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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 1,

 
 Dublin Verses 
 
 by 
 
 Members of Trinity College
 
 Dublin Verses 
 
 by 
 
 Members 
 
 of 
 
 Trinity College 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 H. A. HINKSON 
 
 Sometime Scholar of Trinity College, Dublin 
 
 iiraoi8ai<i S'avijp 
 vcoSvvov Kal rt? KCLfxarov Qrjicev. 
 
 Pixdar. 
 
 LONDON ELK IN MATHEWS 
 
 DUBLIN HODGES, FIGGIS 6f CO., LIMITED 
 
 MDCCCXCV
 
 
 TO THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF DUBLIN 
 
 AND TO THE 
 
 MEMBERS OF TRINITY COLLEGE 
 
 THIS BOOK IS 
 
 DEDICATED 
 
 IN GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE 
 
 OF 
 
 HAPPY UNDERGRADUATE YEARS 
 
 AND OF 
 MANY CHERISHED FRIENDSHIPS 
 
 861090
 
 PREFACE 
 
 My object in making this collection has been to bring 
 together the best and most characteristic verses written 
 by living members of Trinity College. That I have 
 succeeded in doing this will and must, of course, remain 
 a matter of opinion ; but I can claim at least to have 
 made my selection impartially and to the best of what 
 judgment I possess. Parodies and the more or less 
 successful imitations of the great writers, of which 
 undergraduate life is usually so prodigal, I have gene- 
 rally rejected in favour of poems which show an Irish 
 rather than an English influence. 
 
 The verses are naturally not of equal merit, but I 
 hope that I have not included any which are quite 
 unworthy their companionship ; if I have done so, the 
 responsibility is wholly mine. From " Kottabos," the 
 College quarterly, I have taken sparingly, partly because 
 its contents are chiefly academic exercises, tasteful and 
 scholarly though they are, and partly because a volume 
 of selections from it, under the able editing of Professor 
 Tyrrell, may be expected in the near future.
 
 via 
 
 My warmest thanks are due and hereby given to 
 my contributors, whose unvarying courtesy and helpful 
 kindness have mitigated the somewhat delicate and 
 thorny path of an editor. I desire also to acknowledge 
 my indebtedness to the Editor and to the Publisher of 
 " Kottabos," for permission to republish poems which 
 have already appeared in that magazine, and also to the 
 Editors and the Publishers of several other magazines 
 for a like permission. 
 
 H. A. HINKSON. 
 London, Xmas, 1894.
 
 CONTRIBUTORS 
 
 De Vere, Aubrey 
 
 De Vere, Sir Stephen, Bart. 
 
 Dixon, W. Macneile 
 
 Dovvden, Edward 
 
 Falkiner, Fredk. R. 
 
 French, W. Percy 
 
 Graves, Alfred Perceval 
 
 Greene, George A. 
 
 Gwynn, Edward 
 
 Hamilton, Edwin 
 
 Hillier, A. C. 
 
 Hyde, Douglas 
 
 Ingram, John Kells 
 
 Jessop, G. H. 
 
 Lecky, W. E. Hartpolk 
 
 Lowry, J. M. 
 
 O'Grady, Standish 
 
 Palmer, A. Smythe 
 
 Plunkett, George Noble, Count 
 
 Rolleston, T. W. 
 
 Savage-Armstrong, George 
 
 todhunter, john 
 
 Tyrrell, Robert Yelverton 
 
 Wilde, Oscar 
 
 Wilde, William 
 
 Wilkins, George 
 
 Wilkins, Wilijam
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Ode to the Daffodil. Aubrey de Vere . I 
 
 The Last Parting. W. E. H. Lecky 5 
 
 The Memory of the Dead. John Kells Ingram .... 7 
 
 The Corn-Crake. Edward Dowden 9 
 
 Requiescat. Oscar Wilde 12 
 
 The Irish Spinning Wheel. Alfred Perceval Graves . . .13 
 
 On the Death of Col. Burnaby in the Soudan. R. Y. Tyrrell . 15 
 
 Death Lament of John O'Mahony. Douglas Hyde. ... 16 
 
 Nicey, Icy, and Splicy. Edwin Hamilton 18 
 
 The Snowy-Breasted Pearl. Sir Stephen E. de Vere, Bart. . . 20 
 
 Les Lendemains. William Wilde 22 1/ 
 
 Aghadoe. John Todhunter 23 
 
 The Old Country. G. F. Savage-Armstrong 25 
 
 Song. Aubrey de Vere 28 
 
 The Spell-Struck. T. W. Rolleston 29 
 
 I Give My Heart to Thee. Standish O' Grady 31 
 
 The Memorial Garden. Arthtir Cecil Hillier 33 
 
 Song. William Wilkins 35 
 
 Vae Victis. W. Macneile Dixon 36 
 
 Spring-Time. G. A. Greene 39 
 
 In the Cathedral Close. Edward Dowden 41 
 
 An Old Song. George Noble, Count Phinkett 43 
 
 The Decline of Love. W. E. H. Lecky 44 
 
 Song. Aubrey de Vere 46 
 
 Death of Sir George Colley at Majuba Hill. John Kells Ingram. 47 
 
 The True Knowledge. Oscar Wilde 48 
 
 Donegal. G. H. Jessop 49 
 
 Father O'Flynn. Alfred Perceval Graves 50
 
 Xll 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Wounded Scout. W. P. French 53 
 
 Lucretius on Death. R. Y. Tyrrell 54 
 
 The Wedding of the Clans. Aubrey de Vere .... 56 
 
 My Grief on the Sea. Douglas Hyde 59 
 
 On Guard at a Barricade. George Wilkins 61 
 
 A Dead Friend. Sir Stephen E. de Vere, Bart 64 
 
 Ad Canem. G. A. Greene 67 
 
 Lough Bray. Standish O 'Grady 69 
 
 Old Age. W. E. H. Lecky 70 
 
 For a Reading Lesson. T. IV. Rolleston 72 
 
 Dirge. Aubrey de Vere 73 
 
 Outside the Convent. William Wilde 74 
 
 Inside the Convent. William Wilde 75 
 
 To a Child. William Wilkins 76 
 
 Years After. William Wilkins 77 
 
 Winter. Arthur Cecil Hillier ........ 78 
 
 Exsequiae. W. Macneile Dixon 80 
 
 Salve Saturnia Tellus. Oscar Wilde 81 
 
 Song. Edward Dowden 82 
 
 The Lament of Aideen for Oscar. John Todhuntet ... 83 
 
 An Aged Greek. Aubrey de Vere 85 
 
 A Messenger. George Noble, Count Plunketl 86 
 
 Two Chambers hath the Heart. T. W. Rolleston ... 88 
 
 The Widow. W. E. H. Lecky 89 
 
 "The Cycles of Time." W. P. French 90 
 
 To be Wroth with One We Love. R. V. Tyrrell ... 92 
 
 Ringleted Youth of My Love. Douglas Hyde .... 94 
 
 At Evening Service. G. H. yessop ....... 96 
 
 The Nightingale. Aubrey de Vere 99 
 
 The Theatrical Theorist. Edivin Hamilton 101 
 
 Theocritus. Oscar Wilde 105 
 
 The Rejected Lover. Alfred Perceval Graves .... 106 
 
 Ad Animam. W. Macneile Dixon 107 
 
 Oasis. Edward Dowden 109 
 
 Ad Amicam Mesm William Wilde no
 
 Xlll 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Song. Aubrey de Vere ill 
 
 A Greek Epitaph. T. W. Rolleston 1 12 
 
 To . W. E. H. Lecky 113 
 
 Star of My Sight. Douglas Hyde 114 
 
 Vera Singing. T. W. Rolleston 116 
 
 The Dole of the King's Daughter. Oscar Wilde . . . .117 
 
 Zoe, an Athenian Child. Aubrey de Vere 119 
 
 Eileen's Farewell. John Todhunter 121 
 
 Coming ! George Noble, Count Plunkett 122 
 
 Roses. G. A. Greene 124 
 
 The Singer. Edward Doivden 125 
 
 Avis. George Wilkins 126 
 
 Song. Aubrey de Vere 127 
 
 Salome. William Wilde 128 
 
 Sortes. Edward Gwynn 129 
 
 Song. Aubrey de Vere 130 
 
 Love's Spite. Aubrey de Vere 131 
 
 The Battle of the Asses' Bridge. J. M. Lmvry . . . .132 
 
 The Return. G. A. Greene 137 
 
 Greystones Rocks. Fredk. R. Falkiner 138 
 
 The Cuckoo. A. Smythe Palmer 139 

 
 Dublin Verses
 
 ODE TO THE DAFFODIL 
 
 O Love Star of the unbeloved March, 
 When, cold and shrill, 
 
 Forth flows beneath a low, dim- lighted arch 
 The wind that beats sharp crag and barren hill, 
 And keeps unfilmed the lately torpid rill ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 A week or e'er 
 Thou com'st thy soul is round us everywhere ; 
 
 And many an auspice, many an omen, 
 
 Whispers, scarce noted, thou art coming. 
 Huge, cloud-like trees grow dense with sprays and buds. 
 
 And cast a shapelier gloom o'er freshening grass, 
 And through the fringe of ragged woods 
 
 More shrouded sunbeams pass. 
 Fresh shoots conceal the pollard's spike, 
 
 The driving rack out-braving ; 
 The hedge swells large by ditch and dike ; 
 And all the uncoloured world is like 
 
 A shadow-limned engraving.
 
 III. 
 
 Herald and harbinger ! with thee 
 Begins the year's great jubilee ! 
 
 Of her solemnities sublime 
 
 A sacristan whose gusty taper 
 Flashes through earliest morning vapour, 
 
 Thou rings't dark nocturns and dim prime. 
 Birds that have yet no heart for song 
 
 Gain strength with thee to twitter ; 
 And, warm at last, where hollies throng, 
 
 The mirrored sunbeams glitter. 
 With silk the osier plumes her tendrils thin : 
 
 Sweet blasts, though keen as sweet, the blue lake 
 wrinkle ; 
 And buds on leafless boughs begin 
 
 Against grey skies to twinkle. 
 
 IV. 
 
 To thee belongs 
 A pathos drowned in later scents and songs ! 
 Thou com'st when first the Spring 
 
 On Winter's verge encroaches ; 
 When gifts that speed on wounded wing 
 
 Meet little save reproaches ! 
 Thou com'st when blossoms blighted, 
 
 Retracted sweets, and ditty, 
 From suppliants oft deceived and spited 
 
 More anger draw than pity !
 
 Thee the old shepherd, on the bleak hill-side, 
 
 Far distant eyeing leans upon his staff 
 Till from his cheek the wind-brushed tear is dried 
 
 'In thee he spells his boyhood's epitaph. 
 To thee belongs the youngling of the flock, 
 
 When first it lies, close-huddled from the cold, 
 Between the sheltering rock 
 
 And gorse-bush slowly overcrept with gold. 
 
 Thou laugh'st, bold outcast bright as brave, 
 When the wood bellows, and the cave, 
 And leagues inland is heard the wave ! 
 Hating the dainty and the fine 
 As sings the blackbird thou dost shine ! 
 Thou com'st while yet on mountain lawns high up 
 Lurks the last snow ; while by the berried breer 
 As yet the black spring in its craggy cup 
 
 No music makes or charms no listening ear : 
 Thou com'st while from the oak stock or red beech 
 Dead Autumn scoffs young Spring with splenetic speech ; 
 
 While in her vidual chastity the Year 
 With frozen memories of the sacred past 
 Her doors and heart makes fast, 
 And loves no flowers save those that deck the bier : 
 Ere yet the blossomed sycamore 
 With golden surf is curdled o'er, 
 Ere yet the birch against the blue 
 Her silken tissues weaves anew :
 
 Thou com'st while, meteor-like 'mid fens, the weed 
 Swims, wan in light ; while sleet-showers whitening glare ; 
 Weeks ere by river brims, new furred, the reed 
 Leans its green javelin level in the air. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Child of the strong and strenuous East ! 
 Now scattered wide o'er dusk hill bases, 
 Now massed in broad, illuminate spaces ; 
 
 Torch-bearer at a wedding feast 
 Whereof thou mayst not be partaker, 
 But mime, at most, and merrymaker ; 
 Phosphor of an ungrateful Sun 
 That rises but to bid thy lamp begone : — 
 
 Farewell ! I saw 
 Writ large on woods and lawns to-day that Law 
 Which back remands thy race and thee 
 To hero-haunted shades of dark Persephone. 
 To-day the Spring has pledged her marriage vow : 
 
 Her voice, late tremulous, strong has grown and steady : 
 To-day the Spring is crowned a queen : but thou 
 
 Thy winter hast already ! 
 Take my song's blessing, and depart, 
 Type of true service — unrequited heart. 
 
 Aubrey de Vere.
 
 THE LAST PARTING. 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! the dream is o'er, 
 
 Its passion and its pain ; 
 And Hope and Fear are now no more, 
 
 Though Love and Grief remain. 
 
 One feeble pressure of the hand, 
 
 One little sigh and shiver, 
 And all we thought and hoped and planned 
 
 Has passed away for ever. 
 
 Still on those pale and shrunken lips 
 
 A feeble sunlight plays — 
 The radiance of a sun that dips 
 
 Beneath the Western haze. 
 
 The Sun that sinks will rise again, 
 
 And brighter days may shine ; 
 But thou hast vanished from our ken : 
 
 Have we, too, passed from thine ? 
 
 Can any sound of distant strife, 
 
 Or voice of pleading love, 
 Or any care of mortal life, 
 
 Still follow thee above ?
 
 Or canst thou even now inspire 
 
 Some thought that thrills the brain, 
 
 And raise the drooping spirit higher 
 With Hope that conquers Pain ? 
 
 We cannot tell. That vacant eye, 
 Those lips, respond no more ; 
 
 No echo answers to our cry, 
 No light reveals the shore. 
 
 And be it gain or be it loss, 
 
 No eye can follow thee : 
 A lonely bark to-night must cross 
 
 A dark and silent sea. 
 
 W. E. H. Lecky.
 
 THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. 
 
 Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight ? 
 
 Who blushes at the name ? 
 When cowards mock the patriot's fate, 
 
 Who hangs his head for shame ? 
 He's all a knave or half a slave 
 
 Who slights his country thus ; 
 But a true man, like you, man, 
 
 Will fill your glass with us. 
 
 We drink the memory of the brave, 
 
 The faithful and the few — 
 Some lie far off beyond the wave, 
 
 Some sleep in Ireland, too ; 
 All, all are gone — but still lives on 
 
 The fame of those who died ; 
 All true men, like you, men, 
 
 Remember them with pride. 
 
 Some on the shores of distant lands 
 Their weary hearts have laid, 
 
 And by the stranger's heedless hands 
 Their lonely graves were made ;
 
 8 
 
 But, though their clay be far away 
 
 Beyond the Atlantic foam, 
 In true men, like you, men, 
 
 Their spirit's still at home. 
 
 The dust of some is Irish earth ; 
 
 Among their own they rest ; 
 And the same land that gave them birth 
 
 Has caught them to her breast ; 
 And we will pray that from their clay 
 
 Full many a race may start 
 Of true men, like you, men, 
 
 To act as brave a part. 
 
 They rose in dark and evil days 
 
 To right their native land ; 
 They kindled here a living blaze 
 
 That nothing shall withstand. 
 Alas ! that Might can vanquish Right — 
 
 They fell, and passed away ; 
 But true men, like you, men, 
 
 Are plenty here to-day. 
 
 Then here's their memory— may it be 
 
 For us a guiding light, 
 To cheer our strife for liberty, 
 
 And teach us to unite ! 
 Through good and ill, be Ireland's still, 
 
 Though sad as theirs, your fate ; 
 And true men, be you, men, 
 
 Like those of Ninety-Eight. 
 
 John Kells Ingram.
 
 THE CORN-CRAKE 
 (heard at night) 
 
 Here let the bliss of Summer and her night 
 
 Be on my heart as wide and pure as heaven, 
 Now while o'er Earth the tide of young delight 
 
 Brims to the full, calm'd by the wizard Seven 
 And their high mistress, yon enchanted Moon ; 
 The air is faint yet fresh as primrose-buds ; 
 
 And dim with weft of honey-colour'd beams, 
 A bride-robe for the new espoused June, 
 
 Who lies white-limb'd among her flowers, nor dreams, 
 Such a divine content her being floods. 
 
 ii 
 
 Awake, awake ! The silence hath a voice : 
 Not thine thou heart of fire palpitating 
 
 Until all griefs change countenance and rejoice, 
 And all joys ache o'er-ripe since thou dost sing, 
 
 Not thine this voice of the dry meadow-lands — 
 Harsh iteration ! note untuneable ! 
 
 c
 
 10 
 
 Which sheers the breathing quiet with a blade 
 Of ragged edge ; say wilt thou ne'er be still 
 Crier in June's high progress, whose commands 
 Upon no heedless drowsed heart are laid ? 
 
 in 
 
 Nay, cease not till thy breast disquieted 
 
 Hath won a term of ease ; the dewy grass 
 Trackless at morn betrays not thy swift tread, 
 
 And through smooth-closing air thy call-notes pass 
 To faint on yon soft-bosom'd pastoral steep ; 
 
 Thee, bird, the night accepts, and I through thee 
 Reach to embalmed hearts of Summers dead, 
 Feel round my feet old inland meadows deep, 
 
 And bow o'er flowers that not a leaf have shed, 
 Nor once have heard moan of an alien sea. 
 
 IV 
 
 Even while I muse thy halting place doth shift, 
 
 Now nearer, now more distant ; I have seen 
 When April through her shining hair adrift 
 
 Gleams a farewell, and elms are fledged with green, 
 The voiceful wandering envoy of the Spring ; 
 Thee, never ; though the mower's scythe hath dashed 
 
 Thy nest aside, but thou hast sped askant 
 Viewless ; then, last, we lose thee, and thy wing 
 
 Brushes Nilotic maize, and thou dost chant 
 Haply all night to stony ears of Pasht.
 
 II 
 
 Ah, now an end to thy inveterate tale ! 
 
 The silence melts from the mid spheres of heaven ; 
 Enough ! before this peace has time to fail 
 
 From out my soul, or yon white cloud has driven 
 Up the moon's path, I turn, and I will rest 
 Once more with Summer in my heart. Farewell ! 
 
 Shut are the wild-rose cups ; no moth's a-whirr ; 
 My room will be moon-silver'd from the west 
 
 For one more hour ; thy note shall be a burr 
 To tease out thought and catch the slumbrous spell. 
 
 Edward Dowden.
 
 REQUIESCAT 
 
 Tread lightly, she is near 
 
 Under the snow, 
 Speak gently, she can hear 
 
 The daisies grow. 
 
 All her bright golden hair 
 
 Tarnished with rust, 
 She that was young and fair 
 
 Fallen to dust. 
 
 Lily-like, white as snow, 
 
 She hardly knew 
 She was a woman, so 
 
 Sweetly she grew. 
 
 Coffin-board, heavy stone, 
 
 Lie on her breast, 
 I vex my heart alone, 
 
 She is at rest. 
 
 Peace, peace, she cannot hear 
 
 Lyre or sonnet, 
 All my life's buried here, 
 
 Heap earth upon it. 
 
 Oscar Wilde.
 
 THE IRISH SPINNING WHEEL 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Show me a sight 
 
 Bates for delight 
 An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it. 
 
 O ! no! 
 
 Nothin' you'll show 
 Aquals her sittin' and takin' a twirl at it. 
 
 Look at her there, 
 
 Night in her hair — 
 The blue ray of day from her eye laughin' out on us ! 
 
 Faix, an' a foot, 
 
 Perfect of cut, 
 Peepin' to put an end to all doubt in us 
 
 That there's a sight 
 
 Bates for delight 
 An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it. 
 
 O! no! 
 
 Nothin' you'll show 
 Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it.
 
 14 
 
 See ! the lamb's wool 
 
 Turns coarse an' dull 
 By them soft, beautiful, weeshy, white hands of her. 
 
 Down goes her heel, 
 
 Roun' runs the wheel, 
 Purrin' wid pleasure to take the commands of her. 
 
 Then show me a sight 
 
 Bates for delight 
 An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it. 
 
 O! no! 
 
 Nothin' you'll show 
 Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it. 
 
 Talk of Three Fates, 
 
 Seated on sates, 
 Spinnin' an' shearin' away till they've done for me. 
 
 You may want three 
 
 For your massacree; 
 But one fate for me, boys, and only the one for me ! 
 
 And 
 
 Isn't that fate, 
 
 Pictured complate, 
 An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it ? 
 
 O! no! 
 
 Nothin' you'll show 
 Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it. 
 
 Alfred Perceval Graves.
 
 ON THE DEATH OF COL. BURNABY IN THE 
 
 SOUDAN 
 
 /celro fAeyas /xeyaXcoarl \€\a<rfxivo<; linrocrvvdaiv. 
 
 Yes ; slain like Hector, smitten in the throat, 
 
 Where lights the speediest death from foeman's hand, 
 Low lies brave Burnaby. On that burnt strand 
 
 Haply some swarthy warrior well did note 
 
 With fell intent, even as the fierce Phthiote, 
 Where best to plant in him the deathful brand, 
 Madden'd with blood upsteaming from the sand 
 
 Of kinsmen whom the giant guardsman smote, 
 
 And still was smiting. Sped the savage shaft, 
 
 And his sword dropp'd ; and from his towering height, 
 
 Reeling, he fell. Beneath the unquiet sun 
 A huge dead man lay quiet. And the fight 
 Went on around him : gone his knightly craft 
 Clean out of mind, and all his riding done. 
 
 R. Y. Tyrrell.
 
 DEATH LAMENT OF JOHN O'MAHONY 1 
 
 In a foreign land, in a lonesome city, 
 With few to pity, or know, or care, 
 
 I sleep each night while my heart is burning, 
 And wake each morning to new despair. 
 
 Let no one venture to ask my story 
 
 Who believes in glory or trusts to fame ; 
 
 Yes ! I have within me such demons in keeping 
 As are better sleeping without a name. 
 
 From many a day of blood and horror, 
 And night of terror and work of dread, 
 
 I have rescued nought but my honour only, 
 And this a s ed, lonely, and whitening head. 
 
 Not a single hope have I seen fulfilled 
 
 For the blood we spilled when we cast the die ; 
 
 And the future I painted in brightness and pride 
 Has the present belied, and shall still belie. 
 
 In this far-off country, this city dreary, 
 I languished weary, and sad, and sore, 
 
 Till the flower of youth in glooms o'ershaded 
 Grew seared, and faded for evermore.
 
 17 
 
 Oh my land ! from thee driven — our old flag furled- 
 I renounced the world when I went from thee ; 
 
 My heart lingers still on its native strand, 
 And American land holds nought for me. 
 
 Through a long life contriving, hoping, striving, 
 
 Driven and driving, leading and led ; 
 I have rescued nought but my honour only 
 
 And this aged, lonely, and whitening head. 
 
 Douglas Hyde.
 
 NICEY, ICY, AND SPLICEY 
 
 At a tea-fight I met her, the girl of my heart, 
 
 And my liking grew warmer and warmer ; 
 At eleven the company had to depart, 
 
 So I longed to inform her, and storm her, 
 I fibbed when I said I'd be passing her gate, 
 
 But my time had got shorter and shorter, 
 And a legion of rivals beheld me with hate, 
 
 For, they hoped to escort her and court her. 
 
 On the road, I pour out my esteem in her ear, 
 
 And my language grows plainer and plainer, 
 Till, at length it becomes undeniably clear 
 
 That, in trying to gain her, I pain her. 
 When she said "I'm engaged" — though it wasn't the 
 truth— 
 
 I proceeded to flutter and stutter ; 
 When I met her next day, on the arm of a youth, 
 
 I did nothing but mutter, — and cut her. 
 
 For a month I was smileless and started a beard, 
 
 But in time I grew better and better ; 
 When I pined to behold her she never appeared, 
 
 When I tried to forget her I met her.
 
 i9 
 
 I loved for a year and a week and a day, 
 With a love that grew colder and colder, 
 
 Till I found I had shaken my fetters away, 
 As I finally told her — and sold her. 
 
 She had loved me all through, as I afterwards heard, 
 
 With a love that grew truer and truer ; 
 Her engagement a fiction — considerate word — 
 
 To make me pursue her and woo her. 
 At first I believed my affection was dead, 
 
 Its remains became drier and drier ; 
 But, whatever I might have imagined or said, 
 
 I liked to be by her and eye her. 
 
 I denied that I cared the traditional straw, 
 
 But the boast became lamer and lamer ; 
 My acquaintances — afterwards — told me they saw 
 
 That I wanted to claim her and name her. 
 A year or two more, and a bachelor life 
 
 Appeared to grow loner and loner, 
 And — I speak from experience — to value a wife, 
 
 If you're dying to own her, postpone her. 
 
 Edwin Hamilton.
 
 THE SNOWY-BREASTED PEARL 
 
 WORDS TO AN ANCIENT IRISH MELODY. 
 
 She is not like the rose, 
 
 That proud in beauty glows 
 So haughty, but so wonderfully fair ; 
 
 But she's like the violet blue, 
 
 Ever modest, ever true, 
 From her leafy bower perfuming the still night air. 
 
 Oh ! she's gentle, loving, mild, 
 
 And artless as a child, 
 Her clust'ring tresses floating o'er her breast of snow ; 
 
 Yes, I'll love thee evermore, 
 
 My colleen oge asthore, 
 My true love, my Snowy-breasted Pearl ! 
 
 If I sigh, a sudden fear 
 
 Comes o'er her, and a tear 
 Stands quivering within her downcast eye ; 
 
 If I smile, those orbs of azure 
 
 Gleam forth with love and pleasure, 
 Like a sudden glory bursting from a clouded sky. 
 
 If I claim her for my bride, 
 She trembles at my side, 
 Lifting her trusting eyes to mine with faith so true.
 
 21 
 
 I love thee, only thee, 
 My colleen gal machree, 
 My own love, my Snowy-breasted Pearl ! 
 
 If I tell her she is fair, 
 
 She flings down her golden hair 
 O'er her marble brow and palpitating breast ; 
 
 But the lightnings of her blush 
 
 Thro' that veil of glory flush 
 Like the emerald sheen within the billow's foaming crest. 
 
 Oh, my Snowy-breasted Pearl ! 
 
 My wild, my mountain girl, 
 This dreary world illumining with light and joy ! 
 
 Yes, I'll love thee evermore, 
 
 My colleen oge asthore, 
 My true love, my Snowy-breasted Pearl ! 
 
 But alas, alas, a change 
 
 Most mournful and most strange 
 On my loved one, my own beloved one, came : 
 
 Paler still her pale cheek grew, 
 
 And her mild eyes' azure hue 
 Seemed lighted with a flame, a fatal wasting flame. 
 
 Oh ! we laid her in the grave, 
 Where the willows slowly wave 
 And the hollow winds are murmuring my blighted 
 flower bewailing. 
 
 Alone, alone, alone, 
 I make my ceaseless moan 
 For my lost love, my Snowy-breasted Pearl. 
 
 Stephen E. de Vere.
 
 LES LENDEMAINS 
 (after dufresny) 
 
 Though Phyllis was fair, she was strangely capricious, 
 As she sat with her love 'neath the trees, 
 
 " In exchange you must give," said the maid avaricious 
 "Thirty sheep for one kiss, if you please ! " 
 
 But the very next day things were vastly improving, 
 On our shepherd her gifts fortune rain'd — 
 
 For he, murmuring the tale of his passionate loving, 
 For one sheep thirty kisses obtain'd. 
 
 The third day she feared lest they might be denied her, 
 Those dainties for which her heart burn'd, 
 
 So, raising her face to her lover beside her, 
 For one kiss all his sheep she return'd. 
 
 Next day she'd have given up all she possess'd 
 
 (When had pride such a terrible fall ?), 
 Her sheep, dog, and crook, for the kiss the rogue press'd 
 
 On Lisette's lips for nothing at all ! 
 
 William Wilde.
 
 AGHADOE 
 
 There's a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe, 
 There's a green and silent glade in Aghadoe, 
 
 Where we met, my Love and I, Love's fair planet in 
 the sky, 
 O'er that sweet and silent glade in Aghadoe. 
 
 ii 
 
 There's a glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe, 
 There's a deep and secret glen in Aghadoe, 
 
 Where I hid him from the eyes of the red-coats and their 
 spies, 
 That year the trouble came to Aghadoe. 
 
 in 
 
 Oh ! my curse on one black heart in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, 
 On Shaun Dhuv, my mother's son, in Aghadoe 
 
 When your throat fries in hell's drouth, salt the flame be 
 in your mouth, 
 For the treachery you did in Aghadoe !
 
 24 
 
 IV 
 
 For they tracked me to that glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, 
 When the price was on his head in Aghadoe ; 
 
 O'er the mountain, through the wood, as I stole to him 
 with food, 
 Where in hiding lone he lay in Aghadoe. 
 
 v 
 
 But they never took him living in Aghadoe, Aghadoe ; 
 
 With the bullets in his heart in Aghadoe, 
 There he lay, the head — my breast feels the warmth 
 where once 'twould rest, 
 
 Gone, to win the traitor's gold, from Aghadoe ! 
 
 VI 
 
 I walked to Mallow town from Aghadoe, Aghadoe, 
 Brought his head from the gaol's gate to Aghadoe, 
 
 Then I covered him with fern, and I piled on him the 
 cairn, 
 Like an Irish king he sleeps in Aghadoe. 
 
 VII 
 
 Oh ! to creep into that cairn at Aghadoe, Aghadoe ! 
 
 There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe, 
 Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart 
 than I, 
 
 Your own love, cold on your cairn, in Aghadoe. 
 
 John Todhunter.
 
 THE OLD COUNTRY 
 
 Not tasselled palm or bended cypress wooing 
 The languid wind on temple-crowned heights, 
 
 Not heaven's myriad stars in lustre strewing 
 Smooth sapphire bays in hushed Ionian nights, 
 
 Not the clear peak of dawn-encrimsoned snow, 
 Or plumage-lighted wood, or gilded pile 
 
 Sparkling amid the imperial city's glow, 
 Endears our Isle. 
 
 ii 
 
 O fondling of the tempest and the ocean, 
 
 White with the sea-spray and the seabirds' wings, 
 
 'Mid clangour loud of Nature's curbless motion, 
 The mist that to thy purple summits clings, 
 
 The sun-glint and the shadow as they rove 
 
 With rainbows fleeting o'er thy blustery plains, 
 
 Thou tanglest us thy children in thy love 
 With golden chains ! 
 
 E
 
 26 
 
 III 
 
 Thy beauty is the gorgeous cloud of even, 
 The orange-glowing air of sunken suns, 
 
 The scarlet rifts of morn, the windy heaven ; 
 
 Thy charm the pensive grace the worldling shuns ; 
 
 Thy witchery the spell that o'er us steals 
 
 In gazing on green Rath's unfurrowed round, 
 
 And hallowed Ruin where the mourner kneels, 
 And haunted Mound. 
 
 IV 
 
 Thine the weird splendour of the restless billow 
 
 For ever breaking over lonely shores, 
 The reedy mere that is the wild-swan's pillow, 
 
 The crag to whose torn spire the eagle soars, 
 The moorland where the solitary hern 
 
 Spreads his grey wings upon the breezes cold, 
 The pink sweet heather's bloom, the waving fern, 
 The gorse's gold. 
 
 And we who draw our being from thy being, 
 Blown by the untimely blast about the earth, 
 
 Back in love's visions to thy bosom fleeing, 
 
 Droop with thy sorrows, brighten with thy mirth ; 
 
 O, from afar, with sad and straining eyes, 
 Tired arms across the darkness and the foam 
 
 We stretch to thy bluff capes and sombre skies, 
 Beloved home !
 
 27 
 VI 
 
 Forlorn amid untrodden wildernesses, 
 The pioneer, bent o'er his baffled spade, 
 
 Sighs for thy cool blue hills remote, and blesses 
 Thy dewy airs that o'er his cradle played ; 
 
 The girl love-driven to toil in alien lands, 
 
 Lone-labouring for home's dear ones, wearily 
 
 Hides her wan face within her trembling hands, 
 And sobs for thee ; 
 
 VII 
 
 'Mid the dread thunder of battling empires rolling 
 Thy soldier for thine honour smiles at death ; 
 
 Thy magic spirit, thought and will controlling, 
 Of all we mould or dream is life and breath ; 
 
 To thee as to its source and sun belongs 
 All glory we would blazon with thy name ; 
 
 Thine is the fervour of our fairest songs, 
 Our passion's flame. 
 
 VIII 
 
 The nurslings of thy moorlands and thy mountains, 
 
 Thy children tempered by thy winter gales, 
 Swayed by the tumult of thy headlong fountains 
 
 That clothe with pasture green thy grassy vales, 
 True to one love in climes' and years' despite, 
 We yearn, in our last hour, upon thy breast, 
 When the Great Darkness wraps thee from our sight, 
 To sink to rest. 
 
 G. F. Savage-Armstrong.
 
 SONG 
 
 When I was young, I said to Sorrow, 
 " Come, and I will play with thee :" — 
 He is near me now all day ; 
 And at night returns to say, 
 " I will come again to-morrow, 
 I will come and stay with thee." 
 
 ii 
 
 Through the woods we walk together ; 
 His soft footsteps rustle nigh me ; 
 To shield an unregarded head, 
 He hath built a winter shed ; 
 And all night in rainy weather, 
 I hear his gentle breathings by me. 
 
 Aubrey de Vere.
 
 THE SPELL-STRUC 
 
 She walks as she were moving 
 
 Some mystic dance to tread, 
 So falls her gliding footstep, 
 
 So leans her listening head ; 
 For once to harps of Elfland 
 
 She danced upon the hill, 
 And through her brain and bosom 
 
 The music pulses still. 
 
 Her eyes are bright and tearless, 
 
 But wide with yearning pain ; 
 She longs for nothing earthly, 
 
 But oh ! to hear again 
 The sound that held her listening 
 
 Upon her moonlit path ! 
 The golden fairy music 
 
 That filled the lonely rath. 
 
 Her mortal lips, that tasted 
 The fairy banquet's bliss, 
 
 Shall never greet a lover 
 With maiden smile or kiss.
 
 3° 
 
 She's dead to all things living 
 
 Since that November Eve ; 
 And when she dies in Autumn 
 
 No living thing will grieve. 
 
 T. W. ROLLESTON.
 
 I GIVE MY HEART TO THEE 
 
 I give my heart to thee, O mother-land, 
 I, if none else, recall the sacred womb. 
 I, if none else, behold the loving eyes 
 Bent ever on thy myriad progeny 
 Who care not nor regard thee as they go, 
 
 tender, sorrowing, weeping, hoping land ! 
 
 1 give my heart to thee, O mother-land. 
 
 I give my heart to thee, O father-land, 
 Fast-anchored on thy own eternal soul, 
 Rising with cloudy mountains to the skies. 
 
 proud, strong land, unstooping, stern of rule, 
 Me rule as ever ; let me feel thy might ; 
 
 Let me go forth with thee now and for aye. 
 
 1 give my heart to thee, O father-land. 
 
 I give my heart to thee, heroic land, 
 To thee or in thy morning when the Sun 
 Flashed on thy giant limbs — thy lurid noon — 
 Or in thy depth of night, fierce-thoughted one, 
 Wrestling with phantoms of thy own wild soul, 
 Or, stone-still, silent, waiting for the dawn, 
 I give my heart to thee, heroic land.
 
 32 
 
 I give my heart to thee, ideal land, 
 Far-soaring sister of the starry throng. 
 
 fleet of wing what journeyings are thine, 
 What goal, what God attracts thee ? What unseen 
 Glory reflected makes thy face a flame? 
 
 Leave me not, where thou goest, let me go. 
 
 1 give my heart to thee, ideal land. 
 
 Standish O'Grady.
 
 THE MEMORIAL GARDEN 
 
 Half-sated with the petalled chalice fair, 
 
 Yet thieving still, 
 A roaming bee hums through the hot sweet air 
 
 To poise at will. 
 
 Behind the speckled laurel and dark box, 
 
 On either hand, 
 Crimson and golden-bright the hollyhocks 
 
 Like sentries stand. 
 
 And here 'neath sweeping boughs, and shadow flung 
 
 And murm'rous sound, 
 A slender couch of twisted meshes hung 
 
 Just o'er the ground. 
 
 Within the swaying net-work wouldst thou lie 
 
 In ease serene : 
 Only a leafy dome of boughs on high 
 
 With sky between. 
 
 Dear, thou hast found amid the happy dead 
 
 Shadow and rest ; 
 And deeply sweet forgetfulness is shed 
 
 Upon thy breast.
 
 34 
 
 For us the cares that vex, the footsteps sore, 
 
 The daily round, 
 For thee the stillness of the poppied shore, 
 
 And sleep profound. 
 
 The fretful changes of the day renew 
 
 Their tedious flight ; 
 Thine are the silences, the starry dew, 
 
 The tides of night : 
 
 Thine are the mysteries that darkness yields 
 
 To souls divine, 
 And the faint sweetnesses of dreaming fields 
 
 And flowers are thine. 
 
 Arthur Cecil Hillier.
 
 SONG 
 
 When fields were green and skies were clear 
 And bluebells paved the woods of Spring, 
 
 I weighed the world against her tear, 
 And found her tear the dearer thing. 
 
 But while I followed gain and fame, 
 And in the great world played my part, 
 
 I changed ; — but she remained the same : 
 And now I think it broke her heart. 
 
 William Wilkins.
 
 VAE VICTIS 
 
 The mists of morning scaled the rocks 
 Where climbed the mountain-nurtured flocks 
 
 Beneath the northern sun, 
 The dews were on the heather bloom 
 That edged the precipice's gloom 
 
 Where streams unnumbered run. 
 
 They said, ' The mountain furrow yields 
 But scanty happy harvest fields 
 
 To greet the harvest moon, 
 To follow where the swallow flies 
 Where gentler stars make gentler skies 
 
 Were not unwisely done.' 
 
 They said, ' The winter tempests rave 
 The hungry ocean-travelling wave 
 
 Makes here its ceaseless cry, 
 We are grown weary of the wind, 
 The hill-paths and the mists that blind 
 
 The shepherd suddenly.
 
 37 
 
 The snow-drift sweeps the mountain wall 
 To spread its white funereal pall, 
 
 A frozen drapery ; 
 The torrent through its gloomy rifts 
 Is wild with yellow foam and lifts 
 
 A voice of dynasty.' 
 
 They said, ' We have enough of these 
 Tumultuous combatants of ease ! 
 
 The fabled islands lure, 
 Where in no season of the year 
 The glory of the woods is sere, 
 
 But all glad things endure.' 
 
 They built and launched a stately bark, 
 And when the morn rose and the dark 
 
 Fled far into the hills, 
 They left the land and loosed the sheet, 
 And steered beyond the Cape to meet 
 
 The glebe that no man tills. 
 
 And sworn in league forlornly free, 
 In calm or storm, on every sea, 
 
 Thro' night to seek, and day, 
 Some right fair land of corn and wine, 
 And ease and carelessness divine, 
 
 Where care is done away. 
 
 They followed ocean's fleeting rim 
 When sun or stars shone bright or dim, 
 In merry mood or grave,
 
 33 
 
 Nor heeded days nor hours that fled 
 Fleeter than ever white wings spread 
 Bore bark upon a wave. 
 
 But fleet or far howe'er they sailed 
 The season's crescents grew and paled 
 
 Nor saw in any clime 
 Cross harbour-bar or ship or crew 
 To port that ever seaman knew 
 
 In this or former time. 
 
 The mists of morning scale the rocks 
 Where climb the mountain-nurtured flocks 
 
 Beneath the northern sun, 
 The dews are on the heather bloom 
 Edging the precipice's gloom, 
 
 Where streams unnumbered run. 
 
 W. Macneile Dixon.
 
 SPRING-TIME 
 
 The winter fleeteth like a dream, 
 
 The rain is past and o'er ; 
 The sea is lit with sunny gleam, 
 
 The hills are white no more. 
 Full-flowered the lilac-hedges stand, 
 
 The throstle sings all day, 
 But there's no spring in all the land 
 
 When Eileen is away. 
 
 Green are the copses on the hill ; 
 
 The cuckoo, hid from sight, 
 Haunts all the ringing valleys still 
 
 With echoes of delight : 
 His name is like a memory 
 
 Repeated day by day, 
 But memories all are sad to me 
 
 When Eileen is away. 
 
 The yellow cowslips here and there 
 Shake in the balmy breeze ; 
 
 There is a perfume in the air, 
 Far-brought from southern seas ;
 
 40 
 
 There is a brooding melody 
 
 In forest, hill and bay, 
 But in my soul no harmony 
 
 When Eileen is away. 
 
 The birds remember in their song 
 
 Their dwellings o'er the foam ; 
 The cuckoo will not tarry long, 
 
 The swift returneth home ; 
 The very wind, so full and free, 
 
 Forgets not ocean's spray, 
 And, Eileen, I forget not thee 
 
 When thou art far away. 
 
 G. A. Greene.
 
 IN THE CATHEDRAL CLOSE 
 
 In the Dean's porch a nest of clay 
 With five small tenants may be seen, 
 Five solemn faces, each as wise 
 As though its owner were a Dean ; 
 
 Five downy fledglings in a row, 
 Packed close, as in the antique pew 
 The school-girls are whose foreheads clear 
 At the Venite shine on you. 
 
 Day after day the swallows sit 
 With scarce a stir, with scarce a sound, 
 But dreaming and digesting much 
 They grow thus wise and soft and round. 
 
 They watch the Canons come to dine, 
 And hear the mullion-bars across, 
 Over the fragrant fruit and wine, 
 Deep talk of rood-screen and reredos. 
 
 Her hands with field-flowers drench'd, a child 
 Leaps past in wind-blown dress and hair, 
 The swallows turn their heads askew — 
 Five judges deem that she is fair. 
 
 G
 
 42 
 
 Prelusive touches sound within, 
 Straightway they recognize the sign, 
 And, blandly nodding, they approve 
 The minuet of Rubinstein. 
 
 They mark the cousins' schoolboy talk 
 (Male birds flown wide from minster bell), 
 And blink at each broad term of art, 
 Binomial or bicycle. 
 
 Ah ! downy young ones, soft and warm, 
 Doth such a stillness mask from sight 
 Such swiftness ? can such peace conceal 
 Passion and ecstasy of flight ? 
 
 Yet somewhere 'mid your Eastern suns, 
 Under a white Greek architrave 
 At morn, or when the shaft of fire 
 Lies large upon the Indian wave, 
 
 A sense of something dear gone-by 
 Will stir, strange longings thrill the heart 
 For a small world embowered and close, 
 Of which ye sometime were a part. 
 
 The dew-drench'd flowers, the child's glad eyes, 
 Your joy unhuman shall control, 
 And in your wings a light and wind 
 Shall move from the maestro's soul. 
 
 Edward Dowden.
 
 AN OLD SONG 
 
 An old refrain the livelong day keeps singing in my heart, 
 That draws my thoughts to dwell with thee alone where'er 
 
 thou art — 
 That wings my soul o'er many a league to a far, dear 
 
 countrie . . . 
 " I love my love because I know my love loves me." 
 
 Ah woe ! though thou wert in thy grave — though thou 
 
 wert turned to stone — 
 Still, still my heart would bid me live and love for thee 
 
 alone ! 
 Still would it sigh the livelong day with ne'er a hope from 
 
 thee . . . 
 " I love my love although I know she ne'er loves me." 
 
 But Memory sings the glad old song, and Hope gives 
 
 the refrain, 
 And my heart fills with such a joy as seems almost a 
 
 pain ! 
 The joy of which men die, — but no ! the joy of life to be : 
 " I love my love . . . and so I know my love loves me ! " 
 
 George Noble Plunkett.
 
 THE DECLINE OF LOVE 
 
 Oh, broken-hearted lover, 
 Who touched us long ago, 
 The days seem well-nigh over 
 When tears like yours can flow. 
 
 Great poets still rise, bringing 
 Thoughts subtle, deep, and strong ; 
 But scarcely one is singing 
 A simple lover's song. 
 
 A graver age uncloses, 
 Which mocks at Cupid's barb, 
 And Venus hides her roses 
 In Academic garb. 
 
 Ambition, science, learning, 
 And countless efforts move, 
 And many lamps are burning, 
 But very few to Love. 
 
 Thought strengthens more than feeling, 
 And each takes wider range ; 
 And most wounds find their healing 
 In lives of ceaseless change.
 
 45 
 
 And to the young man's vision 
 New star-like spheres unfold, 
 Which promise fields Elysian, 
 Quite other than of old. 
 
 And so the world advances, 
 And none can bid it stay ; 
 Yet still the heart romances, 
 Although the head be grey. 
 
 And in stray dreams of passion 
 The old days sometimes rise, 
 When Love was still the fashion, 
 Before the world grew wise. 
 
 W. E. H. Lecky.
 
 SONG 
 
 Phcebus paced the wooded mountain ; 
 Kindled dawn, and met a doe. 
 " Child, what ails thee that thou rovest 
 O'er my bright hills sad and slow ? 
 
 " That upon thy left side only 
 Thou thy noontide sleep dost take ? 
 That thy foot the fountain troubles 
 Even ere thy thirst thou slake ? " 
 
 Answered then the weeping creature : 
 " Once beside me raced a fawn. 
 Seest her, O thou God all-seeing, 
 O'er thy hills in wood or lawn ? 
 
 " On my left side sleep I only, 
 For 'tis there my anguish stirs ; 
 And my foot the fountain troubles, 
 Lest it yield me shape like hers." 
 
 Then the Sun-God marvelled, musing : 
 "When my foolish Daphne died, 
 Rooted 'mid Peneian laurels, 
 Scarce one little hour I sighed." 
 
 Aubrey de Vere.
 
 DEATH OF SIR GEORGE COLLEY AT MAJUBA 
 
 HILL 2 
 
 Yes, mourn the soul, of high and pure intent, 
 Humane as valiant, in disastrous fight 
 Laid low on far Majuba's bloody height ! 
 
 Yet not his death alone must we lament, 
 
 But more such spirit on evil mission sent, 
 
 To back our broken faith with armed might, 
 And the unanswered plea of wounded right 
 
 Strike dumb by warfare's brute arbitrament. 
 
 And while these deeds are done in England's name, 
 Religion unregardful keeps her cell ; 
 
 The tuneful notes that wail the dead we hear : 
 Where are the sacred thunders that should swell 
 To shame such foul oppression and proclaim 
 Eternal justice in the nation's ear ? 
 
 John Kells Ingram.
 
 THE TRUE KNOWLEDGE 
 
 avayicaicos 8' e'^et 
 ySt'ov depi^ew ware Ka.p7Ufxov crrd^vv, 
 Kid rbv /xev elvat rbv 8e [xrj. 
 
 Thou knowest all — I seek in vain 
 
 What lands to till or sow with seed — 
 The land is black with briar and weed, 
 
 Nor cares for falling tears or rain. 
 
 Thou knowest all — I sit and wait 
 
 With blinded eyes and hands that fail, 
 Till the last lifting of the veil, 
 
 And the first opening of the gate. 
 
 Thou knowest all — I cannot see. 
 
 I trust I shall not live in vain, 
 
 I know that we shall meet again, 
 In some divine eternity. 
 
 Oscar Wilde.
 
 DONEGAL 
 
 The broad lands stretch to the swelling tide, 
 
 Acre on acre, a noble fee ; 
 Far may you fare ere the hills subside 
 
 In the level sand of the western sea. 
 From the path starts whirring the mountain grouse 
 
 Mingling his crow with the snipe's shrill call — 
 'Tis a grand domain and a noble house 
 
 On the wind-swept summits of Donegal. 
 
 The broad lands stretch to the ocean side, 
 
 Acre on acre, a noble fee ; 
 But every rood is trussed and tied 
 
 In the lawyer's tape of the mortgagee. 
 When the half-year's interest is paid, I wis 
 
 The half-year's rental looks scant and small; 
 There is many a property such as this 
 
 On the sea-girt mountains of Donegal. 
 
 Famine in Ireland ; rent unpaid ! 
 
 The landlord muses on all he owes ; 
 He loves each mountain, each stream, each glade, 
 
 He almost weeps as he sighs " foreclose ! " 
 Must his hale old age from the homestead part ? 
 
 Must he see the roof-tree of centuries fall ? 
 And Jack — the dearest wish of his heart — 
 
 Can never be Member for Donegal. 
 
 H
 
 5° 
 
 The heavy rains have not ceased to pour, 
 
 The West wind carries the fatal rot, 
 The kelp-crop fails on the barren shore, 
 
 The tuber melts in the garden plot. 
 He has done his best ; he can do no more, 
 
 The last old hunter has left his stall, 
 The wolf is howling at many a door, 
 
 And Famine lies heavy on Donegal. 
 
 The ghost of the mortgages he owes 
 
 Will not be laid by any rule — 
 Well, the girls must wear last winter's clothes, 
 
 And Tom must go to a cheaper school ; 
 And Jack had best exchange to the Line, 
 
 He can't keep pace in his corps at all ; 
 And the table — well, they must banish wine — 
 
 Alas for the glories of Donegal ! 
 
 The broad lands stretch to the ocean side, 
 
 Acre on acre, a noble fee, 
 And faint in the shadows of eventide, 
 
 The hills mix mistily with the sea. 
 " That bird is happy," the old man said 
 
 As he heard a curlew's mournful call 
 Westerly flitting above his head — 
 
 " It has no duties in Donegal." 
 
 G. H. Jessop.
 
 FATHER O'FLYNN 
 
 Of priests we can offer a charmin' variety, 
 
 Far renown'd for larnin' and piety ; 
 
 Still, I'd advance ye, widout impropriety, 
 Father O'Flynn as the flow'r of them all. 
 Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn, 
 Slaintha, and slaintha, and slaintha agin ; 
 Powerfullest preacher, and tenderest teacher, 
 And kindliest creature in ould Donegal. 
 
 Don't talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity, 
 Famous for ever at Greek and Latinity, 
 Dad and the divils and all at Divinity, 
 
 Father O'Flynn 'd make hares of them all. 
 Come, I venture to give ye my word, 
 Never the likes of his logic was heard, 
 Down from Mythology into Thayology, 
 Troth ! and Conchology, if he'd the call. 
 
 Och ! Father O'Flynn you've a wonderful way wid you, 
 All the ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you, 
 All the young childer are wild for to play wid you, 
 You've such a way wid you, Father avic !
 
 52 
 
 Still for all you've so gentle a soul, 
 Gad, you've your flock in the grandest control, 
 Checking the crazy ones, coaxing onaisy ones, 
 Lifting the lazy ones on wid the stick. 
 
 And though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity, 
 Still, at all seasons of innocent jollity, 
 Where was the play-boy could claim an equality 
 At comicality, Father, wid you ? 
 
 Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest, 
 Till this remark set him off wid the rest : 
 " Is it lave gaiety all to the laity ? 
 Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too ! " 
 
 Alfred Perceval Graves.
 
 THE WOUNDED SCOUT 
 A Tale of the Next War 
 
 The cycling scout to the war has gone, 
 
 Behind a hedge you'll find him, 
 A magazine gun he has girded on 
 
 And a tool-bag slung behind him. 
 " Spotted mouse," cried the warrior bold, 
 
 " I hear some martial drumming ; 
 I'd like to stay, but I must away, 
 
 For it might be a foeman coming." 
 
 The cyclist fell ! but the foeman's ball 
 
 Did not bring his proud soul under ; 
 In fact, he never was hit at all, 
 
 Though he swore he was like thunder, 
 But a hen — ill-starred— in the front mud guard 
 
 Effected the transaction ; 
 And the scar on his brow, he alludes to now 
 
 As " a scratch I got in action." 
 
 W. P. French.
 
 LUCRETIUS ON DEATH 
 
 1 No more shall look upon thy face 
 Sweet spouse, no more with emulous race 
 Sweet children court their sire's embrace. 
 
 ' To their soft touch right soon no more 
 Thy pulse shall thrill ; e'en now is o'er 
 Thy stewardship, Death is at the door. 
 
 * One dark day wresteth every prize 
 From hapless man in hapless wise, 
 Yea, e'en the pleasure of his eyes.' 
 
 Thus men bewail their piteous lot ; 
 Yet should they add, ' 'Tis all forgot, 
 These things the dead man recketh not.' 
 
 Yea, could they knit for them this chain 
 Of words and reasons, men might gain 
 Some dull narcotic for their pain, 
 
 Saying, • The dead are dead indeed : 
 The dead, from all heart-sickness freed, 
 Sleep and shall sleep and take no heed.'
 
 55 
 
 Lo, if dumb Nature found a voice, 
 Would she bemoan, and not make choice 
 To bid poor mortals to rejoice, 
 
 Saying, ' Why weep thy wane, O man ? 
 Wert joyous e'en when life began, 
 When thy youth's sprightly freshets ran ? 
 
 ' Nay, all the joys thy life e'er knew 
 As poured into a sieve fell thro', 
 And left thee but to rail and rule.' 
 
 Go, fool, as doth a well-filled guest 
 Sated of life : with tranquil breast 
 Take thine inheritance of rest. 
 
 Why seekest joys that soon must pale 
 Their feeble fires, and swell the tale 
 Of things of nought and no avail ? 
 
 Die, sleep ! For all things are the same ; 
 Tho' spring now stir thy crescent frame, 
 'Twill wither: all things are the same. 
 
 R. Y. Tyrrell.
 
 THE WEDDING OF THE CLANS : 
 
 A Girl's Babble 
 
 I go to knit two clans together ; 
 Our clan and this clan unseen of yore : — 
 Our clan fears nought ! but I go, O whither ? 
 This day I go from my mother's door. 
 
 Thou redbreast sing'st the old song over, 
 Though many a time thou hast sung it before ; 
 They never sent thee to some strange new lover :- 
 I sing a new song by my mother's door. 
 
 I stepp'd from my little room down by the ladder, 
 The ladder that never so shook before ; 
 I was sad last night ; to-day I am sadder, 
 Because I go from my mother's door. 
 
 The last snow melts upon bush and bramble ; 
 The gold bars shine on the forest's floor ; 
 Shake not, thou leaf ! it is I must tremble 
 Because I go from my mother's door.
 
 57 
 
 From a Spanish sailor a dagger I bought me ; 
 I trail'd a rose-tree our grey bawn o'er ; 
 The creed and my letters our old bard taught me ; 
 My days were sweet by my mother's door. 
 
 My little white goat that with raised feet huggest 
 
 The oak stock, thy horns in the ivies frore, 
 
 Could I wrestle like thee — how the wreaths thou tug- 
 
 gest ! — 
 I never would move from my mother's door. 
 
 O weep no longer, my nurse and mother ! 
 My foster-sister, weep not so sore ! 
 You cannot come with me, Ir, my brother — 
 Alone I go from my mother's door. 
 
 Farewell, my wolf-hound, that slew Mac-Owing 
 As he caught me and far through the thickets bore : 
 My heifer, Alb, in the green vale lowing, 
 My cygnet's nest upon Lorna's shore ! 
 
 He has kill'd ten chiefs, this chief that plights me ; 
 His hand is like that of the giant Balor : 
 But I fear his kiss ; and his beard affrights me, 
 And the great stone dragon above his door. 
 
 Had I daughters nine with me they should tarry ; 
 They should sing old songs ; they should dance at my 
 
 door; 
 They should grind at the quern ; — no need to marry ; 
 Oh when will this marriage-day be o'er ?
 
 5* 
 
 Had I buried, like Moirin, three mates already 
 I might say, " Three husbands ! then why not four ?" 
 But my hand is cold and my foot unsteady 
 Because I never was married before ! 
 
 Aubrey de Vere.
 
 MY GRIEF ON THE SEA 
 (From the Irish) 
 
 My grief on the sea, 
 
 How the waves of it roll ! 
 For they heave between me 
 
 And the love of my soul. 
 
 Abandoned, forsaken, 
 To grief and to care, 
 
 Will the sea ever waken 
 Relief from despair ? 
 
 My grief, and my trouble ! 
 
 Would he and I were 
 In the province of Leinster, 
 
 Or county of Clare. 
 
 Were I and my darling — 
 Oh, heart-bitter wound ! — 
 
 On board of a ship 
 For America bound. 
 
 On a green bed of rushes 
 
 All last night I lay, 
 And I flung it abroad 
 
 With the heat of the day.
 
 6o 
 
 And my love came behind me — 
 He came from the South ; 
 
 His breast to my bosom, 
 His mouth to my mouth. 
 
 Douglas Hyde.
 
 ON GUARD AT A BARRICADE 
 
 Paris, 1832 
 
 (From the French) 
 
 Do you remember that time delicious 
 When we were both so young, my dove, 
 
 And when we two had only two wishes — 
 To wear clean collars, and be in love. 
 
 We, in our teens, keeping house together ; 
 
 Accounts were not large in our housekeeping, 
 But even in gloomiest winter weather 
 
 Our humble home was sunny with spring. 
 
 All the park look'd at you when you went 
 With your briefless barrister down to dine, 
 
 I saw how the roses turn'd, and bent 
 To look at a lovelier rose of mine. 
 
 I heard them sigh, " What a perfect thing ! 
 
 What perfume ! Ah ! what hair in a flood ! 
 Under her mantle she hides a wing ! 
 
 Her bonnet — ah ! 'tis a half-blown bud."
 
 62 
 
 I wander'd, pressing your tender arm ; 
 
 Were we not happy, my darling, say ? 
 And all the passers divined our charm, 
 
 Saying that April had married May. 
 
 O Place Maubert ! O Place Dauphine ! 
 
 Our garret-Eden, that storms kept rocking ! 
 O fairest foot that e'er was seen 
 
 To vanish — a fay — in a snowy stocking ! 
 
 Your slave and your sovereign I, my fawn. 
 
 O garret of gold, and the early stirrer 
 Who stood like an angel, white in the dawn, 
 
 Her young fresh face in our broken mirror. 
 
 O days that were full of the firmament, 
 And the heavenly hush, and auroral pause, 
 
 And the pretty prattle that lovers invent, 
 
 And ribbons, and flowers, and silk, and gauze. 
 
 Our flowers — one window-box held them all ; 
 
 Our blind — your skirt, that we both hung up ; 
 And I drank out of the earthen bowl, 
 
 And you from our only porcelain cup. 
 
 And those great misfortunes of yours and mine, 
 The muff you singed, the muffler I lost, 
 
 And the portrait of Shakespere, dear, divine, 
 That we sold for our supper that time of frost.
 
 63 
 
 I was a beggar ; your alms were — love 
 
 And a soft hand kiss'd for its bounty great. 
 
 And we shared our chestnuts gaily enough, 
 With a folio-Dante for table and plate. 
 
 Don't you remember our happiness ? 
 
 And our neat white frills and despairing sighs 
 That rose from our lock'd hearts' deep recess 
 
 To the azure depth of the infinite skies ? 
 
 George Wilkins.
 
 A DEAD FRIEND 
 
 The light of my eyes is gone — 
 The crown of my life departed — 
 My work is done, and I sit alone 
 In my chamber, broken-hearted. 
 
 ii 
 
 Twenty long years, and more, 
 Since he lay before me dying ! 
 Twenty long years of silent tears, 
 Of darkness and of sighing ! 
 
 in 
 
 Sadly he looked in my face — 
 
 Looked in my face, and spoke not : 
 
 Then with steadfast eye and long-drawn sigh, 
 
 He fell asleep and woke not. 
 
 IV 
 
 We tolled no funeral bell ; 
 
 In our loving arms we bore him : 
 
 With sob and prayer and one parting tear 
 
 We laid the cold stone o'er him.
 
 65 
 
 v 
 For ever in mine ear 
 That well-known voice is ringing : —   
 But he lies asleep in his coffin deep 
 Where the merry birds are singing. 
 
 VI 
 
 With a smile upon my lip, 
 
 And a heart unchilled by sorrow, 
 
 I have shared the strife of the battle of life ? 
 
 And prayed for the coming morrow. 
 
 VII 
 
 The long, long day is done ; 
 The shadows close behind me ; 
 But the race is run, and a rising sun 
 Shall melt the bonds that bind me. 
 
 VII! 
 
 Away unmanly tears ! 
 
 Pray for the dead, and grieve not ; 
 
 For the Christian's faith is strong in death 
 
 And the words of truth deceive not. 
 
 IX 
 
 Our life is a broken sleep 
 
 Fading and transitory ; 
 
 But our Hope and Stay is the coming day 
 
 Of God's eternal glory. 
 
 K
 
 66 
 
 x 
 
 In His good time the Dead, 
 Freed from their earthly prison, 
 Shall burst the shroud and shout aloud 
 The anthem of the Risen. 
 
 Stephen E. de Vere.
 
 AD CANEM 
 
 Your mistress returns, little dog ; 
 
 She is coming back home : 
 Are you glad, little dog, to hear 
 That already her footstep is near ? 
 
 She is coming back home. 
 
 Did you miss her so much, little dog ? 
 Did you long for her voice in the air, 
 And her rustling dress on the stair ? 
 She is coming back home. 
 
 Did you find the house dull, little dog ? 
 Had the sun vanished out of your day 
 When the mistress you loved was away ? 
 She is coming back home. 
 
 She is sure of your love, little dog, 
 She knows that you hold her so dear, 
 That you pine for her till she is here — 
 She is coming back home. 
 
 You can utter no words, little dog, 
 But your eyes all the day will tell 
 Of the love that she knows so well. 
 She is coming back home.
 
 68 
 
 Leap up and be glad, little dog 1 
 
 She is coming back home. 
 You will lie by the firelight glare, 
 Content, but to know she is there. 
 She is coming back home 
 
 G. A, Greene.
 
 LOUGH BRAY 
 
 Now Memory, false, spendthrift Memory, 
 Disloyal treasure-keeper of the Soul, 
 This vision change shall never wring from thee 
 Nor wasteful years effacing as they roll, 
 O steel-blue lake, high-cradled in the hills ! 
 O sad waves filled with little sobs and cries ! 
 White glistening shingle, hiss of mountain rills, 
 And granite-hearted walls blotting the skies, 
 Shine, sob, gleam, gloom for ever. Oh, in me, 
 Be what you are in nature — a recess — 
 To sadness dedicate and mystery, 
 Withdrawn, afar, in the Soul's wilderness. 
 Still let my thoughts, leaving the worldly roar 
 Like pilgrims, wander on thy haunted shore. 
 
 Standish O'Grady.
 
 OLD AGE 
 
 Now the solemn shadows lengthen, 
 
 Life's long day is well-nigh done, 
 Impulse fails and habits strengthen, 
 
 Pleasures vanish one by one. 
 Feebly o'er the dark'ning dial, 
 
 Parting rays their image fling ; 
 Times of triumph, times of trial, 
 
 Lose their rapture, lose their sting. 
 
 How much now appears unreal 
 
 In the past that stirred us so : 
 Pinings for the high ideal, 
 
 Passion dreams, ambition's glow ; 
 All life's aims grow dimmer, fainter, 
 
 With a languid, calm decay, 
 Fading as the mighty Painter 
 
 Shades the scene with twilight grey. 
 
 Fancy dies. Illusions follow. 
 
 Love lasts best, but not its bloom ; 
 And the gayest laugh sounds hollow 
 
 Echoed from an op'ning tomb.
 
 7i 
 
 Soon the past holds all our treasure, 
 
 All that childless age loves best. 
 Young men still may live for pleasure : 
 
 Old men only ask for rest. 
 
 W. E. H. Lecky.
 
 FOR A READING LESSON 
 
 " Papa, did you make that song?" 
 Said my Una : " much too long 
 Are those words for me to spell, 
 Make a little song as well, 
 Full of little words for me, 
 'To' and 'by' and 'of and 'the'- 
 ' Mama ' must be in it too — 
 Then I'll read it all for you." 
 
 " Una, if that song were made 
 As you bid me," Papa said, 
 " Full of love and little words, 
 Who would listen to the birds ? 
 Could I make it right for you, 
 All the world would read it too." 
 
 T. W. Rolleston.
 
 DIRGE 
 A.D. 1652 
 
 Whose were they those voices ? What footsteps came 
 near me ? 
 
 Can the dead to the living draw nigh and be heard ? 
 I wept in my sleep ; but ere morning to cheer me 
 
 Came a breeze from the woodland, a song from the bird. 
 O sons of my heart ! the long-hair'd, the strong-handed ! 
 
 Your phantoms rush by me with war-cry and wail : — 
 Ye, too, for your Faith and your country late banded, 
 
 My sons by adoption, mail'd knights of the Pale ! 
 
 Is there sorrow, O ye that pass by, like my sorrow ? 
 
 Of the kings I brought forth there remaineth not one ! 
 Each day is dishonour'd ; disastrous each morrow : — 
 
 In the yew-wood I couch till the daylight is done. 
 At midnight I lean from the cliff o'er the waters, 
 
 And hear, as the thunder comes up from the sea, 
 Your moanings, my sons, and your wailings, my daughters : 
 
 With the sea-dirge they mix not : they clamour to me ! 
 
 Aubrey de Vere.
 
 OUTSIDE THE CONVENT 
 
 Faustine 
 
 Because bright jewels my fair bosom deck, 
 
 And Love's hot lips — close press'd — cling fast to mine, 
 Because rose-garlands crown the cups of wine, 
 
 And all Love's ministers are at my beck, 
 
 Think you I mourn — repent — or aught I reck 
 
 How tongues wag ? Think you that I weep and pine, 
 Shedding sad tears as bitter salt sea-brine, 
 
 Because his arms lie warm around my neck ? 
 
 Look you ! we live but once — this life I know ; 
 
 No other wot I of beyond the tomb — 
 I laugh to scorn your devils down below — 
 
 Your torture fires — your everlasting gloom ! 
 I seek no heaven, I dread no God above, 
 I fear no hell, save living without love ! 
 
 William Wilde.
 
 INSIDE THE CONVENT 
 Sister Mary 
 
 Because my treasure knows nor moth nor rust, 
 
 Because I live in holy peaceful rest 
 
 In sacred maidenhead on God's own breast, 
 And in His loving mercy put my trust, 
 Therefore I fear no taint of fear or lust ; 
 
 Espoused to Him in mystic union blest, 
 
 I work unceasingly in His behest, 
 Whose ways are pure, and sanctified and just. 
 
 He loves me, and no love of man I crave, 
 At best 'tis link'd with some desire of sin, 
 
 Whilst here I serve Him — when I pass the grave, 
 My bridegroom waiteth me to lead me in 
 
 To His own place, — Lord Christ, who lovest me, 
 
 Deign to receive my life's virginity. 
 
 William Wilde.
 
 TO A CHILD 
 
 You do me wrong to take me out of the grave. 
 
 Let the dead rest. I once was young 'tis true : 
 Loved mirth and song, loved sport of mead and wave, 
 
 Had joy, had hope like you. 
 
 But these things pass, and fail us in our need : 
 Piecemeal one dies while yet his breath endures ; 
 
 His soul killed first, and often by the deed 
 Of hands as soft as yours. 
 
 William Wilkins.
 
 YEARS AFTER 
 
 With tears of blood abundantly- 
 Wrung from my heart, be warmed again — 
 
 Loved feet, that Death enwraps from me 
 With kisses as of Magdalen. 
 
 William Wilkins.
 
 WINTER 
 
 Dull winter, mantled and hooded, grey witch of the 
 Northern lands, 
 The eye grows dizzy with seeing the snow-flock whirl 
 from on high, 
 The trees are as skeletons lifting their fleshless and 
 crooked hands, 
 Pointing with withered fingers to the desolate waste 
 of the sky. 
 
 You may walk through the sodden woodlands or trudge 
 o'er the stiffened mould, 
 But the rain and the sleet will be driven the way that 
 the wind is blown, 
 And the ox is at rest in his manger and the huddled 
 sheep in the fold, 
 For the winter is bitter and gloomy as the shrivelled 
 heart of a crone ; 
 
 But, at last, one day or another, the spells of the witch 
 grow weak, 
 She may gather her faggots and mumble till the winds 
 of the March-tide ring,
 
 79 
 
 Yet we steal from her clutches and wander to the sleeping 
 princess we seek, 
 To the dryad of woodland and meadow, to the haunts 
 of memory, Spring. 
 
 Arthur Cecil Hillier.
 
 EXSEQULE 
 
 When the house is haunted by death, 
 
 The spectre unseen and unheard, 
 And the living are scant of their breath, 
 
 Though the sleeper hears never a word : 
 
 When the grave-sward is trampled to clay, 
 And the drip of the world-blotting rain 
 
 From skies of a passionless gray 
 Beats true to the pulses of pain ; 
 
 O Father and Maker and God ! 
 
 How falters the heart of thy child, 
 How breathless and cold is the sod, 
 
 How lonely the infinite wild ! 
 
 W. Macneile Dixon.
 
 SALVE SATURNIA TELLUS 
 
 I reached the Alps : the soul within me burned, 
 
 Italia, my Italia, at thy name : 
 
 And when from out the mountain's heart I came 
 And saw the land for which my life had yearned, 
 I laughed as one who some great prize had earned : 
 
 And musing on the story of thy fame 
 
 I watched the day, till marked with wounds of flame 
 The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned. 
 The pine-trees waved as waves a woman's hair, 
 
 And in the orchards every twining spray 
 
 Was breaking into flakes of blossoming foam : 
 But when I knew that far away at Rome 
 
 In evil bonds a Second Peter lay, 
 I wept to see the land so very fair. 
 
 Oscar Wilde. 
 
 M
 
 SONG 
 
 Girls, when I am gone away, 
 
 On this bosom strew 
 Only flowers meek and pale, 
 
 And the yew. 
 
 Lay these hands down by my side, 
 
 Let my face be bare ; 
 Bind a kerchief round the face, 
 
 Smooth my hair. 
 
 Let my bier be borne at dawn, 
 
 Summer grows so sweet, 
 Deep into the forest green 
 
 Where boughs meet. 
 
 Then pass away, and let me lie 
 
 One long, warm, sweet day 
 There alone with face upturned, 
 
 One sweet day. 
 
 While the morning light grows broad, 
 
 While noon sleepeth sound, 
 While the evening falls and faints, 
 
 While the world goes round. 
 
 Edward Dowden.
 
 THE LAMENT OF AIUEEN FOR OSCAR 
 
 The sere woods are quailing 
 In the wind of their sorrow, 
 Their keene they might borrow 
 From the voice of my wailing. 
 My bed's the cold stone 
 By the dark-flowing river : 
 Ochone-a-rie ! Ochone ! 
 Thou art gone, and for ever ! 
 
 ii 
 
 Ah ! why didst thou love me 
 But to leave me despairing, 
 My anguish out-staring 
 The bleak heavens above me ? 
 I lie all alone 
 
 Where hope's morning comes never 
 Ochone-a-rie ! Ochone ! 
 I have lost thee for ever !
 
 84 
 
 in 
 
 The dumb grave mocks my raving. 
 From the dead comes no token, 
 Where thy good sword lies broken 
 Thou art cold to my craving. 
 
 We may lie down and moan, 
 But our champion wakes never : 
 Ochone-a-rie ! Ochone ! 
 We are fallen for ever ! 
 
 John Todhunter.
 
 AN AGED GREEK 
 
 I laugh whene'er I hear them say 
 
 1 At last his hair is white ' — 
 Fools ! Tis the star of Love all day, 
 
 That crowns me with its light ! 
 
 She, she whose evening revelry 
 
 Cheers visibly the skies, 
 Looks down from heaven and kisses me 
 
 With her far-touching eyes. 
 
 My heart, where'er in youth I strayed, 
 
 Her silver shafts could thrill : 
 And now this old, unbending head 
 
 She loves and honours still. 
 
 With these old locks each breath of air 
 
 Is proudly pleased to play : — 
 Then how, O wanton mockers, dare 
 
 Ye tell me I am grey ? 
 
 Aubrey de Vere.
 
 A MESSENGER 
 
 O, carrier-bird, if thou could'st know 
 The hours of sorrow, summed in brief, 
 
 That thou hast sometime borne, the blow 
 Would break thy little heart with grief. 
 
 Or if, within thy gilded bars 
 
 Like me, could'st only watch and wait, 
 The very heaven should rain its stars, 
 
 And all the earth be desolate. 
 
 Hads't thou a soul, the un-aging Boy 
 Should give a message, in my name, 
 
 The summer lightning of whose joy 
 
 Should scorch thee with its living flame. 
 
 'Tis well that neither human cares 
 Nor pleasures can that heart contain ; 
 
 Else on thy journey, unawares, 
 By either thou wert surely slain. 
 
 I sighed "for signs amid the wrack — 
 
 Thou bring' st the fresh green spray of Peace ! 
 Straight would I flash an answer back : 
 
 I kiss and bless thee, and release.
 
 87 
 
 Adieu ! spread wide thy wings and flee — 
 Outstrip the wandering summer wind ! — 
 
 Would I could send my soul with thee 
 To join the heart I left behind ! 
 
 George Noble Plunkett.
 
 TWO CHAMBERS HATH THE HEART 
 (From the German) 
 
 fid\a <yi too to /xeyd\a<; vye'las 
 
 aKopearov rip/xa, voaos yap aei 
 yeircDV 6/jlotoi^o<; ipelSet. 
 
 jESCH. AG. 
 
 Two chambers hath the heart : 
 
 There dwelling, 
 Live Joy and Pain apart. 
 
 Is Joy in one awake ? 
 
 Then only 
 Doth Pain his slumber take. 
 
 Joy, in thine hour, refrain — 
 
 Speak softly, 
 Lest thou awaken Pain. 
 
 T. W. Rolleston.
 
 THE WIDOW 
 
 All has not past. The sweet bright smile lives on, 
 Like some calm star that mocks the tempest's rage ; 
 
 The eye still shines almost as when it shone 
 The light of features yet untouched by age. 
 
 I watched thee in the soft'ning twilight gloom 
 Which masks the lines where Care and Time have 
 preyed, 
 
 And fancy soon recalled the vanished bloom 
 And in the widow still discerned the maid. 
 
 W. E. H. Lecky. 
 
 N
 
 "THE CYCLES OF TIME" 
 
 She rode a stranger's donkey 
 
 The day when first we met, 
 On the razor back of an ancient Jack 
 
 Her childish form was set ; 
 And standing by her side was one 
 
 Who strove, but all in vain, 
 To rouse that donkey from his sleep, 
 
 And start him off again. 
 I saw her but a moment, 
 
 But methinks I see her still, 
 As she urged that most lethargic beast 
 
 To mount Killiney Hill. 
 
 When next we met, a tricycle 
 
 Her slender figure bore ; 
 It seemed to me her sunny face 
 
 Was redder than before ; 
 And as she plugged along the path, 
 
 With wild defiant air, 
 I noticed how the breeze had tossed 
 
 Her long luxuriant hair. 
 She made me " skip the gutter :" 
 
 Yet methinks I see her now 
 On that heavy old two-tracker, 
 
 With the dew upon her brow.
 
 9* 
 
 No heavy two-track tricycle 
 
 Was there when next we met ; 
 On wobbly wheel she glided by 
 
 Upon a bicyclette ; 
 Her face had all the whiteness — 
 
 Her voice the anxious tone — 
 Of one who knows not what may hap 
 
 If she should meet a stone. 
 She passed me by like winking, 
 
 And methinks I see her yet, 
 A racing down that greasy road 
 
 Upon a bicyclette. 
 
 And once again I saw that form : 
 
 No bicyclette was there ; 
 An alien hand propelled her in 
 
 The family bath chair. 
 I saw she'd had an accident, 
 
 And so I quickly said — 
 " I've taken my diploma out, 
 
 So let me lend my aid." 
 I saw her broken ankle, 
 
 And I helped the bone to set ; 
 And now I'm her companion 
 
 When she rides her bicyclette. 
 
 W. P. French.
 
 "TO BE WROTH WITH ONE WE LOVE" 
 
 Miser Catidle desinas ineptire 
 
 CARM VIII. Ad se ipsum 
 
 Ah, poor Catullus, learn to put away 
 
 Thy childish things. 
 The lost is lost, be sure : the task essay 
 
 That manhood brings. 
 
 Fair shone the skies on thee when thou to fare 
 
 Wast ever fain 
 Where the girl beckon'd, loved as girl shall ne'er 
 
 Be loved again. 
 
 Yes, fain thou wast for merry mirth and she — 
 
 She ne'er said nay. 
 Ah, gaily then the morning smiled on thee 
 
 Each happy day. 
 
 Now she saith nay : but thou be strong to bear, 
 
 Harden thy heart : 
 Nor nurse thy grief, nor cling to her so fair, 
 
 So fixt to part. 
 
 Farewell ! I've learn'd my lesson : I'll endure, 
 
 Nor try to find 
 Words that might wake thy ruth, or even cure 
 
 Thy poison'd mind.
 
 93 
 
 Yet will the time come when thy heart shall bleed, 
 
 Accursed one, 
 When thou shalt come to eld with none to heed, 
 
 Unwoo'd, unwon. 
 
 Who then will seek thee ? Who will call thee fair ? 
 
 Call thee his own ? 
 Whose kisses and whose dalliance wilt thou share ? 
 
 Be stone, my heart, be stone ! 
 
 R. Y. Tyrrell.
 
 RINGLETED YOUTH OF MY LOVE 
 (From the Irish) 
 
 Ringleted youth of my love, 
 
 With thy locks bound loosely behind thee, 
 You passed by the road above, 
 
 But you never came in to find me ; 
 Where were the harm for you 
 
 If you came for a little to see me ? 
 Your kiss is a wakening dew 
 
 Were I ever so ill or so dreamy. 
 
 If I had golden store 
 
 I would make a nice little boreen 
 To lead straight up to his door, 
 
 The door of the house of my storeen ; 
 Hoping to God not to miss 
 
 The sound of his footfall in it ; 
 I have waited so long for a kiss, 
 
 That for days I have slept not a minute. 
 
 I thought, O my love ! you were so — 
 As the moon is, or sun on a fountain, 
 
 And I thought after that you were snow, 
 The cold snow on top of the mountain ;
 
 95 
 
 And I thought after that, you were more 
 Like God's lamp shining to find me, 
 
 Or the bright star of knowledge before, 
 And the star of knowledge behind me. 
 
 You promised me high-heeled shoes, 
 
 And satin and silk, my storeen, 
 And to follow me, never to lose, 
 
 Though the ocean were round us roaring ; 
 Like a bush in a gap in a wall 
 
 I am now left lonely without thee, 
 And this house I grow dead of, is all 
 
 That I see around or about me. 
 
 Douglas Hyde.
 
 AT EVENING SERVICE 
 
 A common object, you will say : 
 We meet them almost every day ; 
 A tramp, an outcast ; just the prey 
 
 Policemen go for : 
 In rags of almost nakedness, 
 With whiskey signals of distress 
 Hung out on nose and cheeks — oh yes ! 
 
 A loafer. 
 
 A curious place to loaf around 
 He's chosen ; this is holy ground, 
 And he is standing in the sound 
 
 Of church bells ringing. 
 The fashionable crowd streams in 
 To dump its six days' load of sin — 
 Hark ! He can hear the choir begin 
 
 The singing. 
 
 He creeps within. Upon his knees 
 He hears the sacred music cease, 
 He hears the deathless words of peace— 
 " Come, all ye weary,"
 
 97 
 
 And, spite of sin and wasted years, 
 His heart grows softer as he hears ; 
 Life seems, thro' late-repentant tears, 
 Less dreary. 
 
 Back from a childhood lost and dim 
 A strangled memory tries to swim — 
 His mother's prayers come back to him — 
 
 His heart is softened. 
 Low bends he his remorseful head, 
 Breathes what the publican once said, 
 Sheds the first tears his eyes have shed 
 
 Since orphaned. 
 
 " Clear out ! This is no place for you ! " 
 The verger's whisper thrills him through ; 
 Gilded religion owns each pew 
 
 So dearly rented. 
 Rejected here, poor child of wrath 
 He gleans his lost life's aftermath, 
 And half repenteth that he hath 
 
 Repented. 
 
 No matter ; just across the street 
 
 He knows the welcome he will meet. 
 
 Perhaps a pal will stand a treat, 
 
 Or he may purchase. 
 
 He laughs to feel his eyes still dim —   
 
 What does he know of cherubim ? 
 
 Ginshops were made for men like him — 
 
 Not churches. 
 
 o
 
 93 
 
 And so the outcast goes his way. 
 The verger turns again to pray ; 
 The perfumed parson draws his pay 
 
 The Book to garble. 
 He leads his flock to Abraham's breast, 
 In silks and furs and satins dressed — 
 The tramp tramps to the tramp's last rest — 
 
 Morgue marble. 
 
 G. H. Jessop.
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE 
 
 I 
 Tired with my long day's travel 
 
 At night I laid my head 
 Upon the grass and gravel 
 
 Of old Cephysus' bed. 
 Yet Sleep her steps susurrent 
 
 Bent towards me but to fly, 
 Scared back o'er that slow current 
 
 By a Nightingale hard by. 
 
 ii 
 
 1 Alas, thou little mourner ! 
 
 Remit that song of woe ; 
 Sad Philomela's scorner 
 
 Was slain long years ago : 
 'Tis now a time-worn fable : 
 
 One half was never true ; 
 Then why for ever babble 
 
 Of woes ne'er felt by you ? ' 
 
 in 
 
 The little bird persisted : 
 Like hers my grief was vain. 
 
 As oft as e'er she listed 
 
 She poured the same sad strain.
 
 IOO 
 
 Though none might share her weeping, 
 
 Though none was nigh to praise, 
 All night she ceased not, steeping 
 
 In melody the sprays. 
 
 Aubrey de Vere.
 
 THE THEATRICAL THEORIST 
 
 One Rantanrore Von Rumbletunder Gagglebury Page 
 Was an angel in the balcony, a demon on the stage ; 
 He would immolate a columbine, or trample on a clown ; 
 But when programme boys made fun of him he'd give 
 them half-a-crown. 
 
 He was fond of playing mercilessly-tyrannizing kings, 
 For, he left his Christian charity behind him at the wings ; 
 As an actor, he was violent, cantankerous, and vain — 
 As a manager, considerate and tenderly humane. 
 
 Macbeth, on one occasion, was the character he filled, 
 And, when the combat-scene came on, and he was to be 
 
 killed, 
 They applauded his antagonist, which put him in a huff, 
 So he outraged all the unities by slaughtering Macduff. 
 
 Before the doors were opened, and before the gas was lit, 
 There were claimants for admission to the gallery and 
 
 pit. 
 At six o'clock he noticed some enthusiasts arrive, 
 And occasionally some were there a little after five.
 
 102 
 
 He trembled with anxiety lest some of them should get 
 Lumbago or sciatica from standing in the wet ; 
 So, he bought a canvas canopy to shelter either door, 
 Sufficiently capacious to accommodate a score. 
 
 Then those who used to come at six began to come at 
 
 five ; 
 To anticipate them some were even quicker to arrive ; 
 The five-o'clocks then came at four, the fours at three 
 
 were met, 
 And there still was a residuum of people in the wet. 
 
 " An early door," thought Rantanrore, " is now the only 
 
 thing;" 
 So he opened one at 9 a.m., and ladies used to bring 
 Their knitting and their crochet, and their oranges and 
 
 buns, 
 With toys to suit respectively their daughters and their 
 
 sons. 
 
 For one-and-sixpence extra you could use the early door 
 At nine ; a shilling after twelve ; and sixpence after four. 
 The place became so popular, so crowded would it get, 
 That there still was a residuum of people in the wet. 
 
 Thought Gagglebury : " Surely it devolves upon a man 
 In my position, to promote, by every means he can, 
 The convenience of the visitors, with whom he has to 
 
 do"— 
 So he lent them a piano, then a violin or two,
 
 103 
 
 A triangle, an harmonicon, a couple of bassoons, 
 And an automatic organ playing operatic tunes ; 
 Jews' harps were made available for those of minor skill, 
 To amuse the audience, pending the performance in the 
 bill. 
 
 But music, though possessing charms to soothe the 
 
 savage breast, 
 Is not a thing that everyone appreciates with zest, 
 So, a circulating library was added very soon, 
 For whist a snug apartment, and for dancing a saloon. 
 
 There were skittles in the gallery, and croquet in the pit, 
 Lawn-tennis courts and racquet courts, elaborately lit ; 
 From indoor exercise, however, many held aloof, 
 So, he organised a cricket ground and race-course on the 
 roof. 
 
 There were breakfasts, luncheons, dejeuners, and suppers 
 
 cold and hot, 
 A Commissioner for taking affidavits on the spot ; 
 A Turkish bath, a swimming bath, a barrister-at-law, 
 A dentist, a physician, an attorney, and a spa. 
 
 He intended, for such people as were lazy or unwell, 
 To negociate the purchase of a neighbouring hotel ; 
 And he might have seen his philanthropic enterprise 
 
 maintained, 
 But a sinister fatality had otherwise ordained : —
 
 104 
 
 One night the house was crowded, and the curtain rose 
 
 at eight. 
 They expected something stirring, and they hadn't long 
 
 to wait. 
 Not a dozen lines were spoken, when a " Super" on the 
 
 stage 
 Touched Rantanrore Von Rumbletunder Gagglebury 
 
 Page. 
 
 Then the petulant celebrity, with lightning in his eye, 
 Seized the paralysed subordinate, and, lifting him on 
 
 high, 
 Consigned him to the orchestra, head-foremost in the 
 
 drum, 
 And they bore him to the green-room with a dislocated 
 
 thumb. 
 
 The physician proved the injury, the lawyer wrote it 
 
 down, 
 And Rantanrore was driven to a dungeon in the town. 
 Then, as the cab drove past his doors, he noticed with 
 
 regret 
 That there still was a residuum of people in the wet. 
 
 Moral 
 
 However laudably you aim, however far you reach, 
 There are people — a residuum — impossible to teach. 
 So, the public is an animal you need not try to gauge, 
 Like Rantanrore Von Rumbletunder Gagglebury Page. 
 
 Edwin Hamilton.
 
 THEOCRITUS 
 
 A VlLLANELLE 
 
 O Singer of Persephone ! 
 
 In the dim meadows desolate 
 Dost thou remember Sicily ? 
 
 Still through the ivy flits the bee 
 Where Amaryllis lies in state ; 
 O Singer of Persephone ! 
 
 Simaetha calls on Hecate 
 
 And hears the wild dogs at the gate ; 
 Dost thou remember Sicily ? 
 
 Still by the light and laughing sea 
 
 Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate : 
 O Singer of Persephone ! 
 
 And still in boyish rivalry 
 
 Young Daphnis challenges his mate : 
 Dost thou remember Sicily ? 
 
 Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee, 
 
 For thee the jocund shepherds wait, 
 O Singer of Persephone ! 
 Dost thou remember Sicily 
 
 Oscar Wilde
 
 THE REJECTED LOVER 
 
 On Innisfallen's fairy isle, 
 
 Amid the blooming bushes, 
 We leant upon the lover's stile, 
 
 And listened to the thrushes ; 
 When first I sighed to see her smile, 
 
 And smiled to see her blushes. 
 
 Her hair was bright as beaten gold, 
 
 And soft as spider's spinning ; 
 Her cheek out-bloomed the apple old 
 
 That set our parents sinning ; 
 And in her eyes you might behold 
 
 My joys and griefs beginning. 
 
 In Innisfallen's fairy grove 
 
 I hushed my happy wooing, 
 To listen to the brooding dove 
 
 Amid the branches cooing ; 
 But oh 1 how short those hours of love ! 
 
 How long their bitter ruing ! 
 
 Poor cushat ! Thy complaining breast 
 With woe like mine is heaving ; 
 
 With thee I mourn a fruitless quest — 
 For ah ! with art deceiving, 
 
 The cuckoo-bird has robbed my nest, 
 And left me wildly grieving. 
 
 Alfred Perceval Graves.
 
 AD A N I M A M 
 (Infelix loq.) 
 
 Weary not, Soul, because the world is shaken 
 With frets and fevers, and bemoans its ills, 
 
 Because with each new sun the people waken 
 Only to feed their still unsated wills. 
 
 Because the slave sits high in Fortune's favour, 
 And still the fool is dandled at her breast, 
 
 Because the lord of life, Love, cannot save her 
 From all the Furies that invade her rest. 
 
 Weary not, Soul, because the wisest sages 
 Mingle no weeping with their last farewells, 
 
 For that they bear across earth's vanish'd ages 
 A sadder music than of funeral bells. 
 
 I will not in the weakling's tones that flatter, 
 Whisper to thee, O Soul, a lover's tales, 
 
 That the four winds of Heaven blow to scatter 
 For thee the perfumes of Elysian vales. 
 
 That sun and moon keep their unwearied courses 
 Only to find thee guidance on thy ways, 
 
 That the seas roll, and earth deploys her forces 
 To give thee pleasance, and make sweet thy days.
 
 io8 
 
 Nor when the thunder wakes and the skies darken 
 Shall I unveil thee any sheltered shrine, 
 
 Nor to the tempest's voices bid thee hearken 
 To catch the safe assurance of a sign. 
 
 Earth is no garden in a Summer season, 
 
 Nor is the care of roses thine employ ; 
 Thou art the slave of no self-flattering reason 
 
 To twine thee wreaths of an infatuate joy. 
 
 Set store, O Soul, by that thou hast unborrow'd, 
 Strength, that time's wheels can neither break nor 
 bring, 
 
 Here in the space where thou hast joyed and sorrow'd 
 To lift an indefatigable wing. 
 
 Put forth thy bark, though lone and unbefriended, 
 All winds that blow will spread thy resolute sails ; 
 
 No skill but thine can steer thee where are ended 
 The shifting surges and the roaring gales. 
 
 Better than calm the storm to speed and friend thee, 
 Flight on swift seas that greet thee with their foam ; 
 
 Stars that but smile in calm, in storm will lend thee 
 Heart to endure and light to lead thee home. 
 
 W. Macneile Dixon.
 
 OASIS 
 
 Let them go by — the heats, the doubts, the strife ; 
 I can sit here and care not for them now, 
 Dreaming beside the glimmering wave of life 
 Once more, — I know not how. 
 
 There is a murmur in my heart, I hear 
 Faint, O so faint, some air I used to sing ; 
 It stirs my sense ; and odours dim and dear 
 The meadow-breezes bring. 
 
 Just this way did the quiet twilights fade 
 Over the fields and happy homes of men, 
 While one bird sang as now, piercing the shade, 
 Long since, — I know not when. 
 
 Edward Dowden.
 
 AD AM I CAM ME AM 
 
 (From the French) 
 
 Suppose I were a king dear, I'd give up wealth untold — 
 Jewell'd sceptre, kneeling subjects, ships of war, and 
 ivory cars, 
 And my baths of polish'd porph'ry, and my crown of 
 burnish'd gold — 
 All my kingdom for a gift that no royal treasure buys, 
 For one glance, little love, from your eyes ! 
 
 And suppose I were a God, dear, I'd give up earth's 
 broad plains, 
 And her oceans, and the sun and all my pretty little 
 stars, 
 And all my singing angels, and the devils bound in 
 chains — 
 Vast chaos down below, and bright heaven itself above, 
 For one kiss from your lips, little love ! 
 
 William Wilde.
 
 SONG 
 
 A brightened Sorrow veils her face, 
 
 Sweet thoughts with thoughts forlorn, 
 And playful sadness, like the grace 
 
 Of an Autumnal morn, 
 When birds new-waked, like sprightly elves, 
 
 The languid echoes rouse, 
 And infant Zephyrs make themselves 
 
 Familiar with old boughs. 
 
 All round our hearts the Maiden's hair 
 
 Its own soft shade doth fling : 
 Her sigh perfumes the forest air, 
 
 Like eve — but eve in Spring ; 
 When Spring precipitates her flow ; 
 
 And Summer, swift to greet her, 
 Breathes, every night, a warmer glow 
 
 Half through the dusk to meet her. 
 
 Aubrey de Vere.
 
 A GREEK EPITAPH 
 
 Jac. Anth. Appendix Epigrammatum, 280 
 
 Once I was not ; I became ; 
 Was ; and now no longer am. 
 There is nothing — all is o'er, 
 Dead is dead for evermore. 
 Whoso prateth otherwise, 
 Heed him not,— 'tis lies, lies, lies. 
 
 T. W. ROLLESTON.
 
 TO 
 
 'Twas not alone thy beauty's power 
 
 That made thee dear to me : 
 The quiet of the sunset hour 
 
 Most truly mirrored thee. 
 
 'Twas thine to shed a soothing balm 
 
 On doubt and grief and strife, 
 And make a bright and holy calm 
 
 The atmosphere of life. 
 
 Thy touch of sympathy could find 
 
 To frozen hearts the key ; 
 The darkened and the arid mind 
 
 Gave light and fruit for thee. 
 
 Ah ! many a flower unnoticed springs 
 
 On life's most trodden ways, 
 And common lives and common things 
 
 Grew nobler in thy praise. 
 
 W. E. H. Lecky.
 
 STAR OF MY SIGHT 
 
 (From the Irish) 
 
 Star of my sight, you gentle B reedy een, 
 Often at night I am sick and grieving ; 
 I am ill, I know it, and no deceiving, 
 And grief on the wind blows no relieving. 
 
 wind, if passing by that far boreen, 
 Blow my blessing unto my storeen ; 
 
 Were I on the spot I should hear her calling, 
 But I am not, and my tears are falling. 
 
 Into the post I put a letter 
 Telling my love that I was no better ; 
 Small the loss, was her answer to me, 
 A lover's mind should be always gloomy. 
 
 Wind, greet that mountain where she I prize is 
 When the gold moon sets and the white sun rises ; 
 A grey fog hangs over cursed Dublin, 
 It fills my lungs and my heart it's troubling. 
 
 Ochone for the Death, when the breath is going ! 
 
 1 thought to bribe it with bumpers flowing ; 
 I'd give what men see from yonder steeple 
 To be in Loughrea and amongst my people.
 
 us 
 
 Och, the long high-roads I shall never travel ! 
 Worn my brogues are, with stones and gravel ; 
 Though I went to mass, there was no devotion 
 But to see her pass with her swan-like motion. 
 
 Farewell Loughrea, and a long farewell to you ; 
 Many's the pleasant day I spent in you, 
 Drinking with friends, and my love beside me, 
 I little dreamt then of what should betide me. 
 
 Douglas Hyde.
 
 VERA SINGING 
 
 In the grey old German city 
 We gathered, a laughing throng, 
 
 Till you stood by the grand piano 
 And hushed us all with a song. 
 
 Hushed and still I listened, 
 And hushed was the crowded room, 
 
 While the passionate words of Heine 
 Were filling the air with gloom. 
 
 Hushed and still I listened, 
 
 While life and the world went by. 
 
 And I was the drowning sailor, 
 And you were the Lorelei. 
 
 And there was a young life ended, 
 
 And there was a life begun : 
 You made me older and sadder 
 
 Than hundreds of years had done. 
 
 I read, for once and for ever, 
 
 The dumb Earth's meaning plain, 
 
 In your eyes of her morning-gladness, 
 Your voice of her endless pain. 
 
 T. W. ROLLESTON.
 
 THE DOLE OF THE KING'S DAUGHTER 
 
 Seven stars in the still water, 
 
 And seven in the sky ; 
 Seven sins on the King's daughter, 
 
 Deep in her soul to lie. 
 
 Red roses are at her feet, 
 
 (Roses are red in her rose-gold hair) 
 And O where her bosom and girdle meet 
 
 Red roses are hidden there. 
 
 Fair is the knight who lieth slain 
 
 Amid the rush and reed, 
 See the lean fishes that are fain 
 
 Upon dead men to feed. 
 
 Sweet is the page that lieth there, 
 
 (Cloth of gold is goodly prey,) 
 See the black ravens in the air, 
 
 Black, O black as the night are they. 
 
 What do they there so stark and dead ? 
 
 (There is blood upon her hand) 
 Why are the lilies flecked with red ? 
 
 (There is blood on the river sand.)
 
 n8 
 
 There are two that ride from the south and east, 
 
 And two from the north and west, 
 For the black raven a goodly feast, 
 
 For the King's daughter rest. 
 
 There is one man who loves her true, 
 
 (Red, O red, is the stain of gore !) 
 He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew, 
 
 (One grave will do for four.) 
 
 No moon in the still heaven, 
 
 In the black water none, 
 The sins on her soul are seven, 
 
 The sin upon his is one. 
 
 Oscar Wilde.
 
 ZOE, AN ATHENIAN CHILD 
 
 Blue eyes, but of so dark a blue 
 
 That sadder souls than mine 
 
 Find nought but night beneath their dew, 
 
 Such locks as Proserpine 
 
 Around her shadowy forehead wears, 
 
 Made smoother by Elysian airs, 
 
 And lips whose song spontaneous swells 
 
 Like airs from Ocean's moonlit shells — 
 
 These, lovely child ! are thine ; 
 
 And that forlorn yet radiant grace 
 
 That best becomes thy name and race ! 
 
 ii 
 
 A forehead orbed into the light ; 
 
 Pure temples marbled round 
 
 By feathery veins that streak the white, 
 
 More white thus dimly wound, 
 
 And taper fingers, hands self-folded, 
 
 Like shapes of alabaster moulded, 
 
 And cheek whose blushes are as those 
 
 Aurora cools on Pindan snows 
 
 Ere night is yet discrowned — 
 
 Not brighter, clad in Fancy's hues, 
 
 Or seen in dream — an Infant Muse !
 
 120 
 
 III 
 
 O fetch her from yon Naxian glade 
 
 One chaplet of the Bacchic vine 
 
 Or glimmering ivy-wreath yet sprayed 
 
 With dews that taste like wine ! 
 
 She loves to pace the wild sea shore — 
 
 O drop her wandering fingers o'er 
 
 The bosom of some chorded shell ; 
 
 Her touch will make it speak as well 
 
 As infant Hermes made 
 
 That tortoise, in its own despite 
 
 Thenceforth in Heaven a shape star-bright ! 
 
 Aubrey de Vere.
 
 EILEEN'S FAREWELL 
 
 (To an Irish Air) 
 
 i 
 Ring out my knell, 
 
 Ye walls and towers of Neil Dhuv ! 
 Farewell, oh, farewell 
 
 Evermore to the fields that I love ! 
 For the world, the world is dreary, 
 
 Let me lie with my baby alone : 
 The heart that is weary 
 
 Rests only under the stone. 
 
 n 
 Think on my doom, 
 
 And weep for pity, Neil Dhuv ! 
 On the slab of my tomb 
 
 No name be graven but Love. 
 With the winds, in places lonely, 
 
 My name of sorrow shall dwell, 
 And I sigh to them only 
 
 To waft thee Eileen's farewell. 
 
 John Todhunter. 
 
 R
 
 COMING ! 
 
 Here where a sea of iris sweeps, 
 
 In tremulous circles swelling, 
 Rippled with joy,— as from its deeps 
 
 A fount of light were welling,— 
 Now from thy home i' the setting sun, 
 
 Clothed in his glow, sweet rover, 
 Come ere the day's glad vision's gone, 
 
 And bless thy faithful lover ! 
 
 The changeless calm ascetic heights 
 
 Are crowned with tender haloes, 
 The bold rocks burn with amber lights 
 
 Above the lapping shallows : 
 The olive takes a happier hue 
 
 Under the pine-shield's cover ; 
 And cloud-boats moored in waveless blue 
 
 Lie waiting, with thy lover ! 
 
 Ah, what avail if the purple hill 
 The faun or nymph are haunting, 
 
 That great souls tread the wild shore still 
 If you should yet be wanting !
 
 123 
 
 The Graces dwelling in flower and tree 
 
 For love's eyes to discover, 
 Full of their smiling mystery, 
 
 Are waiting, with thy lover. 
 
 Come, O my own, my only dear ! 
 
 Yet haply if I meet you, 
 Love on my cold lips, white as fear, 
 
 May lack true words to greet you. . . . 
 You come ! Oh, see yon brood of doves 
 
 Over you wheel and hover — 
 Clasp them and think, "those simple loves 
 
 Fly from his heart, my lover !" 
 
 George Noble Plunkett.
 
 ROSES 
 
 When the bud of the year uncloses, 
 And the breath of the summer is sweet, 
 
 I gathered a bouquet of roses 
 To lay at my Lady's feet. 
 
 I plucked them in sunniest hours, 
 The best and the sweetest that grew, 
 
 And I gave her my heart with the flowers, 
 And wondered that nobody knew. 
 
 On her lips there was never a quiver, 
 
 Nor a word, nor a smile for me ; 
 And the roses she flung on the river 
 
 That sweeps to the desolate sea. 
 
 In her bower there are many posies, 
 And flowers more rare not a few ; 
 
 But my heart I have lost with the roses, 
 And I know not what I shall do. 
 
 G. A. Greene.
 
 THE SINGER 
 
 " That was the thrush's last good night " I thought, 
 
 And heard the soft descent of summer rain 
 
 In the droop'd garden leaves ; but hush ! again 
 
 The perfect iterance, — freer than unsought 
 
 Odours of violets dim in woodland ways, 
 
 Deeper than coiled waters laid a-dream 
 
 Below moss'd ledges of a shadowy stream, 
 
 And faultless as blown roses in June days. 
 
 Full-throated singer ! art thou thus anew 
 
 Voiceful to hear how round thyself alone 
 
 The enriched silence drops for thy delight 
 
 More soft than snow, more sweet than honey-dew ? 
 
 Now cease ; the last faint western streak is gone, 
 
 Stir not the blissful quiet of the night. 
 
 Edward Dowden.
 
 AVIS 
 (From the French) 
 
 In spite of this veil's deep flow 
 
 Beware of eyes, my sweet ; 
 Beware of the tell-tale snow 
 
 And your Andalusian feet. 
 
 For this dainty dainty foot 
 
 It's print in the snows will frame, 
 
 And sign on the carpet mute 
 At every step of your name. 
 
 And so Jealousy, lame and old, 
 Will come on the hidden nest ; 
 
 As, her cheek yet rosy with cold, 
 Psyche falls on Cupid's breast. 
 
 George Wilkins.
 
 SONG 
 
 Love laid down his golden head 
 
 On his mother's knee ; 
 " The world runs round so fast," he said, 
 
 " None has time for me." 
 
 Thought, a sage unhonoured, turned 
 
 From the on-rushing crew ; 
 Song her starry legend spurned ; 
 
 Art her glass down threw. 
 
 Roll on, blind world, upon thy track 
 
 Until thy wheels catch fire ! 
 p x or that is gone which comes not back 
 
 To seller nor to buyer I 
 
 Aubrey de Vere.
 
 SALOME 
 (For a Picture) 
 
 The sight of me was as a devouring flame 
 Burning their hearts with fire, so wantonly 
 That night I danced for all his men to see ! 
 
 Fearless and reckless ; for all maiden shame 
 
 Strange passion-poisons throbbing overcame 
 As every eye was riveted on me, 
 And every soul was mine, mine utterly, — 
 
 And thrice each throat cried out aloud my name ! 
 
 " Ask what thou wilt," black-bearded Herod said. 
 God wot a weird thing do I crave for prize : 
 " Give me, I pray thee, presently the head 
 Of John the Baptist." 'Twixt my hand it lies. 
 " Ah mother ! see ! the lips, the half-closed eyes — 
 Dost think he hates us still now he is dead ? " 
 
 William Wilde.
 
 SORTES 
 
 I — as a girl who stoops to blow 
 The dandelion's globe of snow, 
 And as the fateful arrows go, 
 Divines the chances of her lot : 
 
 He loves me ! loves me not ! — 
 
 So, with such eager eyes I trace 
 
 My lady's thoughts and feelings chase 
 
 Each other fast across her face ; 
 
 The sheen of hope with fears is shot : 
 She loves me ! loves me not ! 
 
 Edward Gwynn.
 
 SONG 
 
 Give me back my heart, fair child ; 
 
 To you as yet 'twere worth but little 
 Half beguiler, half beguiled, 
 
 Be you warned : your own is brittle. 
 
 " Hid it ! dropt it on the moors ! 
 
 " Lost it, and you cannot find it " — 
 My own heart I want, not yours : 
 
 You have bound, and must unbind it. 
 
 Fling it from you : Youth is strong : 
 Love is trouble ; love is folly : 
 
 Love, that makes an old heart young, 
 Makes a young heart melancholy. 
 
 Aubrey de Vere.
 
 LOVE'S SPITE 
 
 You take a town you cannot keep ; 
 
 And, forced in time to fly, 
 O'er ruins you have made shall leap 
 
 Your deadliest enemy ! 
 Her love is yours — and be it so — 
 But can you keep it ? No, no, no ! 
 
 Upon her brow we gazed with awe ; 
 
 And loved, and wished to love, in vain ; 
 But when the snow begins to thaw 
 
 We shun with scorn the miry plain. 
 Women with grace may yield : but she 
 Appeared some Virgin Deity. 
 
 Bright was her soul as Dian's crest 
 Whitening on Vesta's fane its sheen : 
 
 Cold looked she as the waveless breast 
 Of some stone Dian at thirteen. 
 
 Men loved : but hope they deemed to be 
 
 A sweet Impossibility ! 
 
 Aubrey de Vere.
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE ASSES BRIDGE 
 
 Triangle Equilateral, 
 
 By Algebra he swore 
 
 That his good friend Isosceles 
 
 Should suffer wrong no more. 
 By Algebra he swore it, 
 
 And named a fighting day, 
 And bade his Angles hurry forth 
 
 East and West and South and North 
 To summon to the fray. 
 
 East and West and South and North 
 
 The Angles hurry forth, 
 And Problem old and Theorem 
 
 Have heard the trumpet blast. 
 Shame on the point that has no parts, 
 
 The Circle that would quake, 
 When Equilateral has sworn 
 
 The Asses Bridge to take. 
 
 And now they are assembled, 
 The tale of fighting men, 
 
 The Decimals in hundreds are, 
 The Units one to ten,
 
 J 33 
 
 Equations all quadratical 
 
 Drawn up in long array. 
 Oh, proud was Equilateral 
 
 Upon the fighting day. 
 
 But on the Bridge of Asses 
 
 Was tumult and affright, 
 For all the lines below the base 
 
 Were striken with affright. 
 They held a council standing 
 
 Upon the narrow ridge, 
 Hard lines I wis, in times like this, 
 
 'Twould take to save the Bridge. 
 
 Then outspake gallant Alpha, 
 
 On the Apex full in view, 
 " A Dog, they say, shall have his day, 
 
 A Bridge must have it, too, 
 And how can man die better 
 
 When things come to this pass, 
 Than fighting as first letter 
 
 In the sacred name of Ass P 
 
 Know then, false Equilateral, 
 
 No Bridge thou'lt take to-day ; 
 I, with two more to help me, 
 
 Will keep ye all at Bay. 
 In these five lines a thousand 
 
 May well be stopped by three, 
 Now who will stand, on either hand, 
 
 And keep the Bridge with me?"
 
 134 
 
 Then out spake gallant Beta, 
 
 Of Grecian blood was he : 
 " Lo ! I will stand on thy right hand, 
 
 And keep the Bridge with thee." 
 And spake a stout Centurion — 
 
 A Roman, surnamed C — 
 " I will abide on thy left side, 
 
 And keep the Bridge with thee." 
 
 The three stood calm and silent 
 
 And watched the foeman's line, 
 As from the right, stepped out to fight, 
 
 Theta's well-known Co-sine. 
 And Vector the Quaternion — 
 
 Vector whose fourfold power 
 Had puzzled many a weary head, 
 
 And kept it aching out of bed 
 Long past the midnight hour. 
 
 C went at once for Veclor, 
 
 And with a deadly blow 
 Of his good blade he quickly laid 
 
 The great Quaternion low. 
 For in that hour, had Vector's power 
 
 Been risen to the tenth, 
 Little cared C, I ween, for he 
 
 Had smote him to the Nth. 
 
 Next Beta marked how Theta 
 
 Advanced against his line, 
 So, with his trusty tangent, he 
 
 Bisected the Co-sine.
 
 r 35 
 
 " Lie there," he cried, " fell tyrant. 
 
 No longer shalt thou mark 
 How Girton's gold-haired graduates sigh 
 With vain endeavours to descry 
 The variable length of Pi 
 
 In thine accursed Arc." 
 
 Then x on his Equation 
 
 Advanced, and all were mute ; 
 For in his hand he waved his brand, 
 
 A knotty old Cube root. 
 Thrice round his head he waved it, 
 
 And then the weapon sprung 
 Like bolt from bow — a mighty blow 
 
 On Alpha's crest it rung. 
 
 He reeled, and first on Beta 
 
 Leaned for a breathing space, 
 Then dashed his Co-efficient 
 
 In the Equation's face. 
 And loud he cried, " No more thy pride 
 
 My inmost soul shall vex," 
 Then with a stroke, 'twould cleave an oak, 
 
 Eliminated x. 
 
 They gave him out of Euclid 
 
 Ten cuts so erudite, 
 Not thrice ten Senior Wranglers 
 
 Could solve 'twixt morn and night,
 
 136 
 
 They gave a square, it still is there, 
 
 And every dunce derides 
 With thrice the double ratio 
 
 Of its homologous sides. 
 
 And in the square they raised him, 
 
 A vast Triangle high ! 
 His name is on the Apex 
 
 To witness if I lie, 
 And underneath is written, 
 
 In letters all of brass, 
 How well brave Alpha held the Bridge 
 
 That's sacred to the Ass. 
 
 J. M. Lowry.
 
 THE RETURN 
 
 And yet, tho' sweet the sunburnt South 
 When daylight ebbs o'er west and east, 
 The North shall not obtain the least 
 Of praises from my mouth ; 
 
 For now returned from golden lands 
 I see Night lift her misty shroud, 
 And through the veil of morning-cloud 
 The sun strikes northern sands ; 
 
 I hail with joy the early ray 
 That gleams o'er valleys thrice more dear ; 
 My pulse beats quicker as I hear 
 Up from Killiney Bay 
 
 The whisper of familiar rills, 
 
 And sudden tremors veil mine eyes 
 As, at a turn, before me rise, 
 
 Long-sought, the Wicklow Hills. 
 
 G. A. Greene.
 
 GREYSTONES ROCKS 
 
 Even as these surges landward from the sea 
 
 Do roll and swell and heave in vague emotion, 
 Then crash upon the coast in ecstasy 
 
 The waters they have borne from far-off ocean : — 
 So restless heave the depths of souls sublime 
 
 With thoughts that came to them from realms eternal, 
 Till they burst, startling, on the coasts of time 
 
 In passionate voices as of gods supernal. 
 
 And we who watch, as from a safe seashore, 
 Could only, self-abash'd, look on in wonder 
 
 On things beyond our scope for evermore, 
 As men of eld might hear Olympian thunder, 
 
 But that the yearning of the heart within 
 
 Doth prove we, too, are of their God-like kin. 
 
 Fred k ' R. Falkiner.
 
 THE CUCKOO 
 
 Waited and longed-for voice ! which stirs the heart 
 With dreams of sunny days and summer joys, 
 First heard when vernal woods are waving green, 
 And blue-bells' mimic skies beneath the shade 
 Are starred with primrose. Sound more welcome far 
 Than all the thin-piped warblings of the grove, 
 The full- voiced cuckoo's sweet monotony, 
 Note under note repeated o'er and o'er 
 With child-like glee as at a trick new found. 
 Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! as blithe in these grey days 
 As in those joyous springs long since flown by, 
 When all the world seemed big with nameless good, 
 And hearts beat quick for deeds of high emprise 
 And unknown wonders coming with the years. 
 'Tis April in our eyes when thou art heard — 
 Half smiles, half tears,— half rapture, half despair ! 
 The years are gone, the wonders still to seek, 
 And little won of all we hoped to win. 
 Good unattained and poor results of time 
 Courting our vain pursuit have mocked it still, 
 As thou hast mocked, retreating field by field ; 
 Like rainbow-ends which touch the common earth 
 With gleams of Heaven, but never meet our grasp.
 
 140 
 
 So seldom true has thy sweet promise proved ; 
 If flies afar, ere Autumn's chills fall drear, 
 To wake its charm where youth and sunshine dwell, 
 Impatient as thyself of adverse skies. 
 Fain would we dream that thou wilt roam no more, 
 But make thy stay perennial near our homes, 
 Thy spring-tide cadence constant to our woods, 
 Nor spread thy vagrant wing for brighter shores. 
 Chant on, dear bird, thy well-remembered lay, 
 And cheat our willing hearts now once again, 
 With hopes of fairer flowers and sweeter fruits 
 Than ever yet were ours in summers past. 
 
 A. Smythe Palmer.
 
 NOTES 
 
 Note i, page 16. — John O'Mahony was a prominent 
 Fenian leader in the rising of '67, and died in New York 
 after its failure. 
 
 NOTE 2, page 47. — This sonnet was called forth by Arch- 
 bishop Trench's sonnet on the death of Sir George Colley at 
 the battle of Majuba Hill, February 27, 1881. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 Gentle and brave, well skilled in that dread lore 
 Which mightiest nations dare not to unlearn; 
 Fair lot for thee had leaped from Fortune's urn, 
 
 Just guerdon of long toil ; and more and more 
 
 We counted for her favourite was in store. 
 Nor failed prophetic fancy to descry 
 Wreaths of high praise and crowns of victory 
 
 Which in our thought thy brows already wore. 
 
 But He who portions out our good or ill 
 Willed an austerer glory should be thine, 
 And nearer to the Cross than to the crown. 
 Then lay, ye mourners, there your burden down, 
 And hear calm voices from the inner shrine 
 Which whisper " Teace ! " and say " Be still, be still !" 
 
 Richard Chenevix Trench.
 
 List of Books 
 
 in 
 
 Belles Lettres 
 
 ALL THE BOOKS IN THIS CATALOGUE ARE 
 PUBLISHED AT NET PRICES 
 
 London : Elkin Mathews, Vigo Street, W. 
 
 i8 95 
 
 Telegraphic Address — 
 
 ' Elesantia, London.
 
 Lector ! eme^ lege, et gaudeh'is 
 
 List of Books 
 
 IN 
 
 BELLES LETTRES 
 
 (Including some Transfers) 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 Elkin Mathews 
 
 VIGO STREET, LONDON, W. 
 
 N.B. — The Authors and Publisher reserve the right of reprinting 
 any book in this list, except in cases where a stipulation has been made 
 to the contrary, and of printing a separate edition of any of the books for 
 America. In the case of limited Editions, the numbers mentioned do 
 not include the copies sent for review, nor those supplied to the public 
 libraries. 
 
 The following are a few of the Authors represented in this Catalogue : 
 
 R. D. Blackmore. 
 f. w. bourdillon. 
 Bliss Carman. 
 E. R. Chapman. 
 Ernest Dowson. 
 Michael Field. 
 T. Gordon Hake. 
 Arthur Hallam. 
 Katharine Hinkson. 
 Herbert P. Horne. 
 Richard Hovey. 
 Leigh Hunt. 
 
 Selwyn Image. 
 Lionel Johnson. 
 Charles Lamb. 
 P. B. Marston. 
 May Probyn. 
 F. York Powell. 
 J. A. Symonds. 
 John Todhunter. 
 Henry Van Dyke. 
 Frederick Wedmore. 
 P. H. Wicksteed. 
 W. B. Yeats.
 
 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 
 
 ABBOTT (DR. C. C). 
 
 Travels in a Tree-Top. 200 copies. Sm. 8vo. 55. net. 
 Philadelphia : T. B. Lippincott Company. 
 
 " Dr. Abbott pleases by the interest he takes in the subject which he treats . . 
 and he adorns his matter with a good English style . . . Altogether, with its 
 dainty printing, it would be a charming book to read in the open air on a bright 
 summer's day. — Athenaum. 
 
 " He has an observant eye, a warm sympathy, and a pen that enables us to see 
 with him. Nothing could be more restful than to read the thoughts of such nature- 
 lovers. The very titles of his chapters suggest quiet and gentle things." — Dublin Herald. 
 
 The Birds About Us. 73 Engravings. Second Edition. 
 
 Thick cr. 8vo. $s. 6d. net. 
 Philadelphia : T. B. Lippincott Company. 
 BINYON {LAURENCE). 
 
 Lyric Poems, with title page by Selwyn Image. Sq-, 
 
 i6mo. 55. net. 
 "This little volume of Lyric Poems displays a grace of fancy, a spontaneity 
 and individuality of inspiration, and a felicitous command of metre and diction, which 
 lilt the writer above the average of the minor singers of our time. . . . We may 
 expect much from the writer of 'An April Day,' or of the strong concluding lines on 
 the present age from a piece entitled ' Present and Future.' " — Times. 
 "The product of a definite and sympathetic personality." — Globe. 
 
 BLACKMORE {R. D.) 
 
 Fringilla : or, Some Tales in Verse. By the Author 
 
 of " Lorna Doone." With Illustrations by Louis 
 
 Fairfax-Mtjckley and James W. R. Linton. 
 
 Crown 8vo. net. 
 
 (Quorsum haec ? Non potui qnalem Philomela querela//: ; $e& 
 
 fringilla velut pipitabunda, vagur.) 
 
 BOURDILLON (F. IV.). 
 
 A Lost God : a Poem in Three Books. With illustrations 
 by H. J. Ford. Printed at the Chiswick Press. 
 500 copies. 8vo. 6s.net. [Very few remain- 
 
 Also 50 copies, royal 8vo., L. P. \"]s. 6d. net. 
 
 " Mr. Elkin Mathews sends in a beautiful form a really striking Poem, ' A Lost 
 God," by Mr. F. W. Bourdillon .... written in blank verse of much beauty 
 
 and force Three full-page illustrations by Mr. H. J. Ford, curiously 
 
 like old copper-plates, add further charm to the book. Deliciously idyllic is the 
 picture of Hero and Leander, sitting in colloquy on the grass-browed rocks above the 
 Ionian Sea, and 'The Calvary,' is as dark and strong as the other is gracious anfi 
 blossoming. ' — Logroller, in Star. 
 
 "A graceful presentation in blank verse, with slight but effective dramatic setting,, 
 of the legend of the death of Pan on the morning that Christ began his teaching. '— 
 Times.
 
 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 
 
 [Isham Facsimile Reprint.] 
 BRETON (NICHOLAS). 
 
 No Whippinge, nor Trippringe, but a kinde 
 friendly Snippinge. London, 1601. A Facsimile 
 Reprint, with the original Borders to every page, with 
 a Bibliographical Note by Charles Edmonds. 200 
 copies, printed on hand-made paper at the CHISWICK 
 Press. 121110. net. 
 
 Also 50 copies Large Paper. net. 
 
 Facsimile reprint from the semi-unique copy discovered in the autumn of 1867 by 
 Mr. Charles Edmonds in a disused lumber room at Lamport Hall, Northants (Sir 
 Charles E. Isham's), and purchased lately by the British Museum auihorities. When 
 Dr. A. B. Grossart collected Breton's Works a few years ago for his " Chertsey 
 Worthies Library." he was forced to confess that certain of Breton's most coveted 
 books were missing and absolutely unavailable. The semi-unique example under 
 notice was one of these. 
 
 CARMAN (BLISS) & RICHARD HOVEY. 
 
 Songs from Vagabondia. With Decorations by Tom 
 B. Meteyard. Fcap. 8vo. net. 
 
 Boston : Cope land & Day, 
 
 "The Authors of the small joint volume called ' Songs from Vagabondia,' have 
 an unmistakable right to the name of poet. These little snatches have the spirit of a 
 gipsy Omar Khayyam^ They have always careless verve, and often careless felicity ; 
 they are masculine and rough, as roving songs should be. . . . Here, certainly, 
 is the poet's soul. . . . You have the whole spirit of the book in such an unfor- 
 getable little lyric as ' In the House of Idiedaily.' . . We refer the reader to the 
 delightful little volume itself, which comes as a welcome interlude amidst the highly 
 wrought introspective poetry of the day. "—FRANCIS THOMPSON, in Merry England. 
 
 " Bliss Carman is the author of a delightful volume ol verse, ' Low Tide on 
 Grand Pre,' and Richard Hovey is the foiemost of the living poets of America, with 
 the exception, perhaps, of Bret Harte and Joaquim Miller, whose names are more 
 familiar. He sounds a deeper note than either of these, and deals with loftier 
 themes.'' — Dublin Express. 
 
 " Delightful, indeed, is such singing as this, and it must be a stubborn nature 
 that can refuse to yield to the charm of Marna. " — New York Sun. 
 
 "Plenty of spaikle, plenty of freshness, and a full measure of wholesome 
 vigour." — R. H. STODDARD, in New Turk Mail and Express. 
 
 CHAPMAN (ELIZABETH RACHEL). 
 
 A Little Child's Wreath : A Sonnet Sequence. With 
 title page and cover designed by Selwyn Image. 
 Second Edition. Sq. i6mo. . green buckram, y. 6d.net. 
 New York : Dodd, Mead &> Comptuiy. 
 
 "Contains many tender and pathetic passages, and some really exquisite and 
 subtle touches of childhood nature. . . . The average excellence of the sonnets 
 is undoubted." — Spectator. 
 
 " In these forty pages of poetry ... we have a contribution inspired by 
 grief for the loss of a child of seven, which is not unworthy to take its place even
 
 Vigo Street, London, W. 
 
 CHAPMAN (ELIZABETH RACHEL)— continued. 
 
 beside ' In Memoriam.' . . . Miss Chapman has ventured upon sacred ground, 
 but she has come off safely, with the inspiration of a divine sympathy in her soul, and 
 with lips touched with the live coal from the altar on which glows the flame of 
 immortal love " — W. T. STEAD, in The ReiUw of Reviews. 
 
 " Full of a very solemn and beautiful but never exaggerated sentiment.'' — 
 LOGROLLER, in Star. 
 
 " While they are brimming with tenderness and tears, they are marked with lha 
 skilled workmanship of the real poet." — Glasgow Herald. 
 
 " Evidently describes very real and intense sorrow. Its strains of tender sym- 
 pathy will appeal specially to those whose hearts have been wrung by the loss of a 
 young child, and the verses are touching in their simplicity " — Morning- Post. 
 
 " Re-assures us on its first page by its sanity and its simple tenderness." — Bookman. 
 
 COLERIDGE {HON. STEPHEN). 
 
 The Sanctity of Confession : A Romance. 2nd edi- 
 tion. Printed by Clowes & Son. 250 copies. Cr. 8vo. 
 3s. net. [ Very fetu remain. 
 
 " Mr. Stephen Coleridge's sixteenth-century romance is well and pleasantly 
 written. The style is throughout in keeping with the story ; and we should imagine 
 that tr.e historical probabilities are well observed." — Pall Mall Gaxette. 
 
 Mr. GLADSTONE writes;— "I have read the singularly well told story. . . . 
 It opens up questions both deep and dark ; it cannot be right to accept in religion 
 or anything else a secret which destroys the life of an innocent fellow creatine." 
 
 CORBIN (JOHN). 
 
 The Elizabethan Hamlet : A Study of the Sources, 
 and of Shakspere's Environment, to show that the Mad 
 Scenes had a Comic Aspect now Ignored. With a 
 Prefatory Note by F. York Powell, Professor of 
 Modern History at the University of Oxford. Small 
 4to. 2> s 6d- net - 
 New York : Charles Scribner's Sons. 
 "Mr. Elkin Mathews will this spring publish another addition to Shakespearean 
 literature under the title ' The Elizabethan ' Hamlet.' ' The author is Mr. John 
 Corbin, of Balliol College, Oxford, and the volume will have an introductory note by 
 Professor York Powell. The book is a study of the sources of ' Hamlet,' and of 
 Shakespeare's environment, with the object of showing that the mad scenes in the 
 play had a comic aspect now ignored. Mr. Corbin's general standpoint is that 
 Shakespeare naturally wrote the drama for Elizabethan audiences. They in their 
 time saw jest in what would seem to us only the severest tragedy. What he wishes 
 to get at is the comedy in 'Hamlet' according to the Elizabethan point of view." 
 
 CROSSING (WILLIAM). 
 
 Thf. Ancient Crosses of Dartmoor ; with a Descrip- 
 tion of their Surroundings. With 11 plates. 8vo. cloth. 
 4*. 6d. net. [Very few remain.
 
 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 
 
 DAV1ES {R. R.). 
 
 Some Account of the Old Church at Chelsea and 
 of its Monuments. [In preparation, 
 
 DE GRUCHT {AUGUSTA). 
 
 Under the Hawthorn, and Other Verses. With 
 Frontispiece by Walter Crane. Printed at the 
 Rugby Press. 300 copies. Cr. 8vo. $s. net. 
 Also 30 copies on Japanese vellum. 155. net. 
 
 " Melodious in metre, graceful in fancy, and not without spontaneity of inspira- 
 tion." — Times. 
 
 " Very tender and melodious is much of Mrs. De Gruchy's verse. Rare imaginative 
 power marks the dramatic monologue ' In the Prison VznVSpeaker. 
 
 " Distinguished by the attractive qualities of grace and rrfinement, and a purity 
 ef ttyle that is as refreshing as a limpid stream in the heat of a summer's noon. . . . 
 The charm of these poems lies in their naturalness, which is indeed an admirable 
 quality in song.'' — Saturday Review. 
 
 DESTREE {OLIVIER GEORGES). 
 
 Poemes sans Rimes. Imprime a Londres aux Presses de 
 Chiswick, d'apres les dessins de Herbert P. Horne. 
 25 copies for sale. Square cr. 8vo. 8s. 6d. net. 
 
 DIVERSI COLORES SERIES. 
 See Horne. 
 
 DOJVSON {ERNEST). 
 
 Dilemmas : Stories and Studies in Sentiment. (A Case of 
 Conscience. — The Diary of a Successful Man. — An 
 Orchestral Violin. — The Statute of Limitations. — 
 Souvenirs of an Egoist). Crown 8vo. 3^. 6d. net. 
 
 [In rapid preparation. 
 
 POEMS {Diversi Colores Series). With a title design by 
 H. P. Horne. Printed at the Chiswick Press, on 
 hand-made paper. i6mo. 55. net. [Shortly. 
 
 " Mr Dowson's contributions to the two series of the Rhymer's Book were 
 subtle and exquisite poems. He has a touch of Elizabethan distinction. . . . 
 Mr. Dowson's stories are very remarkable in quality." — Boston Literary World.
 
 Vigo Street, London, W. 
 
 FIELD {MICHAEL). 
 
 Sight and Song (Poems on Pictures). Printed by 
 Constables. 400 copies. 121110. $s. net. 
 
 [ Very few remain. 
 
 "This is a fascinating little volume; one that will give to many readers a 
 new interest in the examples of pictorial art with which it deals. Certainly, in the 
 delight in the beauty of the human form, and of the fair shows of earth, and sea, 
 and sky which it manifests, and in the harmonious verbal expression which this 
 delijht has found, the book is one of the most Keats-like things that has been 
 produced since Keats himself took his seat among the immortals.''— Academy. 
 
 "The verses have a s ber grace and harmony, and the truth and poetic delicacy 
 of the work is only realised on a close comparison wiih the picture itself. It is 
 soothing and pleasant to participate in such leisurely degustation and enjoyment, such 
 insistent penetration, for these poems are far removed from mere description, and the 
 renderings, though somewhat lacking in the sense of humour, show both courage and 
 poetical imagination.'' — fVeitminstcr Review. 
 
 Stephania : A Trialogue in Three Acts. Frontis- 
 piece, colophon, and ornament for binding designed 
 by Selwyn Image. Printed by Folkard & Son. 
 250 copies (200 for sale). Pott 4I0. 65. net. 
 
 [ Very few remain. 
 
 "We have true drama in 'Stephania.' .... Stephania, Otho, and 
 
 Sylvester II., the three persons of the play, are more than mere names 
 
 Besides great effort, commendable effort, there is real greatness in this play ; and the 
 blank verse is often sinewy and strong with thought and passion." — Speaker. 
 
 "'Stephania' is striking in design and powerful in execution. It is a highly 
 dramatic ' trialogue ' between the Emperor Otho III , his tutor Gerbert, and Stephania, 
 the widow of the murdered Roman Consul, Crescentius. The poem contains much 
 fine work, and is picturesque and of poetical accent. . . ." — IVestminiier Review. 
 
 A Question of Memory : A Play in Four Acts. 
 100 copies only. 8vo. $s. net. [Very few remain. 
 
 G ALTON {ARTHUR). 
 
 Essays upon Matthew Arnold {Diversi Co/ores Series). 
 Printed at the Chiswick Press on hand-made paper. 
 Cr. 8vo. 5j. net, \Shortly, 
 
 HAKE {DR. T. GORDON, " The Parable Poet.") 
 
 Madeline, and other Poems. Crown 8vo. $s. net. 
 Transferred to the present Publisher. 
 
 "The ministry of the angel Daphne to her erring human sister is frequently 
 related in strains of pure and elevated tenderness. Nor does the poet who can show 
 to much delicacy fail in strength. The description of Madeline as she passes in 
 trance to her vengeance is full of vivid pictures and charged with tragic feeling.
 
 8 The Publications of Ellcin Mathews 
 
 HAKE (DR. T. GORDON)— continued. 
 
 The individuality of the writer lies in his deep sympathy with whatever affects the 
 being and condition of man. . . . Taken as a whole, the book has high and 
 unusual claims." — Athtnaum. 
 
 "I have been reading 'Madeline' again. For sheer originality, both of conception 
 and of treatment, I consider that it stands alone." — Mr. Theodore Watts. 
 
 Parables and Tales. (Mother and Child. — The Crip- 
 ple.— The Blind Boy.— Old Morality.— Old Souls.— 
 The Lily of the Valley.— The Deadly Nightshade.— 
 The Poet). With 9 illustrations by Arthur Hughes. 
 Crown 8vo. ~$s. 6d. net. 
 
 Transferred to the present Publisher. 
 " The qualities of Dr. Gordon Hake's work were from the first fully admitted 
 and warmly praised by one of the greatest of contemporary poet?, who was also a 
 critic of exceptional acuteness — Rossetti. Indeed, the only two review articles which 
 Rossetti ever wrote were written on two of Dr. Hake's books: 'Madeline,' which he 
 reviewed in the Academy in 1871, and ' Parables and Tales,' which he reviewed in 
 the Fortnightly in 1873. Many eminent critics have expressed a decided preference 
 for ' Parables and Tales ' to Dr. Hake's other works, and it had the advantage of being 
 enriched with the admirable illustrations of Arthur Hughes." — Saturday Review, 
 January, 1895. 
 
 " The piece called ' Old Souls ' is probably secure of a distinct place in the liter- 
 ature of our day, and we believe the same may be predicted of other poems in the 
 little collection just issued. . . . Should Dr. Hake's more restricted, but lovely 
 and sincere contributions to the poetry of real life not find the immediate response 
 they deserve, he may at least remember that others also have failed 10 meet at once 
 with full justice and recognition. But we will hope for good encouragement to his 
 present and future work; and can at least ensure the lover of poetry that in these 
 simple pages he shall find not seldom a humanity limpid and pellucid — the well-spring 
 of a true heart, with which his tears must mingle as with their own element. 
 
 " Dr. Hake has been fortunate in the beautiful drawings which Mr. Arthur 
 Hughes has contributed to his little volume. No poet could have a more congenial 
 ycke-fellow than this gifted and imaginative artist."— D. G. ROSSETTI, in the 
 Fortnightly. 187J. 
 
 HALLAM {ARTHUR). 
 
 The Poems of Arthur Henry Hallam, together with 
 his Essay "On Some of the Characteristics of 
 Modern Poetry, and on the Lyrical Poems of 
 Alfred Tennyson," reprinted from the Englishman's 
 Magazine, 183 1, edited, with an introduction, by 
 Richard le Gallienne. 550 copies (500 for sale). 
 Small 8vo. $s. net. 
 Also 50 copies L.P., 125. 6d. net. 
 
 New York: Macmillan & Co. 
 Many of these Poems are of great Tennysonian interest, having 
 been addressed to Alfred, Charles, and Emily Tennyson.
 
 Vigo Street, London, W. 
 
 HAMILTON (COL. IAN). 
 
 The Ballad of Hadji, and Other Poems. With 
 etched frontispiece by William Strang. Printed 
 at the Chiswick Press. 550 copies. i2mo. 3^. net. 
 
 Transferred by the Author to the present Publisher. 
 
 " Here is a dainty volume of clear, sparkling verse. The thought is sparkling, 
 and the lines limpid and lightly flowing." — Scotsman. 
 
 "There are some pretty things in this little book." — Spectator. 
 
 " An unusual amount of genuine poetry is to be found in the Ballad of Hadji. 
 The opening piece is a really fine ballad with great power, and pathos so intense as 
 to be almost painful." — Graphic. 
 
 " Mr. Ian Hamilton's Ballad of Hadji is undeniably clever." — Pall Mall Gaxette. 
 
 "The ' Ballad of Hadji' is very good, and, were it only for that, the book is 
 well worth buying. It possesses, however, yet another strong attraction in the shape 
 of many fantastically beautiful head and tail pieces from the pen of Mr. J. B. Clark, 
 which are scattered throughout the volume with excellent decorative effect." — 
 Chronicle. 
 
 HARPER {CHARLES G.) 
 
 Revolted Woman : Past, Present, and to Come. 
 Printed by Strangeways. Illustrated with numerous 
 original drawings and facsimiles by the Author. 
 Crown 8vo. $s. net. 
 
 "Mr. Harper, like a modern John Knox, denounces the monstrous regiment of 
 women, making the ' New Woman ' the text of a discourse that bristles with historical 
 instances and present day portraits.'' — Saturday Review. 
 
 " The illustrations are distinctly clever." — Publishers' Circular. 
 
 HEMINGWAY (PERCY). 
 
 Out of Egypt : Stories from the Threshold of the East. 
 Cover design by Gleeson White. Crown 8vo. 
 35. 6d. net. 
 
 " This is a strong book.'' — Academy. 
 
 " This is a remarkable book. Egyptian life has seldom been portrayed from the 
 inside. . . . The author's knowledge of Arabic, his sympathy with the religion 
 of Islam, above all his entire freedom from Western preju lice, have enabled him to 
 learn more of what modern Egypt really is than the average Englishman could 
 possibly acquire in a lifetime at Cairo or Port Said."— African Review. 
 
 "A lively and picturesque style. . . . undoubted talent." — Manchester 
 Guardian. 
 
 " But seldom that the first production of an author is so mature and so finished in 
 style as this. . . . The sketches are veritable spoils of the Egyptians— gems of 
 prose in a setting of clear air, sharp outlines, and wondrous skies. — Morning Leader. 
 
 "This book places its author amongst those writers from whom lasting woik of 
 high aim is to be expected.' — The Star. 
 
 "The tale . . . is treated with daring directness. . . An impressive and 
 pathetic close to a story told throughout with arresting strength and simplicity." — 
 Daily News.
 
 10 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 
 
 HEMINGWAY {PERCY)- continued. 
 
 The Happy Wanderer (Poems). With title design by 
 Charles I. ffculkes. Printed at the Chiswick Press, 
 on hand-made paper. Sq. i6mo. $s. net. [Immediately. 
 
 HICKEY {EMILY H.). 
 
 Verse Tales, Lyrics and Translations. Printed at 
 the Arnold Press. 300 copies. Imp. i6mo. $s. net. 
 
 [ Very few remain. 
 'Miss Hickey's 'Verse Tales, Lyrics, and Translations' almost invariably 
 reach a high level of finish and completeness. The book is a string of little rounded 
 pearls. — jithentrum. 
 
 HINKSON {HENRY A.). 
 
 Dublin Verses. By Members of Trinity College. 
 Selected and Edited by H. A. Hinkson, late Scholar 
 of Trinity College, Dublin. Pott 4to. 5^. net. 
 
 Dublin: Hodges, Figgis & Co., Limited. 
 
 Includes contributions by the following : — Aubrey de Vere, 
 Sir Stephen de Vere, Oscar Wilde, J. K. Ingram, A. P. Graves, 
 J. Todhunter, W. E. H. Lecky, T. W. Rolleston, Edward 
 Dowden, G. A. Greene, Savage-Armstrong, Douglas Hyde, 
 R. Y. Tyrrell, G. N. Plunkett, W. Macknish Dixon, William 
 Wilkins, George Wilkins, and Edwin Hamilton. 
 
 HINKSON {KATHARINE). 
 
 Sloes on the Blackthorn : a Volume of Irish 
 Stories. Crown 8vo., 35. 6d. net. [In preparation. 
 
 Louise de la Valliere, and other Poems. Small 
 cr. 8vo. 35. bd. net. [Very few remain. 
 
 T?-ans/erred by the Author to the present Publisher. 
 " Sweet, pure, and high poetry." — Truth. 
 
 " Very seldom is it our good fortune to close a volume of poems with such an 
 almost ui. alloyed sense of pleasure and gratitude to the author.'' — Graf hie. 
 
 " HOBBY HORSE (THE)." 
 
 An Illustrated Art Miscellany. Edited by Herbert 
 P. Horne. The Fourth Number of the New Series 
 will shortly appear, after which Mr. Mathews will 
 publish all the numbers in a volume, price £1. is. net. 
 
 Boston : Copeland dr> Day.
 
 Vigo Street, London, W. n 
 
 HORNE (HERBERT P.) 
 
 Diversi Colores : Poems. Vignette, &c , designed by 
 the Author. Printed at the Chiswick Press. 250 
 copies. i6mo. $s. net. 
 
 Transferred by the Author to the present Publisher. 
 
 " In these few poems Mr. Home has set before a tasteless age, and an extravagant 
 age, examples of poetry which, without fear or hesitation, we consider to be of true 
 and pure beauty." — Anti-yacubin. 
 
 " With all his fondness for sixteenth century styles and themes, Mr Home is yet 
 sufficiently individual in his thought and manner. Much of his sei.timent is quite 
 latter-day in tone and rendering ; he is a child of his time." — Globe. 
 
 " Mr. Home's work is almost always carefully felicitous and may be compared 
 with beautiful filagree work in verse. He is fully, perhaps too fully, conscious of the 
 value of restraint, and is certainly in need of no more culture in the handling of verse 
 — of such verse as alone he cares to work in. He has already the merits of a finished 
 artist— or, at all events, ol an artist who is capable of the utmost finish.'' — Pall 
 Mall Gaxette. 
 
 The Series of Books begun in "Diversi Colores" by 
 Mr. Herbert P. Horne, will continue to be pub- 
 lished by Mr. Elkin Mathews. 
 
 The intention of the series is to give, in a collected and 
 sometimes revised form, Poems and Essays by various 
 writers, whose names have hitherto been chiefly asso- 
 ciated with the Hobby Horse. The series will be edited 
 by Mr. Herbert P. Horne, and will contain : 
 
 No. II. Poems and Carols. By Selwyn Image. 
 
 [7 ust published. 
 No. III. Essays upon Matthew Arnold. By Ar- 
 thur Galton. 
 
 No. IV. Poems. By Ernest Dow son. 
 
 No. V. The Letters and Papers of Adam Le- 
 gendre. 
 
 Each volume will contain a new title-page and ornaments 
 designed by the Editor ; and the volumes of verse will be 
 uniform with "Diversi Colores." 
 
 HORTON (ALICE). 
 
 Poems. [Shortly. 
 
 HUEFFER (OLIVER F. MADOX). 
 
 Sonnets and Poems. With a frontispiece. {Shortly.
 
 12 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 
 
 HUGHES (ARTHUR). 
 See Hake. 
 
 HUNT (LEIGH). 
 
 A Volume of Essays now collected for the first time. 
 Edited with a critical Introduction by Johnson 
 Montagu. \In the press. 
 
 IMAGE (SELWYN). 
 
 Poems and Carols. (Diversi Colores Series. — New 
 Volume). Title design by H. P. Horne. Printed 
 on hand-made paper at the Chiswick Press. i6mo. 
 5-r. net. [Just ready. 
 
 " Among the artists who have turned poets will shortly have to be reckoned Mr. 
 Selwyn Image. A volume of poems from his pen will be published by Mr. Elkin 
 Mathews before long. Those who are acquainted with Mr. Selwyn Image's work 
 will expect to find a real and deep poetic charm in this book." — Daily Chronicle. 
 
 " No one else could have done it (i.e., written ' Poems and Carols ') in just this 
 way, and the artist himself could have done it in no other way.'' "A remarkable 
 impress of personality, and ihis personality of singular rarity and interest. Every 
 piece is perlectly composed ; the ' mental cartooning,' to use Rossetti's phrase, has 
 been adequately done . . . an air of grave and homely order . . . a union of 
 quaint and subtly simple homeliness, with a somewhat abstract severity. ... It 
 is a new thing, the revelation of a new poet. . . . Here is a book which may be 
 trusted to outlive most contemporary literature."— Saturday Review. 
 
 " An intensely personal expression of a personality of singular charm, gravity, 
 fancifiilness, and interest ; work which is alone among contemporary verse alike in 
 regard to substance and to form . . . comes with more true novelty than any 
 book of verse published in England for some years." — Athenaum. 
 
 " Some men seem to avoid fame as sedulously as the majority srek it. Mr. Selwyn 
 Image is one of these. He has achieved a charming fame by his very shyness and 
 mystery. His very name has a look or having been designed by the Century Guild, 
 and it was certainly first published in The Century Guild Hubby Horse.'''' — The Realm. 
 
 "In the tiny little volume of verse, 'Poems and Carols,' by Selwyn Image, 
 we discern a note of spontaneous inspiration, a delicate and graceiul fancy, and 
 considerable, but unequal, skill of versification. The Carols are skilful reproductions 
 of that rather archaic form of composition, devotional in tone and felicitous in 
 sentiment. Love and nature are the principal themes of the Poems. It is difficult 
 not to be hackneyed in the treatment of such themes, but Mr. Image successfully 
 overcomes the difficulty." — The limes. 
 
 " The Catholic movement in literature, a strong reality to-day in England as in 
 France, if working within narrow limits, has its newest interpretation in Mr. Selwyn 
 Image's 'Poems and Carols.' Of course the book is chamiing to look at and to 
 handle, since it is his. The Chiswick Press and Mr. Mathews have helped him to 
 realize his design." — The Sketch. 
 
 1SHAM FACSIMILE REPRINTS- Nos. III. and W. 
 See Breton and Southwell. 
 %* New Elizabethan Literature at the British Museum, see 
 The Times, 31 August, 1894, also Notes and Que) ies, Sept., 1894.
 
 Vigo Street, London, W. 13 
 
 JACOB I (C. T.). 
 
 On the Making and Issuing of Books. With Nu- 
 merous Ornaments. Fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net. [All sold. 
 
 Some Notes on Books and Printing : a Guide for 
 Authors and Others. 8vo. $s. net. 
 
 [By the Author of The Art of Thomas Hardy\. 
 JOHNSON (LIONEL). 
 
 Poems. With a title design and colophon by H. P. Horne. 
 Printed at the Chiswick Press, on hand-made paper. 
 Sq. post Svo. $s. net. 
 
 Also, 25 special copies at 155. net. 
 
 Boston : Copeland and Day. 
 
 " Mr. Elkin Mathews announces some books of interest. One is a volume of 
 poems by Mr. Lionel Johnson, who has the making of a great critic. One can 
 always pick out his reviews in a London daily by theii sanity, clear sight, and high- 
 mindedness, as well as by the learning which unobtrusively runs like a golden thread 
 through them. His poems have the same lofty quality, and stand out in a time when 
 the minor muse amongst us is sick and morbid." — Boston Literary World. 
 
 JOHNSON (EFFIE). 
 
 In the Fire, and other Fancies. With frontispiece 
 by Walter Crane. Imperial i6mo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 LAMB (CHARLES). 
 
 Beauty and the Beast. With an Introduction by 
 Andrew Lang. 8 beautiful line engravings after the 
 original plates. Royal i6mo. 3^. 6d. net. 
 
 Transferred to the present Publisher. 
 
 LANG {ANDREW). 
 See Lamb. 
 
 LETTERS TO LIVING ARTISTS. 
 Fcap. 8vo. 35. 6d. net. 
 
 LYNCH (ARTHUR). 
 
 Religio Athlete. [In preparation.
 
 14 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 
 
 M ARSON (REV. C. L.). 
 
 A Volume of Short Stories. [In preparation. 
 
 MARSrON {PHILIP BOURKE). 
 
 A Last Harvest : Lyrics and Sonnets from the 
 Book of Love. Edited, with Biographical Sketch, 
 by Louise Chandler Moulton. 500 copies. Printed 
 by Miller & Son. Post 8vo. $s. net. 
 
 [ Very few remain. 
 
 Also 50 copies on hand-made L.P. ioj. 6d. net. 
 
 [ Very few remain. 
 
 "Among the sonnets with which the volume concludes, there are some fine 
 examples of a form of verse in which all competent authorities allow that Marston 
 excelled 'The Bieadih and Beauty of the Spacious Night,' 'To All in Haven,' 
 'Friendship and Love,' 'Love's Deserted Palace'— these, to mention no others, 
 have the ' high seriousness ' which Matthew Arnold made the test of true poetry." — 
 Athenaum. 
 
 " Mrs. Chandler Moulton's biography is a beautiful piece of writing, and her 
 estimate of his work— a high estimate— is also a just one."— Black and White. 
 
 MASON {A. E. W.). 
 
 Cross Purposes: a Tale. [Shortly. 
 
 MUSA CATHOLICA. 
 
 Selected and Edited by Mrs. William Sharp. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 
 MURRAY {ALMA). 
 
 Portrait as Beatrice Cenci. With Critical Notice 
 containing Four Letters from Robert Browning. 
 8vo. 2s. net. 
 
 NOEL {HON. RODEN). 
 
 Poor People's Christmas. Printed at the Aylesbury 
 Press. 250 copies. i6mo. 15. net. 
 
 [ Very few remain. 
 
 "Displays the author at his best Mr. Noel always has something 
 
 to say worth saying, and his technique— though like Browning, he is too intent upon 
 idea to bestow all due care upon form— is generally sufficient and sometimes 
 masterly. We hear too seldom from a poet of such deep and kindly sympathy." — 
 Sunday Times. 
 
 0' SULLIVAN (VINCENT). 
 
 Poems. [In preparation.
 
 Vigo Street, London, W. 15 
 
 PINKERTON {PERCY). 
 
 Galeazzo : a Venetian Episode, and other Poems. With 
 an Etched Frontispiece. l6mo. 55. net. 
 
 [ Very few remain. 
 Transferred by the Author to the present Publisher. 
 
 "This little book has individuality, the mark of a true poet, of a finely-gifted 
 nature." — MR. JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS, in the Academy. 
 
 "It is but a pamphlet stitched in a white cover. Moreover, the book is almost 
 wholly concerned with Venice. This seems poor matter for poems ; and yet there is 
 great charm and skill ill Mr. Pinkerton's landscapes in rhyme. They are the most 
 pleasant metrical impressions from nature one has seen for a long time." — Mr. 
 ANDREW LANG, in Longman's Magaxine. 
 
 POWELL (F. YORK). 
 See Corbin. 
 
 PROBYN (MAY). 
 
 Pansies : a Book of Poems. With a title-page and cover 
 design by Minnie Mathews. Fcap. 8vo. 35. 6d. net. 
 
 " De ?non jardin, voyageur, 
 Vous me demandex une fieur? 
 Cueillex toujour; — mats je rCaiy 
 Voyageur, que des pensees." 
 
 "Miss Probyn's earlier volumes 'Poems,' and 'A Ballad of the Road,' were 
 published in 1881 and 1885. They attracted considerable attention, but have been 
 long out of print. Miss Probyn did not follow them up with other volumes, and 
 except in magazines and authologies, she has been silent for the last ten years. In 
 a review of ' Poems ' the Saturday Review said it displayed "much brightness oi 
 fancy, united with excellent metrical science;" and The Scotsman pronounced it to be 
 "full of dainty charm, tender pathos, and true poetic quality." Miss Probyn is a 
 convert to Catholicism, and her new book will contain some fervent religious poetry, 
 often tinged with mediaeval mannerism. Her carols might have been written by 
 some very devout and simple monk of the middle ages. 
 
 RHYMERS' CLUB, THE SECOND BOOK OF THE. 
 
 Contributions by E. Dowson, E. J. Ellis, G. A. Greene, 
 A. Hillier, Lionel Johnson, Richard le Gal- 
 lienne, Victor Plarr, E. Radford, E. Rhys, 
 
 T. W. ROLLESTONE, ARTHUR SYMONS, J. TOD- 
 
 hunter, W. B. Yeats. Printed by Miller & Sun. 
 
 500 copies (of which 400 are for sale). 161110. $s. net. 
 
 50 copies on hand-made L. P. 105. 6d. net. 
 
 New York : Dodd, Mead 6° Co. 
 
 "The work of twelve very competent verse writers, many of them not unknown 
 
 to fame. This form of publication is not a new departure exactly, but it is a recur-^ 
 
 rence to the excellent fashion of the Elizabethan age, when 'England's Helicon,'
 
 16 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 
 
 RHrMERS' CLUB, SECOND BOOK OF THE— continued. 
 
 Davison's ' Poetical Rhapsody,' and 'Phcenix Nest,' with scores of other collections, 
 contained the best songs of the best song-writers of that tuneful epoch." — Black and 
 White. 
 
 "The future of these thirteen writers, who have thus banded themselves 
 together, will be witehed with interest. Already there is fulfilment in their work, 
 and there is much promise." -Speaker. 
 
 " In the intervals of Welsh rarebit and stout provided for them at the ' Cheshire 
 Cheese,' in Fleet Street, the members of the Rhymers' Club have produced some very 
 pretty poems, which Mr. Elkin Mathews has issued in his notoriously dainty 
 manner."— Pall Mall Gaxette. 
 
 ROTHENSTEIN {WILL). 
 
 Occasional Portraits. With comments on the Per- 
 sonages by various writers. [In preparation. 
 
 SCHAFF (DR. P.). 
 
 Literature and Poetry : Papers on Dante, Latin 
 Hymns, &c. Portrait and Plates, ioo copies only. 
 8vo. ios.net. [Very few remain. 
 
 SCULL (IV. D.). 
 
 The Garden of the Matchboxes, and other Stories. 
 Crown 8vo. y. 6J. net. [In preparation. 
 
 STRANGE (E. F.) 
 
 A Book of Thoughts. [In preparation. 
 
 [Isham Facsimile Reprint]. 
 S[OUTWVELL] (R[OBERT]). 
 
 A Fovrefovld Meditation, of the foure last 
 things. Composed in a Diuine Poeme. By R. S. 
 The author of S. Peter's complaint. London, 1606. 
 A Facsimile Reprint, with a Bibliographical Note by 
 Charles Edmonds. 150 copies. Printed on hand- 
 made paper at the Chiswick Press. Roy. i6mo. 
 net. 
 
 Also 50 copies, large paper. net. 
 
 Facsimile reprint from the unique fragment discovered in the autumn of 1867 by 
 Mr. Charles Edmonds in a disused lumber room at Lamport Hall, Northants, and 
 lately purchased by the British Museum authorities. This fragment supplies the first 
 sheet of a previously unknown poem by Robert Southwell, the Roman Catholic poet, 
 whose religious fervour lends a pathetic beauty to everything that he wrote, and 
 future editors of Southwell's works will find it necessary to give it close study. The 
 whole of the Poem has been completed from two MS. copies, which differ in the 
 number of Stanzas.
 
 Vigo Street, London, W. 17 
 
 SYMONDS (JOHN ADDINGTON). 
 
 In the Key of Blue, and other Prose Essays. 
 With cover designed by C. S. Ricketts. Printed at 
 the Ballantyne Press. Second Edition. Thick 
 cr. 8vo. 8s. 6d. net. 
 
 Nezv York: Macmillan &> Co. 
 
 "The variety of Mr. Symonds' interests! Here are criticisms upon the Venetian 
 Tiepolo, upon M. Zola, upon Medieval Norman Songs, upon Elizabethan lyrics, 
 upon Plato's and Dante s ideals of love; and not a sign anywhere, except may be in 
 the last, that he has more concern for, or knowledge of, one theme than another. 
 Add to these artistic themes the delighted records of English or Italian scenes, with 
 their rich beauties of nature or of art, and the human passions that inform them. 
 How joyous a sense of gieat possessions won at no man's hurt or loss must such a 
 man reiain." — Daily Chronicle. 
 
 "Some of the essays are very charming, in Mr. Symonds best style, but the 
 first one, that which gives its name to the volume, is at least the most curious of tne 
 lot." — Speaker. 
 
 "The other essays are the work of a sound and sensible critic." — National 
 Observer. 
 
 " The literary essays are more restrained, and the prepared student will find them 
 full of illumination and charm, while the descriptive papers have the attractiveness 
 which Mr. Symonds alwavs gives to work in this genre." — MR. JAS. ASHCROFT 
 NOBLE, in The Literary World. 
 
 TENNYSON (LORD). 
 
 See Hallam, — Van Dyke. 
 
 rODHUNTER (DR. JOHN). 
 
 A Sicilian Idyll. With a Frontispiece by Walter 
 Crane. Printed at the Chiswick Press. 250 copies. 
 Imp. i6mo. 5s.net. 50 copies hand-made L. P. Fcap. 
 4to. 10s. 6d. net. [ Very/eiv remain. 
 
 " He combines his notes skilfully, and puts his own voice, so to speak, into 
 them, and the music that results is sweet and of a pastoral tunefulness." — Speaker. 
 
 " The blank verse is the true verse of pastoral, quiet and scholarly, with frequent 
 touches of beauty. The echoes of Theocritus and of the classics at large are modest 
 and felicitous." — Anti-Jacobin. 
 
 "A charming little pastoral play in one act. The verse is singularly graceful, 
 and many bright gems of wit sparkle in the dialogues." — Literary World. 
 
 " Well worthy of admiration for its grace and delicate finish, its clearness, and 
 its compactness." — Athensum. 
 
 Also the following works by the same Author transferred 
 to the present Publisher, viz. : — Laurella, and other 
 Poems, 55. net. — Alcestis, a Dramatic Poem, 45. net. 
 — A Study of Shelley, $s. 6d. net. — Forest Songs, 
 and other Poems, 35. net. — The Banshee, p. net. — 
 Helena in Troas, 2s. 6d. net.
 
 1 8 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 
 
 TYNAN {KATHARINE). 
 See Hinkson. 
 
 VAN DYKE (HENRY). 
 
 The Poetry of Tennyson. Third Edition, enlarged. 
 Cr. 8vo. 5-T. 6<d. net. 
 
 The additions consist of a Portrait, Two Chapters, and the 
 Bibliography expanded. The Laureate himself gave valuable 
 aid in correcting various details. 
 
 "Mr. Elkin Mathews publishes a new edition, revised and enlarged, of that 
 excellent woik, 'The Poetry of Tennyson,' by Henry Van Dyke. The additions 
 are considerable. It is extremeiy interesting to go over the bibliographical notes 
 to see the contemptuous or, at best, contemptuously patronising tone of the reviewers 
 in the early thirties gradually turning to civility, to a loud chorus of applause.'' — 
 Anti-yaabin. 
 
 " Considered as an aid to the study of the Laureate, this labour of love merits 
 warm commendation. Its grouping of the poems, its bibliograpny and chronology, 
 its cata ogue of Biblical allusion and quotations, are each and all substantial accessories 
 to the knowledge of the autnor." — DR. RICHARD GARNETT, in the Illustrated 
 London News. 
 
 WATSON (E. H. LACON). 
 
 The Unconscious Humourist, and other Essays. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 
 {_Mr. Wedmore 's Short Stories. New and Uniform Issue. 
 Crown %vo., each Volume 35. 6d. netJ\ 
 
 WEDMORE (FREDERICK). 
 
 Pastorals of France. Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. 
 35. 6d. net. {Ready. 
 
 New York : Charles Scribner's Sous. 
 
 " A writer in whom delicacy of literary touch is united with an almost disem- 
 bodied fineness of sentiment." — Atlienaum. 
 
 "Of singular quaintness and beauty.' — Contemporary Review. 
 
 "The stories are exquisitely told." — The World. 
 
 " Delicious idylls, written with Mr. Wedmore's fascinating command of 
 sympathetic incident, and with his characteristic charm of style."— Illustrattd London 
 News. 
 
 "The publication of the 'Pastorals' may be said to have revealed, not only anew 
 talent, but a new literary ^enre. . . Thecharmoi the writing never fails." — Bookman 
 
 " In their simplicity, their tenderness, their quietude, their truthfulness to the 
 remote life that they depict, 'Pastorals of France ' are almost perfect."— Spectator.
 
 Vigo Street, London, W. 19 
 
 WEDMORE {FREDERICK}— continued. 
 
 Renunciations. Third Edition. With a Portrait by 
 J. J. Shannon. Cr. 8vo. 3^. 6d. net. [Ready. 
 
 New Yo7'k : Charles Scribner's Sons. 
 
 "These are clever studies in polite realism. ' — Athenaeum. 
 
 "They are quite unusual. The picture of Richard Pelse, with his one moment 
 of romance, is exquisite." — St. James's Gazette. 
 
 '"The Chemist in the Suburbs,' in ' Renunciations,' is a pure joy. . . . The 
 story of Richard Pelse's life is told with a power not unworthy of the now disabled 
 hand that drew for us the lonely old age of M. Parent." — MR. TRAILL, in The 
 New Review. 
 
 "The book belongs to the highest order of imaginative work. ' Renunciations 
 are studies from the life — pictures which make plain to us some of the innermost 
 workings of the heart." — Academy. 
 
 " Mr. Wedmorc has gamed for himself an enviable reputation. His style has 
 distinction, has form. He has the poet's secret how to bring out the beauty of 
 common things. . . ' The Chemist in the Suburbs,' in ' Renunciations,' is his 
 masterpiece." — Saturday Review. 
 
 " We congratulate Mr. Wedmore on his vivid, wholesome, and artistic work, so 
 full of suppressed feeling and of quiet strength." — Standard. 
 
 English Episodes. Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 3^. 6d. 
 net. [Ready. 
 
 New York: Charles Scribner's Sons.' 
 
 " Distinction is the characteristic of Mr. Wedmore's manner. These thing3 
 remain on the mind as things seen ; not read of." — Daily News. 
 
 " A penetrating insight, a fine pathos. Mr. Wedmore is a peculiarly fine and 
 sane and carefully deliberate artist." — Westminster Gazette. 
 
 "In 'English Episodes' we have another proof of Mr. Wedmore's unique 
 position among the writers of fiction of the day. We hardly think of his short 
 volumes as ' stories,' but rather as life-secrets and hearts' blood, crystalised somehow, 
 and, in their jewel-form, cut with exceeding skill by the hand of a master-workman.' 
 . . The faultless episode of the 'Vicar of Pimlico ' is the best in loftiness of 
 purpose and keeness of interest ; but the ' Fitting Obsequies ' is its equal on different 
 lines, and deserves to be a classic." — World. 
 
 '"English Episodes ' are worthy successors of ' Pastorals ' and ' Renunciations,' 
 and with them should represent a permanent addition to Literature." — Academy. 
 
 There may also be had the Collected Edition (i8gj) of ' ' Pastorals 
 of France" and ii Renunciations" with Title-page by 
 John Full ey love, R.I. $s. net. 
 
 WICKSTEED {P. H., Warden of University Halt). 
 
 Dante : Six Sermons. 
 
 %* A Fourth Edition. (Unaltered Reprint). Cr. 8vo. 
 
 is. net. 
 " It is impossible not to be struck wtth the reality and earnestness with which 
 Mr. Wickstecd seeks to do justice to what are the supreme elements of the Commedia, 
 its spiritual significance, and the depth and insight of its moral teaching." — Guardian.
 
 20 The Publications of Ellcin Mathews 
 
 WYNNE (FRANCES). 
 
 Whisper ! A Volume of Verse. Fcap. 8vo. buckram. 
 2s. 6d. net. 
 
 Trans/erred by the Author to the present Publisher. 
 
 "A little volume of singularly sweet and graceful poems, hardly one of which 
 can be read by any lover of poetry without definite pleasure, and everyone who reads 
 either of them without is, we venture to say, unable to appreciate that play of light 
 and shadow on the heart of man which is of the very essence of poetry." — Spectator. 
 
 " The book includes, to my humble taste, many very charming pieces, musical, 
 simple, straightforward and not 'as sad as night.' It is long since I have read a more 
 agreeable volume of verse, successful up to the measure of its aims and ambitions." — 
 Mk. ANDREW LANG, in Longman's Magaxine. 
 
 TEATS (IV. B.). 
 
 The Shadowy Waters. A Poetic Play. [/« preparation. 
 
 The Wind among the Reeds (Poems). [Tn preparation. 
 
 Mr. Elkin Mathews holds likewise the only copies of the 
 
 following Books printed at the Private Press of the Rev. 
 
 C. Henry Daniel, Fellow of Worcester College, Oxford. 
 
 BRIDGES (ROBERT). 
 
 The Growth of Love. Printed in Fell's old English 
 type, on Whatman paper. 100 copies. Fcap. 4to. 
 £2. I2s.6d.net. [Very few remain. 
 
 Shorter Poems. Printed in Fell's old English type, on 
 Whatman paper. 100 copies. Five Parts Fcap. 4to. 
 £2. 12s. 6d. net. [Veryfav remain. 
 
 HYMN I ECCLESIJE CVRA HENRICI DANIEL. 
 Small 8vo. (1882), £u i$s. net. 
 
 BLAKE HIS SONGS OF INNOCENCE 
 Sq. i6mo. 100 copies only. 12s. 6d. net. 
 
 MILTON ODE ON THE NATIVITY. 
 Sq. i6mo. 105. 6d. net. 
 
 LONDON VIGO STREET, W.
 
 THE UBRART^^- 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIPOKNW
 
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 305 De Neve Drive - Parking Lot 17 . Box 95138a 
 
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