IRELAND

    When shall we find the spring come in,
    And the fragrant air it blows?
    And when shall the bounty of summer win
    Fairer than fields of Camolin
    For the dark little Rose?

    Long was the winter, the storms how long!
    What flower may live i' the snows!
    No bloom shall last under heels of wrong,
    If the heart-blood be not deathless strong,
    As the dark little Rose.

    Sing hers the culture sweeter than rain
    That healed old Europe's woes;
    Older than bowers of Lille and Louvain
    Grew by the Rhine and the towns of Spain
    From the dark little Rose.

    Leagues in the sunlight never shall fail
    While the broad, round ocean flows;
    Though never a fleet goes up Kinsale,
    See, all the world is within the pale
    Of the dark little Rose.

    Maelanfaid saw a tiny bird
    A-grieving on the ground,
    And O, the sad lament he heard,
    That sorrow's self might sound:
    He could not read a note or word
    The song of grief inwound.

    Maelanfaid went within his cell
    To keep a fast and pray,
    To listen to a voice would tell
    The mystery away:
    What was the red long pain befell
    The bird of grief all day?

    "Maelanfaid," airy voices call,
    "MacOcha Molv is dead,
    Who killed no creature great or small,
    Who helped all life instead:
    Now griefs of bird and blossom fall
    Around his funeral bed."

    We will go adventuring, will you come adventuring,
    Hail, to all who sail with us the seven pleasant seas:
    All the shores with lily bells, all the flutes of woodland dells
    Are calling like a legend upon a fragrant breeze.

    Throw away the haughty cares, children here are millionaires,
    Laughter take for baggage and give your laugh a song;
    We must sail the seas of grass, round the isles of clover pass,
    And delve in leagues of shadowland, when clouds come along.

    Caves are walled with treasure trove, rich as any south-sea cove,
    Bullion of the meadow where the gold sun flows;

    Round the reefs of mignonette, up the waves of violet,
    Fragrant go our sails and spars with attar of the rose.

    On, gay adventurers, bravely ride the billowy furze,
    Golden foil and dewy pearls are swaying to a tune:
    Quaff the brew of red raspberry through the vine veils gossamery.
    Till we turn when night comes down alleys of the moon.

    Yea, with laughter in our sails and our hearts a book of tales,
    Down the silver roadways, a homeward hymn we say:—
    Praise the Lord ye great and small, flower and weed majestical,
    For pleasant seas that God gave adventurers today.

    (For Osceola and Pocahontas)

    Was it a hundred years ago,
    Or was it but yesterday,
    When we found the roads that grow
    Blossom and song of May?
    Maybe it was but yesterday,
    Or a hundred years ago.

    The roads from Bersabee to Dan
    Are old and quickly tire,
    But to the heart of child or man
    Youth is a fairy fire:
    Our youthful roads, they never tire
    From Bersabee to Dan.

    Ponce de Leon found no spring,
    But legend's long, long ruth;
    But the grace of God is a magic thing
    Abides with chivalrous youth:
    The grace of God that brings no ruth
    For them who find the spring.

    There is a land, there is a May
    Beyond the graveyard tree;
    Ten thousand years are like a day
    Of a youth that we shall see:
    Our young hearts pass the graveyard tree
    To a land forever in May.

    The little green soldiers are here at last,
    With their waving blades and spears;
    And across the hills they are marching fast
    With the drill of a thousand years:
    And I wave afar, and I shout, Hurrah!
    Till I hear their echoing cheers.

    A bonnie prince is at their head,
    And his love the legions know:
    For he gives them rest where the twigs are red
    At the hedges cool in a row:
    And afoot are they soon to a birdlike tune
    On the northward march to go.

    Oh, I am leal to the marching men,
    To my bonnie Prince I'm true;
    For he tells me the way to his tented glen,
    And the secret password too:
    And he sets in my hair a blossom to wear,
    Like his own good horsemen do.

    Then I will follow on all the day
    Where the bonnie Prince has led,
    Till we drive the Winter foeman away
    And throne my Prince instead:
    And sing willaloo! With the birds, willaloo!
    For the Winter King is dead.

    (For Christine and Tom)

    Oases are charming 'mid the Afric sands,
    Beautiful is summer after rain;
    But the sweetest blossoms may be eyes and hands,
    And two playful children on a train.

    Aileen and her brother, home from holiday,
    Left behind them Narragansett town;
    Innocence like music followed all the way,
    Summer glowed upon the cheeks of brown.

    She that was their escort read a magazine:
    They were young, and trains are dull at night;
    All the passing signals, red and blue and green,
    Counted up the miles for young delight.

    I was there behind them, earnest in a book:
    Lo, the journey turned to fairyland,
    When, like magic mirrors, dusty windows took
    Aileen's dancing eyes and waving hand!

    That is how it happened on a creeping train,
    How a play began without a word,—
    Peekaboo reflections in a window-pane,
    Such a story-hour was never heard.

    Aileen and her brother, strangers were to me;
    They were friendly for the cloth I wore;
    And through leagues of window, youthful play could see
    We were friends to be for evermore.

    So we passed the hamlets, passed the miles of night
    In a fairyland of silent games,
    Till the travel ended in the Worcester light,—
    Yet we parted, strangers in our names.

    But   a fortnight later, by an autumn tree,
    Aileen and her brother came my way,
    And another, glad to tell the names of them and me,
    And to hear how travellers can play.

    Life is but a journey, say we evermore,
    Passing lights the years have, like a train;
    Three good friends will travel up to heaven's door,
    With the world a merry window-pane.

    Gray lonely rocks about thee stand,
    Ignored of sun and dew,
    Yet is thy breath upon the land,
    To thy vocation true.

    So come they character to me
    That works in sunless ways,
    And I shall learn to give with thee
    Dark hills a constant praise.

    (For Aedh)

    'Tis the queerest trade we have, the two of us that go about,
    I that do the talkin', and the little lad that sings,
    We to tell the story of a Land you ought to know about,—
    The wonder land of Erin and the memories it brings.

    Sure it is a wonder land, richer than the books it is,
    Full of magic stories and a hopeful heart of song;
    Faith, and near the mountains and the sunny lakes and brooks it is,
    Like the olden seanichies, the pair of us belong.

    Far and broad our journeyin', up and down the land we go,
    Today among the mountains and tomorrow by the sea;
    Pleasant are the roads with us, and to a welcome grand we go,
    Erin wins the heart of you, whoever you may be.

    Erin's heart will capture you, if you will but listen now,
    Great she was afore the Danes and all her Saxon foes,
    After that the sorrows came, sure your eyes will glisten now,
    Up, my lad, and sing for them "The Dark Little Rose."

    Rest awhile and I will tell the fame of Tara's Hall to them,
    All the deeds of valor and a thousand scenes of joy,
    Wicklow hills and Derry fields where Killarney calls to them.
    Come, my lad, it's Ninety-Eight and sing "The Croppy Boy."

    Long ago the stranger came and learned to love the ways of her,
    Irish more than Irish the Norman foe became;
    Sure and here across the sea you give your hearts to praise of her,
    The tear and smile within her eyes that ever are the same.

    Not for gold or little fame the two of us to go about,
    I that do the talkin', and the little lad that sings,
    We to win your love for her, the Land you're glad to know about,
    The wonder land of Erin and the memories it brings.

    ON THE FIELD OF CORN

    Where is the war ye march unto,
    From the early tents of morn?
    And what are the deeds ye hope to do,
    Brave Grenadiers of Corn?
    Pearls of the dew are on your hair,
    And the jewels of morning light,
    Pennants of green ye fling to the air,
    And the tall plumes waving bright.

    Gaily away and steady ye go,
    Never a faltering line:
    Forward!  I follow and try to know
    Word of your countersign:
    Hist!  The spies of the tyrant sun
    Eagerly watch your plan,
    Lavish with bribes of gold, they run
    Down to your outmost man.

    Steady, good lads, go bravely on
    By the parching hills of pain,
    An armor of shade ye soon may don
    And meet the allies of rain:
    And night in the bivouac hours will sing
    Praise of the march ye made,
    And into your pockets good gold will bring,
    Men of the Green Brigade.

    Yea, and upon September's field,
    When the long campaign is done,
    With arms up-stacked, your hearts will yield
    Conquest of rain and sun:
    The pennants and plumes will then be sere,
    Your pearls delight no morn,
    But tents of plenty will bless the year,
    Brave Grenadiers of Corn.

    Obedience to the seasons' marshall-rod,
    That is a law of God,
    Here beauty passes with her gorgeous train,
    On paths that range from bud to grain.
    O, here the searching eyes
    In traffic for the soul's good gain
    Earn wealth of rare delight.
    Far pathways of surprise,
    In color's frumenty bedight,
    Lead off from avenues of day
    Through miles of pageantries:
    And from the starry chancels of the night
    And the inscrutable farther skies,
    Beyond where trackless comets stray,
    Outspreads a world in thought's array.
    And lo!  the heart's true voices sing
    From the exulting reverent breast,
    And lips proclaim, with adoration blessed,
    Glad Alleluias to the King.

    Prompt is our praise unto a jewelled queen
    In all her courtly splendor set,
    (Fair as those fairylands are seen
    By childhood's other sight):
    But if in pauper mien,
    Too poor for stray regret
    Where crowded streets affright
    She stood in beggary,
    Unknown, though faithful to her high degree,—
    O, then her praise  'twere easy to forget.
    Yet ever here,
    For all of time's prompt fickleness—
    From plenteous June and wide largess
    Of full midsummer days,
    To dwarf December pitiless
    Amid the earth's uncomplimented ways—
    Yea, constant through the changeful year,
    This queenly Height commands our praise.
    To stand in meek unflinching hardihood
    When fortune blows its storm of fright,
    And work to full effect that good
    Resolved in open days of clearer sight—
    O, this is worth!
    That daily sees the soul
    To braver liberties give birth,
    That heeds not time's annoy,
    And hears surrounding voices roll
    Perennial circumstance of joy.
    Then come not only when the springtime blows
    The old familiar strangeness of its breath
    Across the long-lain snows,
    And chants her resurrected songs
    About the tombs of death;
    Nor yet when summer glows
    In roseate throngs
    And works her plenitude of deeds
    By tangled dells and waving meads,
    Come here in beauty's pilgrimage:
    Nor when the autumn reads
    Illuminate her page
    With tints of magicry besprent
    Of iridescent wonderment—
    (As scrolls in old monastic towers,
    Done in an earnest far-off age).
    But choose to come in winter hours
    To see how character can live,
    How noble character will give
    Through desolate distress
    And cold neglect's duress,
    The fulness of its powers
    And win the soul its victor sign.
    Yea, come when in a peasant gown,
    Amid the ample banners of the pine,
    And the resounding harpers of the vine,
    Lone winter holds upon the Height
    Her court in full renown.
    Obedient her courtiers go,
    Their gonfalons aloft and bright,
    And scatter pearls of snow;
    Her sturdy knighthood wear for crown
    Prismatic sheen in young delight,
    And wave the cedar oriflamme on high;
    While windward heralds cry,
    Across the battlements of earth
    To parapets along the sky,
    The lauds of character's full worth.

    The winter passes and the days come in
    Vibrant with spring.
    And men find welcome at the Easter tomb,
    Reward they win,
    Who make their hearts with courage sing
    Through Lenten opportunity of gloom:
    (Not as the Pharisees,
    With faces lacrimose,
    Who wear pretence of ashen woes,
    And murmur like the tuneless bees,
    Whose honies are hypocrisies),
    But men of character's delight,
    Who like this valiant Height
    Still serving through the bleakest day,
    With humble offerings of sound and sight,
    Do steadfast stand and pray:
    O, count those souls of noble worth,
    And God's good pleasure on His earth,
    Who still, if joy or pain
    Brings sun or rain,
    Heroic sing
    The law of Alleluia to the King.