d!

O a song for Joyce's Country, since it haunts one like a dream
That comes in the dusk ere dawning, ere the first bright sunrise beam;
A dream of dolor and vastness, of clouds that are swept and swirled
O'er the desolate wastes and waters of a joy-forsaken world!

BALLAD OF PROTESTANT'S LEAP

It was Sir Frederick Hamilton's men
Were hungry for the fray,
And it was a son of the bog and fen
Would guide them on their way.

By the good book an oath he took,
This glib and open guide,
And so it was over bent and brook
They needs must up and ride.

They rode them fast, they rode them far,
By day's last fitful flame,
Until, by the light of the evening star,
To a heathery slope they came.

Then spake the guide, with a glint of pride,
With a catch of his breath spake he,
"Ye may fall, if over the crest ye ride,
On the Irish enemy!

"When I drop my cloak by yon stunted oak,
Do ye ply the lash and spurs,
And there 'll be no one see another sun
Of the popish worshippers!"

He has gone to the crest by the dwarfed tree,
He has crept on foot and hand,
And now with a wave his cloak drops he
As a sign to the waiting band.

Oh, it 's ride, Sir Frederick Hamilton's men,
Ye men of ire and brawn,
And it 's smile, ye son of the bog and fen,
To see them urge swift on!

Did they purge with the sword the Irish camp?
Nay, for the story saith
Through the evening dusk, through the evening damp,
They rode to a tryst with death.

It was over a cliff that was black and sheer
To the vale of fair Glencar
That they plunged with frenzied shrieks of fear
'Neath the eye of the mountain star.

Oh, it was Sir Frederick Hamilton's men
Set forth to smite and slay,
And it was a son of the bog and fen
That guided them on their way!

ETCHING AT NIGHT

I wandered in the streets of Galway-town,
When night had let her dusky curtains down,
And in a doorway, tall and fair and slight,
Framed by an inner beam of golden light,
Beheld a maiden of madonna face,
Pensive and sad, yet with a nameless grace,
Presage, I thought, of the unfolding years,
That hide some things that are too deep for tears!

THE SPECTRAL ROWERS

What is that shimmering line of white
Gliding under the stark midnight--
Gliding--gliding--gliding--gliding--
Where the river gleams when the