igo,
And the vacant arches of the abbey
Framing the ethereal rose of sunset!
Round about me silence and gray shadow
Peopled with the wraiths of time departed,--
Monks with back-thrown cowls who pace the cloisters
Now deep-mounded, crumbled, clad with ivy.
No more from the tower their chimes of silver
Will the bells fling o'er the town and river,
O'er the Garavogue soft-gliding seaward!
Nevermore--save in deep dreams at midnight.
Death, the immemorial lord of mortals,
He is abbot in the aisles of Sligo
Till the spheres proclaim the resurrection!

CARROWMORE

The gray winds call o'er Carrowmore,
Call in the white of the dawn,
And the grasses sigh o'er Carrowmore
When the purple night draws on.

The cromlechs stand on Carrowmore
As they 've stood since who can say;
And the thin wraiths flit o'er Carrowmore
Between the dusk and the day.

There 's never a hush on Carrowmore
Come autumn or come spring,
For, oh, the tongues of Carrowmore,
They are fain of whispering!

And over and over Carrowmore
'T will be ever thus, meseems,--
Like the winnow of wings o'er Carrowmore
The surge of the tide of dreams!

ON CARAGH LAKE

I

On Caragh lake the evening light
Is violet and amethyst,
And the dark shadows of the pines
In silence keep their twilight tryst.

And high beyond the purple groves,
The sweeping moors, the climbing fells,
The rugged Kerry mountains stand
Like grim eternal sentinels.

In dying whispers on the shore
The ripples lap, the ripples break,
And there is peace beyond all words
As night descends on Caragh lake!

II

In unexpected grooves of flight
A blundering bat swoops swiftly by;
From out a coppice drifts a bird's
Last plaintive melody.

The lake is like a mirror dim
With no disturbing breath to mar,
While o'er a lonely fell there burns
One white vespernal star.

RAHINANE

Wrapt in mist and washed with rain
Is the hill of Rahinane;
Compassed by the hosts of sleep
Is its keep.

Only shadows come and go;
Only wraiths flit to and fro;
And the bat, grotesque and blind,
And the wind.

Just a shard of shattered hope
On a barren Kerry slope;
Just a ruin in the rain,
Rahinane!

THE WIND OF MOURNE

The wind of Mourne comes over the hill,
Over the hill with a trill of song,