moon is bright?

There is never a sound save the night bird's cry,
And the languid water lapsing by--
Lapsing--lapsing--lapsing--lapsing--
Under the arch of a leaden sky.

'T is the winding Garavogue's spectral crew,
Bound for the port of dreams-come-true--
Rowing--rowing--rowing--rowing--
With a swinging stroke that is firm and true.

Do they ever reach their bourn? may be;
Yet who can say?--not we!--not we!--
Fading--fading--fading--fading--
Ere morn comes over the hills to the sea.

'T is so with all of the visions of man,
Howe'er he strive and howe'er he plan--
Fleeting--fleeting--fleeting--fleeting--
For life, alas, is a narrow span!

TYRCONNELL

They crowned Tyrconnell
On the rock of Doon;
"Hail! hail!" they said,
To that anointed head,
The henchman all;
They led him to the hall;
"Hail! hail! Tyrconnell!"
How the rafters rang!
Clang! clang!
How the blades out-sprang,
Like shimmering lake-water underneath the moon!

They slew Tyrconnell
On the rock of Doon;
"Traitor!" they said,
Of that anointed head,
The henchmen all
Who haled him from the hall;
"Base, base Tyrconnell!"
How the scabbards rang!--
Clang! clang!
As the blades out-sprang,
Like shimmering lake-water underneath the moon!

THE WAY OF THE CROSS

Where the wild sea-mew flocks and flees,
And neither winds nor skies beguile,
Foam-set amid the Irish seas
Is rugged Skellig Michael isle.

Up its escarpments, rough and grim,
To its bleak summit rimmed with moss,
The monks of old with prayer and hymn
Hewed out the weary "Way of the Cross."

Gone are these holy toilers--gone;
They rest now in their long repose,
From the red dusk to the red dawn,
'Neath the sea-pinks and tangled rose.

But sorrow bides with us and ill,
And stress and sacrifice and loss,
And we must strive to meet them still
Climbing the weary "Way of the Cross."

THE ISLE OF DOOM

Out of the mist off Galway shore,
Out of the morning mist,
Rose the island of Hy Brasail
With its crags of amethyst;

Crags of purple and amethyst,
And meads of gleaming green,
Rose the island of Hy Brasail
With a shimmer of sea between.

And what shall come to Galway shore,
What shadow of doom prevail,
With this fading dream of the mists of morn,
This island of Hy Brasail?