It was the warrior within

Who called: "Awake! prepare for fight! Yet lose not memory in the din;

Make of thy gentleness thy might;

"Make of thy silence words to shake
The long enthroned kings of earth :
Make of thy will the force to break
Their towers of wantonness and mirth."

It was the wise all-seeing soul

Who counseled neither war nor peace: "Only be thou thyself that goal

In which the wars of Time shall cease."

"T"

MALACHY RYAN

ROSE ADAIR

WAS in green-leafy spring-time,
When the birds on every tree
Were breakin' all their little hearts
In a merry melody;

An' the young buds hung like tassels
An' the flowers grew everywhere—
'Twas in green-leafy spring-time
I met sweet Rose Adair.

O Rose Adair ! O Rose Adair !
You are the radiant sun,

The blossomed trees, an' scented breeze,
An' song birds all in one.

I met her sowin' mushrooms

With her white feet in the grass; 'Twas eve-but mornin' in the smile Of my sweet cailin deas;

An' I kissed her-oh, so secretly

That not a one should know

But the roguish stars they winked above
An' the daisies smiled below.

The Father in confession, Rose,
Won't count that love a sin
That with a kiss taps at the heart
An' lets an angel in ;

'Twas so love entered into mine
An' made his dwellin' there
If that's a sin, the Lord forgive
Your beauty, Rose Adair !

If spring-time never came at all
To chase the winter's frown,
Her smile would coax the flowers up
An' charm the sunshine down;
There's not a perfumed breeze that blows
Or bird that charms the air,

But stole its sweetness from the lips
Of lovely Rose Adair.

The leaves will fall in autumn,

An' the flowers all come to grief,

But the green love in my heart of hearts
Will never shed a leaf!

For the sunshine of your bonny eyes
Will keep it green and fair,

An' your breath will be its breeze-o'-spring,
O lovely Rose Adair.

M

JOHN SAVAGE
(1828-1888)

BREASTING THE WORLD

ANY years have burst upon my forehead, Years of gloom and heavy-freighted grief, And I have stood them as against the horrid Angry gales, the Peak of Teneriffe.

Yet if all the world had storm and sorrow,
You had none, my better self, Lenore;
My toil was as the midnight seeking morrow,
You, moon-like, lit the way I struggled o'er.

Though as a cataract my soul went lashing
Itself through ravines desolate and gray,
You made me see a beauty in the flashing,
And with your presence diamonded the spray.
Then, Lenore, though we have grown much older,
Though your eyes were brighter when we met,
Still let us feel, shoulder unto shoulder

And heart to heart, above the world yet!

SHANE'S HEAD

SCENE. Before Dublin Castle. Night. A clansman of Shane O'Neill's discovers his Chief's head on a pole.

S it thus, O Shane the haughty! Shane the valiant!

that we meet

Have my eyes been lit by Heaven but to guide me

to defeat?

Have I no Chief, or you no clan, to give us both defense,

Or must I, too, be statued here with thy cold eloquence?

Thy ghastly head grins scorn upon old Dublin's Castle Tower;

Thy shaggy hair is wind-tossed and thy brow seems rough with power;

Thy wrathful lips like sentinels, by foulest treachery stung,

Look rage upon the world of wrong, but chain thy fiery tongue.

That tongue, whose Ulster accent woke the ghost of Columbkill;

Whose warrior-words fenced round with spears the oaks of Derry Hill;

Whose reckless tones gave life and death to vassals and to knaves,

And hunted hordes of Saxons into holy Irish graves. The Scotch marauders whitened when his war-cry met

their ears,

And the death-bird, like a vengeance, poised above his stormy cheers;

Ay, Shane, across the thundering sea, out-chanting it, your tongue

Flung wild un-Saxon war-whoopings the Saxon Court among.

Just think, O Shane! the same moon shines on Liffey as on Foyle,

And lights the ruthless knaves on both, our kinsmen to despoil;

And you the hope, voice, battle-axe, the shield of us

and ours,

A murdered, trunkless, blinding sight above these Dublin towers !

Thy face is paler than the moon; my heart is paler still

My heart? I had no heart-'twas yours, 'twas yours! to keep or kill.

And you kept it safe for Ireland, Chief-your life, your soul, your pride;

But they sought it in thy bosom, Shane-with proud O'Neill it died.

You were turbulent and haughty, proud and keen as Spanish steel

But who had right of these, if not our Ulster's Chief,

O'Neill,

Who reared aloft the "Bloody Hand" until it paled the sun,

And shed such glory on Tyrone as chief had never done?

He was "turbulent" with traitors; he was "haughty" with the foe;

He was

"cruel," say ye, Saxons! Ay! he dealt ye blow for blow!

He was

"rough" and "wild"—and who's not wild to see his hearthstone razed ?

He was "merciless as fire"-ah, ye kindled him—he blazed!

He was "proud "—yes, proud of birthright, and be

cause he flung way

Your Saxon stars of princedom, as the rock does mocking spray.