MY GRIEF ON THE SEA

FROM THE IRISH

My grief on the sea,

How the waves of it roll!
For they heave between me
And the love of my soul !

Abandoned, forsaken,

To grief and to care,
Will the sea ever waken
Relief from despair?

My grief and my trouble!
Would he and I were
In the province of Leinster,
Or county of Clare!

Were I and my darling

Oh, heart-bitter wound!

On board of the ship

For America bound!

On a green bed of rushes
All last night I lay,
And I flung it abroad

With the heat of the day.

And my love came behind me-
He came from the South;

His breast to my bosom,

His mouth to my mouth.

LITTLE CHILD, I CALL THEE

FROM THE IRISH

LITTLE child, I call thee fair, Clad in hair of golden hue, Every lock in ringlets falling. Down, to almost kiss the dew.

Slow grey eye and languid mien,
Brows as thin as stroke of quill,
Cheeks of white with scarlet through them,
Och it's through them I am ill.
Luscious mouth, delicious breath,
Chalk-white teeth, and very small,
Lovely nose and little chin,

White neck, thin-she is swan-like all.

Pure white hand and shapely finger,
Limbs that linger like a song ;
Music speaks in every motion

Of my sea-mew warm and young.

Rounded breasts and lime-white bosom,
Like a blossom touched of none,
Stately form and slender waist,
Far more graceful than the swan.

Alas for me! I would I were

With her of the soft-fingered palm,

In Waterford to steal a kiss,

Or by the Liss whose airs are balm.

THE ADDRESS OF DEATH TO TOMAS DE ROISTE

FROM THE IRISH

I AM the Death who am come to you

Adam I smote and Eve I slew ;
All have died or shall die by me

Who have been or who shall be,

Until the meeting on that great hill,

Where the world must gather-for good, for ill,

And judgment will fall upon every one

For the things he has thought and things he has done.

I am active as the mind,

And swifter than the rush of wind

That lifts the sea-gull off the lake,

And faster than goat in a mountain brake,

Swifter than the sounding tide,

Or the plunge of the bark with its long black sidę

That furrows the wave when the cold sea wind
Rings in its whistling sails behind.

Swifter am I than the bird on the bough

Or the fish with the current that darts below;

Swifter than the heavens high,

Or the cold clear moon in the star-bright sky,

Or the grey gull o'er the water,

Or the eagle that stoops when it scents the slaughter.

I am swifter than the pour

Of heavy waves on ocean shore,

Swifter than the doubling race

Of the timid hare with the hounds in chase.

I mount upon the back of kings

Standing by their pleasant things,

By the banqueting-board where the lamps are bright, Or the lonely couch in the lonely night

I am a messenger tried and true ;

Wherever they travel, I travel too..

From the land of the End I have tidings wan

I love no woman, I like no man,

Nor high, nor low, nor young, nor old:

I snatch the child from its mother's fold,

I tear the strong man from his wife,

And I come to the nurse for the infant's life;
I take from the month-old child the father,
The widow's son to myself I gather,

With her who was married yesternight,

And the wretch that wails for his doleful plight;

I seize the hero of mighty deed,

And pull the rider from off his steed,

The messenger going his rapid road,

And the lord of the house from his proud abode,
And the poor man gleaning his pittance of corn.
And the white-necked maiden nobly born,

And the withered woman old and bare,
And the handsome youth so strong and fair,
From the hunt or the dance or the feast I bear.

T. W. ROLLESTON

BORN 1857 in the King's County. Educated at St. Columba's College, near Dublin, and Trinity College, Dublin. Mr. Rolleston is author of some prose works (THE TEACHING OF EPICTETUS, 1886; A LIFE OF LESSING, 1889) and of essays and translations in German (UEBER WORDSWORTH UND WALT WHITMAN, 1883; GRASHALME, von Walt Whitman, uebersetzt von Karl Knortz und T. W. Rolleston, 1889). His poems have chiefly appeared in The Spectator, The Academy, and in two small volumes published by the Rhymers' Club.

THE DEAD AT CLONMACNOIS

FROM THE IRISH OF ENOCH O'GILLAN

IN a quiet water'd land, a land of roses,

Stands Saint Kieran's city fair :

And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations
Slumber there.

There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblest

Of the clan of Conn,

Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham
And the sacred knot thereon.

There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara,

There the sons of Cairbré sleep

Battle-banners of the Gael, that in Kieran's plain of crosses
Now their final hosting keep.

And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia,

And right many a lord of Breagh ;

Deep the sod above Clan Creidé and Clan Conaill,

Kind in hall and fierce in fray.

Many and many a son of Conn, the Hundred-Fighter,

In the red earth lies at rest;

Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers,
Many a swan-white breast.

THE LAMENT OF MAEV LEITH-DHERG,

FOR CUCHORB SON OF MOGHCORB, KING OF IRELAND

From an extremely ancient Irish poem in the BOOK OF LEINSTER, fol. 24. See O'Curry's MANUSCRIPT MATERIALS OF IRISH HISTORY, p. 480. This Maev is not the warrior-goddess of Connacht, but a Queen of Ireland in times approaching the historic, about A.D. 20. Cucorb (ChariotHound') was slain on Mount Leinster on the borders of Wexford.

RAISE the Cromlech high!
MacMoghcorb is slain,

And other men's renown
Has leave to live again.

Cold at last he lies

Neath the burial-stone;

All the blood he shed

Could not save his own.

Stately-strong he went,
Through his nobles all
When we paced together
Up the banquet-hall.

Dazzling white as lime
Was his body fair,
Cherry-red his cheeks,
Raven-black his hair.

Razor-sharp his spear,

And the shield he bore,
High as champion's head-
His arm was like an oar.

Never aught but truth

Spake my noble king;

Valour all his trust

In all his warfaring.

As the forked pole

Holds the roof-tree's weight,

So my hero's arm

Held the battle straight.