A ROSE WILL FADE

YOU were always a dreamer, Rose-red Rose,
As you swung on your perfumed spray,
Swinging, and all the world was true,
Swaying, what did it trouble you?
A rose will fade in a day.

Why did you smile to his face, red Rose,
As he whistled across your way?
And all the world went mad for you,
All the world it knelt to woo.
A rose will bloom in a day.

I gather your petals, Rose-red Rose,
The petals he threw away.
And all the world derided you;
Ah the world, how well it knew
A rose will fade in a day!

THE ONE FORGOTTEN

There is a belief in some parts of Ireland that the dead are allowed to return to earth on November 2 (All Souls' Night), and the peasantry leave food and fire for their comfort, and set a chair by the hearth for their resting before they themselves retire to bed.

A SPIRIT speeding down on All Souls' Eve

From the wide gates of that mysterious shore
Where sleep the dead, sung softly and yet sweet.
'So gay a wind was never heard before,'
The old man said, and listened by the fire;
And, "Tis the souls that pass us on their way,'
The young maids whispered, clinging side by side-
So left their glowing nuts awhile to pray.

Still the pale spirit, singing through the night,
Came to this window, looking from the dark

Into the room; then passing to the door

Where crouched the whining dog, afraid to bark,

Tapped gently without answer, pressed the latch,
Pushed softly open, and then tapped once more.
The maidens cried, when seeking for the ring,

'How strange a wind is blowing on the door!'
And said the old man, crouching to the fire:
'Draw close your chairs, for colder falls the night;
Push fast the door, and pull the curtains to,

For it is dreary in the moon's pale light.'
And then his daughter's daughter with her hand
Passed over salt and clay to touch the ring,
Said low The old need fire, but ah! the young
Have that within their hearts to flame and sting.'
And then the spirit, moving from her place,

Touched there a shoulder, whispered in each ear,
Bent by the old man, nodding in his chair,

But no one heeded her, or seemed to hear.
Then crew the black cock, and so, weeping sore,
She went alone into the night again;
And said the greybeard, reaching for his glass,

How sad a wind blows on the window-pane!'
And then from dreaming the long dreams of age
He woke, remembering, and let fall a tear:
Alas! I have forgot-and have you gone ?-
I set no chair to welcome you, my dear.'
And said the maidens, laughing in their play:
'How he goes groaning, wrinkle-faced and hoar.
He is so old, and angry with his age-

Hush hear the banshee sobbing past the door.'

ALL SOULS' NIGHT

O MOTHER, mother, I swept the hearth, I set his chair and the white board spread,

I prayed for his coming to our kind Lady when Death's sad doors would let out the dead;

A strange wind rattled the window-pane, and down the lane a dog howled on;

I called his name, and the candle flame burnt dim, pressed a hand

the door-latch upon.

Deelish Deelish! my woe for ever that I could not sever coward flesh from fear.

I called his name, and the pale Ghost came; but I was afraid to

meet my dear.

O mother, mother, in tears I checked the sad hours past of the year that's o'er,

Till by God's grace I might see his face and hear the sound of his voice once more ;

The chair I set from the cold and wet, he took when he came from unknown skies

Of the land of the dead, on my bent brown head I felt the reproach of his saddened eyes;

I closed my lids on my heart's desire, crouched by the fire, my voice was dumb :

At my clean-swept hearth he had no mirth, and at my table he broke no crumb.

Deelish Deelish! my woe for ever that I could not sever coward flesh from fear.

His chair put aside when the young cock cried, and I was afraid to meet my dear.

A BALLAD OF MARJORIE

'WHAT ails you that you look so pale,

O fisher of the sea?'

"Tis for a mournful tale I own,

Fair maiden Marjorie.'

'What is the dreary tale to tell,
O toiler of the sea?'
'I cast my net into the waves,
Sweet maiden Marjorie.

'I cast my net into the tide

Before I made for home:

Too heavy for my hands to raise,
I drew it through the foam.'

What saw you that you look so pale,
Sad searcher of the sea?'

A dead man's body from the deep
My haul had brought to me!'

'And was he young, and was he fair?'
'Oh, cruel to behold!

In his white face the joy of life
Not yet was grown a-cold.'

Oh, pale you are, and full of prayer

For one who sails the sea.'

Because the dead looked up and spoke,

Poor maiden Marjorie.'

'What said he, that you seem so sad,

O fisher of the sea?'

(Alack! I know it was my love, Who fain would speak to me !)

"He said: " Beware a woman's mouthA rose that bears a thorn."'

'Ah, me! these lips shall smile no more That gave my lover scorn.'

'He said: "Beware a woman's eyes; They pierce you with their death."' 'Then falling tears shall make them blind That robbed my dear of breath.'

'He said: "Beware a woman's hairA serpent's coil of gold."

'Then will I shear the cruel locks

That crushed him in their fold.'

"He said: "Beware a woman's heart
As you would shun the reef."'
'So let it break within my breast,
And perish of my grief.'

'He raised his hands; a woman's name
Thrice bitterly he cried.

My net had parted with the strain ;

He vanished in the tide.'

'A woman's name! What name but mine,

O fisher of the sea?'

'A woman's name, but not your name,
Poor maiden Marjorie.'

STEPHEN LUCIUS GWYNN

BORN 1865 in the County Donegal, a son of the Rev. John Gwynn, Dean of Raphoe, and now Regius Professor of Divinity in Dublin University. By the mother's side Mr. Gwynn is a grandson of Smith O'Brien. He was educated at St. Columba's College and at Oxford. Mr. Gwynn's poems have appeared in various periodicals, chiefly in The Spectator. He has published one novel, THE REPENTANCE OF A PRIVATE SECRETARY (1898), and an admirable book on touring in the North of Ireland, HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS IN ANTRIM AND DONEGAL (1899).

OUT IN THE DARK

OH, up the brae, and up and up, beyont the fairy thorn,
It's there they hae my baby laid, that died when he was born.
Afore the priest could christen him to save his soul, he died;
It never lived at all, they said 'twas livin' in my side.
For many a day an' many a night, an' weary night and day,
I kent him livin' at my heart, I carena what they say.
For many a day an' many a night I wearied o' unrest,
But now I'm sore to hae my wean back hidden in my breast.
He'll sure be thinkin' long for me, an' wearyin' his lone
Up in thon corner by the whins wi' neither cross nor stone;
Ay, tho' I'd died wi' him itself, they wouldna let us be—
The corner o' a field for him, the holy ground for me;
The poor, wee, helpless, Christless wean-Och! Mary, Mother mild,
Sure, ye were unbaptised yoursel', have pity on a child.