Sixteen Poems | Page 6

better than a cheat,
And never
come, or fly when wintry days appear.'

Yet from a twig,
With voice so big,
The little fowl his utterance did repeat.
Then I, 'The man forlorn
Hears Earth send up a foolish noise aloft.'

'And what'll he do? What'll he do?' scoff'd
The Blackbird, standing, in
an ancient thorn,
Then spread his sooty wings and flitted to the croft
With cackling laugh;
Whom I, being half
Enraged, called after, giving back his
scorn.

Worse mock'd the Thrush, 'Die! die!
Oh, could he do it? could he do it? Nay!
Be quick! be quick! Here,
here, here!' (went his lay.)
'Take heed! take heed!' then 'Why? why?
why? why? why?
See-ee now! see-ee now!' (he drawl'd) 'Back! back!
back! R-r-r-run away!'
O Thrush, be still!
Or at thy will,
Seek some less sad interpreter than I.

'Air, air! blue air and white!
Whither I flee, whither, O whither, O whither I flee!'
(Thus the Lark
hurried, mounting from the lea)
'Hills, countries, many waters
glittering bright,
Whither I see, whither I see! deeper, deeper, deeper,
whither I see, see, see!'
'Gay Lark,' I said,
'The song that's bred
In happy nest may well to heaven make
flight.'

'There's something, something sad,
I half remember'--piped a broken strain.
Well sung, sweet Robin!
Robin sung again.
'Spring's opening cheerily, cheerily! be we glad!'

Which moved, I wist not why, me melancholy mad,
Till now, grown meek,

With wetted cheek,
Most comforting and gentle thoughts I had.
THE ABBOT OF INNISFALLEN
The Abbot of Innisfallen
awoke ere dawn of day;
Under the dewy
green leaves
went he forth to pray.
The lake around his island
lay
smooth and dark and deep,
And wrapt in a misty stillness
the
mountains were all asleep.
Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac
when
the dawn was dim and gray;
The prayers of his holy office
he
faithfully 'gan say.
Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac
while the dawn
was waxing red;
And for his sins' forgiveness
a solemn prayer he
said:
Low kneel'd that holy Abbot
while the dawn was waxing clear;

And he pray'd with loving-kindness
for his convent-brethren dear.

Low kneel'd that blessed Abbot
while the dawn was waxing bright;

He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland,
he pray'd with all his might.

Low kneel'd that good old Father
while the sun began to dart;
He
pray'd a prayer for all men,
he pray'd it from his heart.
His blissful
soul was in Heaven,
tho' a breathing man was he;
He was out of
time's dominion,
so far as the living may be.
The Abbot of Innisfallen
arose upon his feet;
He heard a small bird
singing,
and O but it sung sweet!
It sung upon a holly-bush,
this
little snow-white bird;
A song so full of gladness
he never before
had heard.

It sung upon a hazel,
it sung upon a thorn;
He had
never heard such music
since the hour that he was born.
It sung
upon a sycamore,
it sung upon a briar;
To follow the song and
hearken
this Abbot could never tire.
Till at last he well bethought
him;
he might no longer stay;
So he bless'd the little white
singing-bird,
and gladly went his way.
But, when he came to his Abbey,
he found a wondrous change;
He
saw no friendly faces there,
for every face was strange.
The strange
men spoke unto him;
and he heard from all and each
The foreign
tongue of the Sassenach,
not wholesome Irish speech.
Then the

oldest