Death, in the breast's consuming fires,
To that high nature which aspires
Forever, till thus check'd,

These are thine enemies-thy worst;
They chain thee to thy lowly lot;
Thy labor and thy life accurs'd.
Oh, stand erect, and from them burst,
And longer suffer not!

Thou art thyself thine enemy!

The great!-what better they than thou? As theirs, is not thy will as free?

Has God with equal favors thee
Neglected to endow ?

True; wealth thou hast not-'tis but dust! Nor place, uncertain as the wind!

But that thou hast, which, with thy crust
And water, may despise the lust
Of both,―a noble mind!

With this, and passions under ban,
True faith, and holy trust in God,
Thou art the peer of any man.
Look up, then; that thy little span
Of life may well be trod !

ARTHUR GERALD GEOGHEGAN

(1810-1889)

AFTER AUGHRIM

O you remember, long ago,
Kathaleen?

D°

66

When your lover, whispered low,
Shall I stay or shall I go,

Kathaleen?"

And you answered proudly, "Go!
And join King James and strike a blow
For the Green!"

Mavrone, your hair is white as snow,
Kathaleen;

Your heart is sad and full of woe.
Do you repent you made him go,
Kathaleen?

And quick you answer proudly, "No!
For better die with Sarsfield so
Than live a slave without a blow
For the Green!"

THE MOUNTAIN FERN

H, the fern, the fern, the Irish hill fern,

OF

That girds our blue lakes from Lough Ine to
Lough Erne,

That waves on our crags like the plume of a king,

And bends like a nun over clear well and spring.
The fairies' tall palm-tree, the heath bird's fresh nest,
And the couch the red-deer deems the sweetest and

best;

With the free winds to fan it, and dew-drops to gem, Oh, what can ye match with its beautiful stem?

From the shrine of St. Finbar, by lone Avon-bwee,
To the halls of Dunluce, with its towers by the sea,
From the hill of Knockthu to the rath of Moyvore,
Like a chaplet that circles our green island o'er,
In the bawn of the chief, by the anchorite's cell,
On the hilltop or greenwood, by streamlet or well,
With a spell on each leaf which no mortal can learn,
Oh, there never was plant like the Irish hill fern!

Oh, the fern, the fern, the Irish hill fern,
That shelters the weary, or wild roe, or kern;
Through the glens of Kilcoe rose a shout on the gale,
As the Saxons rushed forth in their wrath from the
Pale,

With bandog and blood-hound, all savage to see,
To hunt through Cluncalla the wild rapparee.

Hark! a cry from yon dell on the startled ear rings,
And forth from the wood the young fugitive springs,
Through the copse, o'er the bog, and oh, saints be his
guide!

His fleet step now falters, there's blood on his sides; Yet onward he strains, climbs the cliff, fords the

stream,

And sinks on the hilltop, 'mid bracken leaves green ; And thick o'er his brow are the fresh clusters piled, And they cover his form as the mother her child,

And the Saxon is baffled. They never discern Where it shelters and saves him, the Irish hill fern.

Oh, the fern, the fern, the Irish hill fern,
That pours a wild keen o'er the hero's gray cairn,
Go hear it at midnight, when stars are all out,
And the wind o'er the hillside is moaning about,
With a rustle and stir, and a low wailing tone
That thrills through the heart with its whispering lone;
And ponder its meaning, when haply you stray
Where the halls of the stranger in ruin decay;
With night-owls for warders, the goshawk for guest,
And their dais of honor by cattle-hoof pressed,

With its foss choked with rushes, and spider webs

flung

Over walls where the marchmen their red weapons

hung,

With a curse on their name, and a sigh for the hour
That tarries so long. Look what waves on the tower
With an omen and sign, and an augury stern,
'Tis the green flag of Time, 'tis the Irish hill fern.

A

DREAM lives in the purple on thy hills,
A spirit haunteth thee forevermore

Kilfenora!

Out of that dream she cometh when she wills, That spirit, and walketh on thy wild seashore, Kilfenora!

A small white sea-bird on thy wave below
Sits long and broods and rocks upon thy flood
Kilfenora!

The storm within my heart how can she know,
Yet she doth know and all hath understood,
Kilfenora!

The violet and the song-bird have their nests
In thy green lap, and they are sweet in thee,
Kilfenora!

But sweeter far the dream within my breast,
Scenting my thoughts and singing piteously,
Kilfenora!

O sweeter far the dream that lived and died, A summer's life and then a winter's grave,

Kilfenora !