For 't is green, green, green, where the ruined towers are gray,

And it's green, green, green, all the happy night and day;

Green of leaf and green of sod, green of ivy on the wall,

And the blessed Irish shamrock with the fairest green of all.

There the primrose breath is sweet, and the yellow gorse is set

A crown of shining gold on the headlands brown and wet;

Not a nook of all the land but the daisies make to glow,

And the happy violets pray in their hidden cells below.

When the little birds do sing, and the buds begin to swell! —

Think not ye ken its beauty or know its face so dear

Till ye meet it in old Ireland in the dawn ing o' the year!

MARY ELIZABETH BLAKE

THE WILLIS

THE Willis are out to-night, In the ghostly pale moonlight, With robes and faces white.

Swiftly they circle round, And make not any sound, Nor footprint on the ground.

The forest is asleep;
All things that fly or creep
A death-like silence keep.

A fear is over all;

From spectral trees and tall
The gathering night-dews fall.
Moveless are leaf and limb,
While through the forest dim
Slow glides a figure slim.

A figure slim and fair,
With loosened, streaming hair,
Watching the Willis there!

"These are the ghosts," she said, "Of hapless ones unwed,

Who loved and now are dead."

Her hair was drenched with dew; The moonlight shimmered through, And showed its raven hue.

"Each one of these," she cried, “Or ever she was a bride, For love's sake sinned and died."

"I come," she said, "I too;
Ye are by one too few,"
And joined the phantom crew.

Swiftly they circled round,
Nor was there any sound,
Nor footprint on the ground.

DAVID Law Proudfit

WOULD the lark sing the sweeter if he knew

A thousand hearts hung breathless on his lay?

And if "How fair!" the rose could hear us say,

Would she, her primal fairness to outdo, Take on a richer scent, a lovelier hue? Who knows or cares to answer yea or nay?

O tuneful lark! sail, singing, on your way, Brimmed with excess of ecstasy; and you, Sweet rose! renew with every perfect June Your perfect blossoming! Still Naturewise,

Sing, bloom, because ye must, and not for praise.

If only we, who covet the fair boon

Of well-earned fame, and wonder where it lies,

Would read the secret in your simple ways!

V

At feud with aught that's mortal. So tonight,

My soul, unfurling her white flag of peace, Forestalling that dread hour when we may

The lily dreams of you. The pensive rose Reveals you where it glows

In purple trance above the waterfall;

The fragrant fern rejoices by the pond, And sets your dear face in its feathery frond;

The winds blow chill, but, sounding over all, I hear your sweet voice call!

My gentle daughter! With us you have stayed.

Your life doth never fade!

O, evermore I see your blue eyes shine.
In subtle moods I cannot understand,
I feel the flutter of your tender hand
That slipped at dawn, almost without a
sign,

So softly out of mine!

WILLIAM AUGUSTUS CROFFUT

WAITING

SERENE, I fold my hands and wait, Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea;

I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,
For, lo! my own shall come to me.

I stay my haste, I make delays,
For what avails this eager pace?
I stand amid the eternal ways,
And what is mine shall know my face.

Asleep, awake, by night or day,

The friends I seek are seeking me;
No wind can drive my bark astray,
Nor change the tide of destiny.

What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy the coming years;
My heart shall reap where it has sown,
And garner up its fruit of tears.

The waters know their own and draw
The brook that springs in yonder height;
So flows the good with equal law

Unto the soul of pure delight.

POST-MERIDIAN1

AFTERNOON

WHEN in thy glass thou studiest thy face, Not long, nor yet not seldom, half repelled And half attracted; when thou hast beheld Of Time's slow ravages the crumbling trace,

(Deciphered now with many an interspace The characters erewhile that Beauty spelled),

And in thy throat a choking fear hath swelled

Of Love, grown cold, eluding thy embrace: Couldst thou but read my gaze of tender

ness

Affection fused with pity-precious tears Would bring relief to thy unjust distress; Thy visage, even as it to me appears, Would seem to thee transfigured; thou wouldst bless

Me, who am also, Dearest! scarred with years.

EVENING

AGE cannot wither her whom not gray hairs Nor furrowed cheeks have made the thrall of Time;

For Spring lies hidden under Winter's rime,
And violets know the victory is theirs.
Even so the corn of Egypt, unawares,
Proud Nilus shelters with engulfing slime;
So Etna's hardening crust a more sublime
Volley of pent-up fires at last prepares.
O face yet fair, if paler, and serene
With sense of duty done without complaint!
O venerable crown!- a living green,
Strength to the weak, and courage to the
faint-

Thy bleaching locks, thy wrinkles, have but been

Fresh beads upon the rosary of a saint! WENDELL PHILLIPS GARRISON

THOREAU'S FLUTE

WE, sighing, said, "Our Pan is dead; His pipe hangs mute beside the river; Around it wistful sunbeams quiver, But Music's airy voice is fled.

Spring mourns as for untimely frost; The bluebird chants a requiem; The willow-blossom waits for him; The Genius of the wood is lost."

Then from the flute, untouched by hands,
There came a low, harmouious breath:
"For such as he there is no death;
His life the eternal life commands;
Above man's aims his nature rose:
The wisdom of a just content
Made one small spot a continent,
And turned to poetry Life's prose.

"Haunting the hills, the stream, the wild,
Swallow and aster, lake and pine,
To him grew human or divine,
Fit mates for this large-hearted child.
Such homage Nature ne'er forgets,

And yearly on the coverlid

'Neath which her darling lieth hid Will write his name in violets.

Cities and fields I walk; I penetrate
Deserts and seas remote, and passing by
Hovel and mart and palace-soon or late
I knock unbidden once at every gate!

"If sleeping, wake-if feasting, rise before
I turn away.
It is the hour of fate,
And they who follow me reach every state
Mortals desire, and conquer every foe
Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate,
Condemned to failure, penury, and woe,
Seek me in vain and uselessly implore.
I answer not, and I return no more!"
JOHN JAMES INGALLS

Before the gaping crowd, who come to see A fellow mortal die,

Preach if you choose, and take your text from me,

To them I cannot lie.

And still the less can I, a finite man,
Pretend to cheat my God:

By him the workings of his mighty plan
Are clearly understood.

Conceived in lust, brought up in sordid sin,
How could I hope to be

Aught but the outcast I have ever been,
Fruit for the gallows tree?

Go teach the children swarming through the town,

To-day exposed to all

The poverty and vice that drew me down, Save them before they fall.

But as for me, I die as I have lived, As all men must,

Believing as I always have believed That God is just.

EDWARD HOWLAND

MY BIRTH

I HAD my birth where stars were born,
In the dim æons of the past:

My cradle cosmic forces rocked,

And to my first was linked my last.

Through boundless space the shuttle flew, To weave the warp and woof of fate: In my begetting were conjoined

The infinitely small and great.

The outmost star on being's rim,

The tiniest sand-grain of the earth, The farthest thrill and nearest stir

Were not indifferent to my birth.

And when at last the earth swung free, A little planet by the moon,

For me the continent arose,

For me the ocean roared its tune;

For me the forests grew; for me
The electric force ran to and fro;
For me tribes wandered o'er the earth,
Kingdoms arose, and cities grew;