THE SHAMROCK

WHEN April rains make flowers bloom
And Johnny-jump-ups come to light,
And clouds of color and perfume

Float from the orchards pink and white, I see my shamrock in the rain,

An emerald spray with raindrops set, Like jewels on Spring's coronet,

So fair, and yet it breathes of pain.

The shamrock on an older shore

Sprang from a rich and sacred soil Where saint and hero lived of yore,

And where their sons in sorrow toil; And here, transplanted, it to me

Seems weeping for the soil it left: The diamonds that all others see

Are tears drawn from its heart bereft.

RUSSIA

SATURNIAN mother! why dost thou devour Thy offspring, who by loving thee are curst? Why must they fear thee who would fain be first

To add new glories to thy matchless dower? Why must they flee before thy cruel power, That punishes their best as treason's worst,

The treason that despotic chains would burst,

That makes men heroes who in slavery cower?

Upon thy brow the stars of empire burn; Thy bearing has a majesty sublime.

Thy exiled children ever toward thee yearn; Nor should their ardent love be deemed a crime.

O, mighty another of men, to mildness

turn,

And haste the advent of a happier time!

TO AN IMPERILLED TRAVELLER

UNFLINCHING Dante of a later day, Thou who hast wandered through the realms of pain

I think the meadow-lark's clear sound
Leaks upward slowly from the ground,
While on the wing the blue-birds ring
Their wedding-bells to woods around.

The flirting chewink calls his dear
Behind the bush; and very near,
Where water flows, where green grass
grows,

Song-sparrows gently sing, "Good cheer."

And, best of all, through twilight's calmn
The hermit-thrush repeats his psalm.

How much I'm wishing to go a-fishing In days so sweet with music's balm !

THE moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring,

When first I heard the nightingale a longlost love deploring,

So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and eerie;

I longed to hear a simpler strain, — the wood-notes of the veery.

The laverock sings a bonny lay above the Scottish heather;

It sprinkles down from far away like light and love together;

He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, his dearie;

I only know one song more sweet, vespers of the veery.

the

In English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity treasure,

I heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure:

The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune was loud and cheery,

And yet, with every setting sun, I listened for the veery.

But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing;

New England woods, at close of day, with that clear chant are ringing: And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary,

I fain would hear, before I go, the woodnotes of the veery.

ROSLIN AND HAWTHORNDEN
FAIR Roslin Chapel, how divine
The art that reared thy costly shrine!
Thy carven columns must have grown
By magic, like a dream in stone.

Yet not within thy storied wall
Would I in adoration fall,
So gladly as within the glen
That leads to lovely Hawthornden:

A long-drawn aisle, with roof of green
And vine-clad pillars, while between
The Esk runs murmuring on its way,
In living music, night and day.

Within the temple of this wood
The martyrs of the covenant stood,
And rolled the psalm, and poured the
prayer,

From Nature's solemn altar-stair.

THE LILY OF YORROW DEEP in the heart of the forest the lily of Yorrow is growing;

Blue is its cup as the sky, and with mystical odor o'erflowing;

Faintly it falls through the shadowy glades when the south wind is blowing;

Sweet are the primroses pale, and the violets after a shower; Sweet are the borders of pinks, and the blossoming grapes on the bower: