And, darting through reflected skies,
The wary trout retreat or follow;
A "coachman" now their fancy takes,
Or now a "miller" or now a "hackle"
And many a plungin' beauty breaks,
To try our skill and test our tackle.

Still higher, higher mounts the sun,

The morn hastes on and noon is nearing; Now varying sounds come borne upon

The breeze that blows o'er copse and clearing:

The far cock-crow, the jangling bell

That tells where browsing herds are straying;

The quail's clear pipe in lonely dell,

The woodman's call, the hounds' deep braying.

Still down the grassy marge we go,
Now list'ning to the tall trees moaning,
Now catching from a glade below

A drowsy mill's perpetual droning.
Still on the miller's brown-faced boy
Stands knee-keep in the shining water,
And near, with startled glance and coy,
The miller's comely, dark-eyed daughter.

So through the long, bright balmy days
In shade and sun alternate ranging

We speed the hastening hours away,

Where scene and sound are ever changing,
Till all the hills are dashed with gold,
That pales eve's dimly dawning crescent,

And twilight falls on field and wold,

Like veiling gauze o'er forms quiescent.

Soft, soothing calm of summer woods,

Of streams that chant in rhythmic numbers, Of fragrant, flowery solitudes

Where peace with folded pinions slumbers, Full oft to thee doth fancy take

Her airy flight from burdened highways, To roam again by brook or lake,

Or dream in leafy paths and byways.

I

JAMES CONNOLLY
(Living)

THE SONG OF ILANN

From "Ilann and Aine."

LOVED the High King's Daughter,
Ah, she was fair to see!

Nine royal champions sought her
For queenly company.

Brooches and silks they brought her
And gems from oversea,

But Aine, the High King's Daughter,
Received them haughtily.

A cunning charm I wrought her
Of gold and findruinie,
As Danaan lore I taught her
Under the hazel-tree.

But far away one brought her
To a great dun by the sea,
And there the High King's Daughter
Drooped wan for misery.

And all in vain I sought her

That was so fair to see,

For Aine, the High King's Daughter,

Had died for love of me.

LUKE AYLMER CONOLLY

(

-1833)

THE ENCHANTED ISLAND

O Rathlin's Isle I chanced to sail
When summer breezes softly blew,
And there I heard so sweet a tale

That oft I wished it could be true.

They said, at eve, when rude winds sleep, And hushed is ev'ry turbid swell,

A mermaid rises from the deep,

And sweetly tunes her magic shell.

And while she plays, rock, dell, and cave, In dying falls the sound retain,

As if some choral spirits gave

Their aid to swell her witching strain.

Then, summoned by that dulcet note,
Uprising to th' admiring view,

A fairy island seems to float

With tints of many a gorgeous hue.

And glittering fanes, and lofty towers,
All on this fairy isle are seen :
And waving trees, and shady bowers,

With more than mortal verdure green.

And as it moves, the western sky

Glows with a thousand varying rays; And the calm sea, tinged with each dye, Seems like a golden flood of haze.

They also say, if earth or stone

From verdant Erin's hallowed land Were on this magic island thrown, Forever fixed it then would stand.

But when for this some little boat
In silence ventures from the shore
The mermaid sinks-hushed is the note ·
The fairy isle is seen no more.