on the race of the elves, of the passing of Oberon, and the twilight of the lesser gods. GEORGE A. GREENE. Miss Jane Barlow, born in Clontarf, County Dublin, is the eldest daughter of the Rev. J. W. Barlow, Vice-Provost of Trinity College, Dublin, a well-known writer of philosophical and historical works. She has spent most of her life at Raheny in the same county, and has published in verse: BOGLAND STUDIES (Fisher Unwin, 1891 ; enlarged edition, Hodder & Stoughton, 1893); THE BATTLE OF THE FROGS AND MICE-a metrical version of the Batrachomyomachia' (Methuen, 1894); THE END OF ELFINTOWN (Macmillan, 1894); besides scattered poems in various periodicals, among which may be mentioned TERENCE MACRAN: A HEDGESCHOOL STUDY, a story in verse in the style and metre of BOGLAND STUDIES, originally published in The Journal of Education for May, 1894, and since reprinted in ESSAYS AND MOCK ESSAYS (Arnold). Miss Barlow's prose works are more numerous, and include: IRISH IDYLLS (Hodder & Stoughton, 1892); KERRIGAN'S QUALITY (same publishers, 1894); STRANGERS AT LISCONNEL-a second series of Irish Idylls (same publishers, 1895); MAUREEN'S FAIRING and MRS. MARTIN'S COMPANY, both in the Iris Library' (Dent, 1895 and 1896); A CREEL OF IRISH STORIES (Methuen, 1897); and FROM THE EAST UNTO THE WEST (same publishers, 1898). Miss Barlow is a scholar and a great reader. preferring books that have become classics to mere novelties, and makes music her chief recreation. MISTHER DENIS'S RETURN FROMTH OULD MASTER' AN' the thought of us each was the boat; och, however'd she stand it at all, If she'd started an hour or two back, an' been caught in the thick o' that squall? Sure, it's lost she was, barrin' by luck it so chanced she'd run under the lee O' Point Bertragh or Irish Lonane; an' 'twas liker the crathurs 'ud be Crossin' yonder the open, wid never a shelter, but waves far an' wide Rowlin' one on the other till ye'd seem at the feet of a mad mountain-side, An' the best we could hope was they'd seen that the weather'd be turnin' out quare, An' might, happen, ha' settled they wouldn't come over, but bide where they were. Yet, begorrah! 'twould be the quare weather entirely, as some of us said, That 'ud put Misther Denis off aught that he'd fairly tuk into his head. Thin Tim Duigan sez: 'Arrah, lads, whist! afther sailin' thro' oceans o' say Don't tell me he's naught better to do than get dhrowned in our dhrop of a bay.' An' the words were scarce out of his mouth, whin hard by, thro' a dhrift o' the haze, The ould boat we beheld sthrivin' on in the storm-och, the yell we did raise! An' it's little we yelled for, bedad! for next instant there under our eyes, Not a couple o' perch from the pier-end, th' ould baste she must take an' capsize. Och small blame to thim all if we'd never seen sight of a one o' thim more, Wid the waves thumpin' thuds where they fell, like the butt-ends o' beams on a door; An' the black hollows whirlin' between, an' the dhrift flyin' over thim thick, 'S if the Divil had melted down Hell, an' was stirrin' it up wid a stick. But it happint the wave that they met wid was flounderin' sthraight to the strand, An' just swep' thim up nate on its way, till it set thim down safe where the sand Isn't wet twice a twelvemonth, no hurt on thim all, on'y dhrippin' an' dazed. And one come to his feet nigh me door, where that mornin' me heifer had grazed, An', bedad! 'twas himself, Misther Denis, stood blinkin' and shakin' the wet F F From his hair: Hullo, Connor!' sez he, ‘is it you, man?' He'd never forget One he'd known. But I'd hardly got hould of his hand, an' was wishin' him joy, Whin, worse luck, he looked round an' he spied Widdy Sullivan's imp of a boy That a wave had tuk off of his feet, an' was floatin' away from the beach, An' he screechin' an' sthretchin' his arms to be saved, but no help was in reach. An' as soon as the young master he seen it, he caught his hand out o' me own : 'Now, stand clear, man,' sez he; would ye have me be lavin' the lad there to dhrown?' An' wid that he throd knee-deep in foam-swirls. Ochone! but he gev us the slip, Runnin' sheer down the black throat o' Death, an' he just afther 'scapin' its grip; For the wild says come flappin' an' boomin' an' smotherin' o'er him, an' back In the lap o' their ragin' they swep' him as light as a wisp o' brown wrack. An' they poundin' the rocks like sledge-hammers, an' clatterin' the shingle like chains; Ne'er the live sowl they'd let from their hould till they'd choked him or bet out his brains, Sure an' certin. And in swung a wave wid its welthers o' wather that lept Wid the roar of a lion as it come, an' hissed low like a snake as it crept To its edge, where it tossed thim, the both o' them. Och! an' the little spalpeen Misther Denis had gript be the collar, he jumped up the first thing we seen, While young master lay still-not a stir-he was stunned wid a crack on the head Just a flutter o' life at his heart-but it's kilt he was, kilt on us dead. THE FLITTING OF THE FAIRIES THEN Oberon spake the word of might Where these had waited hidden. And who can say what wizardise 'T is said, and I believe it well, That whoso mounts their magic selle, Beneath the broadest noonlight; Lone-lived where hill-slopes starward turn For this holds true-too true, alas! Where azure pathways glisten ; Only the twilit woods among A wild-winged breeze hath sometimes flung Still further, fainter up the height, (Fays following.) Red-rose mists o'erdrift Moth-moon's glimmering white, Fleeting, following swift, Whither across the night (Fays leading.) Afar. (Fays following.) Vailing crest on crest (Fays leading.) A dream. (Fays following.) Fled, ah! fled, our sight. Yea, but thrills of fire Throbbed adown yon deep, Who shall rede aright? Say, what wafts us nigher, (Fays leading.) A star. (Fays following.) List, a star! a star! Oh, our goal of light! Yet the winged shades sweep, |