Once again she raised her head, contending Now my work is done and I am dying, Lone, an exile on a foreign shore; But in dreams I roam with my love that's lying When I'm gone will bloom; new hopes for old LONGING THE sunshine of old Ireland, when it lies Tenderly as the lovelight in her daughters' Gentle eyes! O the brown streams of old Ireland, how they leap With wild songs, till charmed to sleep By the murmuring bees in meadows, where the swallows my Glance and sweep! home there in old Ireland-the old ways We had, when I knew only Those ways of one sweet place; Ere afar from all I loved I wandered lonely, Many days! The sweet air, the old place, the trees, the cows, the thrushes Mad with glee. I'm weary for old Ireland-once again In sunshine or in rain! And the longing in my heart when it comes o'er me Stings like pain. B SONG RING from the craggy haunts of birch and pine Keen forest odors from that realm of thine, O wind, O mighty, melancholy wind, Blow through me, blow! Thou blowest forgotten things into my mind THE WAVES' LEGEND OF THE STRAND OF BALA HE sea moans on the strand, THE Moans over shingle and shell. O moaning sea! what sorrowful story Do thy wild waves tell? Ever they moan on the strand, And my ear, like a sounding shell, For Bala the Sweet-Voiced moan! Sweet was thy tongue, O Bala, To win man's love! Thy voice Made sigh for thee the maids of Eman; But nobler was thy choice. She gave for thy heart her heart Warm in her swan-white breast, Aillin of Laigen, Lugah's daughter, The fairest bird of her nest. Their pledge was here by the shore And swift in his war-car Bala from Eman He found her not by the shore, Gloom was o'er sea and sky, And a man of the Shee with dreadful face On a blast from the South rushed by. Said Bala: "Stay that man! Ask him what word he brings?" "A woe on the Dun of Lugah! a woe On Eman of the Kings! "Wail for Aillin the Fair! Wail for him her feet Were swift to meet on the lonely strand "Swift were her feet on the way, "Swift are the lover's feet, But swifter our malice flies! I told her: Bala is dead; and dead He scowled on Bala, and rose A wraith of the mist, and fled Like a wind-rent cloud; and suddenly Bala With a great cry fell dead. Mourn for all lovers true, Mourn for all beautiful things, Vanished, faded away, forgotten With dead forgotten Springs ! So moans the sea on the strand, WAITING L ONE is my waiting here under the tree, Under our tree of the woods, where I wait and wait; Why tarry those white little feet that would bring you to me, Where are the warm sweet arms that are leaving me desolate ? Oona, asthore machree? Oona, the woods are sighing-they sigh and say: "The wind of Summer will pass like a lover's sigh, And love's glad hour as lightly passes away: Come to me then, ere my longing hope of despair shall die, Oona, asthore machree! |