THE SOUL ATTAINS'

OH strife too short, oh victory too dear,
Deep in the artist's soul the flame burns cold,
Freed from the goad of dreams, the lash of fear,
He who attains, remembers, and grows old.

Oh youthfulness of failure, the long hours
Of uncrowned labour, unregarded toil,
Are as the wintry seed of the spring flowers,
The starry Hope that blossoms near the soil.
Is there not precious metal to be wrung
From the earth's heart and the streams' secret

ways,

The stories not yet told, the songs unsung, The dreams undreamed-oh, fair beyond all

praise,

70

THE SOUL ATTAINS'

Like treasure buried underneath a hill,
In some sea-guarded isle, or barren land,
They wait the labour of the hero's will-
The magic touch of the adventurer's hand.

Joy dwells in austere deeds, the perilous climb

That leads tired footsteps to the mountain.

height,

And music trembles in the halting rhyme That scales with lagging steps the hill of light.

Still are the world's unseen yet crowned

The

powers,

courage and the ecstasy of toil,

And the sweet wind-blown breath of the wild

flowers,

The starry Hope that blossoms near the soil.

LIS-AN-DOILL

ONCE in the year the ancient world grows

young,

For me alone there is no dream of spring, Alas there are many songs to be sungNew songs and old-I am too old to sing.

Songs of the constant world that never grows Tired of green boughs-impatient of the

may

That waits for the unfolding of the rose,
On fire with hope to-day as yesterday.

1 The Fort of the Blind Man.'

72

LIS-AN-DOILL

I am too old-I pass the daisies by,
And tread the grass down under tired feet,
Time washes all the blue out of the sky-
The very violets are no longer sweet.

Even the constant spring is false to me,
Not all the rosebuds ever yet unfurled,
Nor any dream of roses yet to be,

Can reconcile me to this evil world.

Once in the year the young spring's green

and gold

Gleams in the sun and rustles in the wind

;

Alas! there is neither light for the old,

Nor any dream of colour for the blind.

THE LITTLE WAVES OF BREFFNY

THE grand road from the mountain goes shining to the sea,

And there is traffic in it and many a horse

and cart,

But the little roads of Cloonagh are dearer

far to me,

And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through my heart.

A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o'er the hill,

And there is glory in it and terror on the

wind,