of brown,
He sees but the high campanili that rise o'er each far-gleaming town.
Driven restlessly onward, he saileth away to the bright land of Spain,
And seeketh thy shrine, Santiago, and stands by the western main.

A bark bound for Erin lay waiting, he entered like one in a dream;
Fair winds in the full purple sails led him soon to the Shannon's broad
stream.
'Twas an evening that Florence might envy, so rich was the lemon-hued
air,
As it lay on lone Scattery's island, or lit the green mountains of
Clare;
The wide-spreading old giant river rolled his waters as smooth and as
still
As if Oonagh, with all her bright nymphs, had come down from the far
fairy hill,[98]
To fling her enchantments around on the mountains, the air, and the
tide,
And to soothe the worn heart of the old man who looked from the dark
vessel's side.

Borne on the current the vessel glides smoothly but swiftly away,
By Carrigaholt, and by many a green sloping headland and bay,
'Twixt Cratloe's blue hills and green woods, and the soft sunny shores
of Tervoe,
And now the fair city of Limerick spreads out on the broad bank below;
Still nearer and nearer approaching, the mariners look o'er the town,
The old man sees nought but St. Mary's square tower, with its
battlements brown.
He listens--as yet all is silent, but now, with a sudden surprise,
A rich peal of melody rings from that tower through the clear evening
skies!

One note is enough--his eye moistens, his heart, long so wither'd,
outswells,
He has found them--the sons of his labours--his musical, magical bells!
At each stroke all the bright past returneth, around him the sweet Arno
shines,
His children--his darling Francesca--his purple-clad trellis of vines!
Leaning forward, he listens, he gazes, he hears in that wonderful strain
The long-silent voices that murmur, "Oh, leave us not, father again!"
'Tis granted--he smiles--his eye closes--the breath from his white lips
hath fled--
The father has gone to his children--the old Campanaro is dead!

94. The hills of Else. See Appendix to O'Daly's "History of the
Geraldines," translated by the Rev. C. P. Meehan, p. 130.

95. Bell-founder.

96. The country of youth; the Elysium of the Pagan Irish.

97. Camden seems to credit a tradition commonly believed in his time,
of a gradual increase in the number and size of the lakes and rivers of
Ireland.

98. The beautiful hill in Lower Ormond called "Knock