of life died down.

This wolf laid bare his teeth,

And growling low there stood; His lips were black with blood, His eyes were fires of death.

So for a spring crouched he;

But the Saint raised his head'Peace, Brother Wolf,' he said, 'God made both thee and me.'

And with the Cross signed him :
The wolf fell back a-stare,
Sat on his haunches there,
Forbidding, black and grim.

'Come nearer, in Christ's Name,'
Said Francis, and, so bid,
Like a small dog that's chid,
The fierce beast fawning came.

Trotting against his side,

And licked the tender hand

That with soft touch and bland Caressed his wicked hide.

'Brother,' the Saint said then,
'Who gave thee leave to kill?

Thou hast slain of thine own will Not only beasts, but men.

'And God is wroth with thee:

If thou wilt not repent,

His anger shall be sent

To smite thee terribly.

'See, all men hate thy name, And with it mothers fright The froward child by night.

Great are thy sin and shame.

'All true dogs thee pursue;

Thou shouldst hang high in air
Like a thief and murderer,

Hadst thou thy lawful due.

'Yet, seeing His hands have made

Even thee, thou wicked one

I bring no malison,

But blessing bring instead.

'And I will purchase peace
Between this folk and thee
So love for hate shall be,
And all thy sinning cease.

'Say, wilt thou have it so?'
Thereat, far off, we saw
The beast lift up his paw,
His great tail wagging go.

Our Father took the paw
Into his blessed hand,
Knelt down upon the sand,
Facing the creature's jaw.

That were a sight to see:
Agobio's folk trooped out;
They heard not all that rout,
Neither the beast nor he.

For he was praying yet,
And on his illumined face
A shamed and loving gaze
The terrible wolf had set.

When they came through the town,
His hand that beast did stroke,
He spake unto the folk
Flocking to touch his gown.

A sweet discourse was this;

He prayed them that they make Peace, for the Lord Christ's sake, With this poor wolf of His ;

And told them of their sins,

How each was deadlier far
Than wolves or lions are,
Or sharks with sword-like fins.

Afterwards some came near,

Took the beast's paw and shook,

And answered his sad look

With words of honest cheer.

Our Father, ere he went,

Bade that each one should leave
Some food at morn and eve

For his poor penitent.

And so, three years or more,
The wolf came morn and even
Yea, long forgiven and shriven,
Fed at each townsman's door;

And grew more grey and old,
Withal so sad and mild,
Him feared no little child
Sitting in the sun's gold.

The women, soft of heart,
Trusted him and were kind :

Men grew of equal mind,
None longer stepped apart.

The very dogs, 'twas said,
Would greet him courteously,
And pass his portion by,
Though they went on unfed.

But when three years were gone
He came no more, but died;
In a cave on the hillside

You may count each whitening bone.

And then it came to pass

All gently of him spake,

For Francis his dear sake,

Whose Brother Wolf this was.

ROSE KAVANAGH

BORN at Killadroy, County Tyrone, on June 23, 1859, and died of consumption on February 26, 1891. She was a contributor of poems and stories to the Irish papers, &c., and a bright future was predicted for her. Her early death caused widespread regret among readers of Irish literature, and a deep sense of loss to the personal friends to whom her sweet and noble character had endeared her. A collected edition of her poems has been published in Dublin,

ST. MICHAN'S CHURCHYARD

INSIDE the city's throbbing heart
One spot I know set well apart

From life's hard highway, life's loud mart.

Each Dublin lane and street and square
Around might echo; but in there

The sound stole soft as whispered prayer.

A little, lonely, green graveyard,
The old churchyard its solemn guard,
The gate with naught but sunbeams barred;

While other sunbeams went and came
Above the stone which waits the name

His land must write with Freedom's flame.1

The slender elm above that stone,

Its summer wreath of leaves had thrown
Around the heart so quiet grown.

A robin the bare boughs among,
Let loose his little soul in song-
Quick liquid gushes fresh and strong!

And quiet heart, and bird and tree,
Seemed linked in some strange sympathy
Too fine for mortal eye to see-

But full of balm and soothing sweet,
For those who sought that calm retreat;
For aching breast and weary feet.

Each crowded street and thoroughfare

Was echoing round it—yet in there
The peace of Heaven was everywhere!

Referring to the grave of Robert Emmet.