, "a sign!"
And on the spot he raised a house to God.

THE HILL OF MAEVE

I

This is the hill of Maeve, the queen,
A mighty bulwark of gray-green

Whereon was set, by hands unknown,
A rugged monument of stone.

The great winds mourn, and sobs the wave
Beneath the lichened cairn of Maeve.

II

From many a rocky Leitrim height
O'er Lough Gill's waters, blue and bright,

From where Benbulbin fronts the foam,
And sees the Sligo ships put home,

Maeve's hill is like a pharos flame,
As is eternally her name!

III

'Neath azure tides of morning air
Ripple the waves of Ballysadare

Under where frowning Knocknarea
Looks o'er the Rosses far to sea,--

Looks far to sea, remembering
Maeve's loveliness, a vanished thing.

IV

The cromlechs, gray with eld, below,
Recall the dreams of long ago,--

The dreams of kern and king, both slave
To beauty, and the white Queen Maeve;

And though she slumbers, deep, so deep,
Her golden memory may not sleep!

AT KILLYBEGS

At Killybegs above the crags
The gray gulls pipe with voices thinned,
And all the green trees are like flags
That wave and waver in the wind.

At Killybegs about the dunes
Rustle the crispy grass and whin,
And low the long tide croons and croons
As it creeps out, as it creeps in.

At Killybegs the white sails race
When the blue sea is like a floor;
Like doubt night falls with haggard face;
Sometimes the ships return no more.

The brown bee drains the cottage flowers
Of honey to their crimson dregs,
And love hath many happy hours
'Twixt birth and death at Killybegs!

THE CRIPPLE

I have dreams of the outer islands,
Firths and forths of the Far-Away;
I have dreams of the heathery highlands
Under the golden day.

I have dreams of a sliding river--
Shannon--under the stars and sun;
I have dreams how the oar-blades quiver,
And the silvery salmon run.

I have dreams of a blithe lad striding
Out through the streets of Limerick-town;
I have dreams of a sweet maid biding
Under a thatch of brown.

But here I lie all huddled and hidden,
(Oh, the eternity it seems!)
Brooding desolate and bed-ridden,
Living only in dreams!

AN EXILE

I can remember the plaint of the wind on the moor,
Crying at dawning, and crying at shut of the da