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Ever sleeping with his teeth below the wave;
Woe to him who breaks the sleep!
Woe to them who sail the deep!
Hither many a galleon old,
Heavy-keeled with guilty gold,
But the sleeper silent lay
Till the preyer and his prey
Be content, О conqueror!
Now our bravest ship of war,
All her storied prowess past,
Strikes her glorious flag at last
They chained her fair young body to the cold and cruel stone; The beast begot of sea and slime had marked her for his own; The callous world beheld the wrong, and left her there alone. Base caitiffs who belied her, false kinsmen who denied her,
Ye left her there alone!
My Beautiful, they left thee in thy peril and thy pain;
Across the western main : 0 Ireland! O my country! he comes to break thy chain!
THE SKELETON AT THE FEAST.
We summoned not the Silent Guest,
And no man spake his name;
The Uninvited came.
Wise were they in the days of old,
Who gave the Stranger place;
They looked him in the face.
God save us from the skeleton
Who sittest at the feast! God rest the manly spirit gone, Who sat beside the Silent One,
And dreaded him the least!
Shall we, the storm-tossed sailors, weep
For those who may not sail again;
Our pity for the living men?
Beyond the weary waste of sea,
Beyond the wider waste of death,
Whose still heart never answereth.
O brother, is thy coral bed
So sweet thou wilt not hear my speech?
To thy dear hand would strive to reach.
I would not, if God gave us choice
For each to bear the other's part,
And thine the silent, aching heart.
Ah, well for any voyage done,
Whate'er its end—or port or reef;
For all ships sail the sea of Grief.
From the madding crowd they stand apart,-
Long they worshiped; but no one broke
The Western one from the nameless place, Who blushing said, “What a lovely Vase!"
Over three faces a sad smile flew,
But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred
Deftly hiding reproof in praise,
But brief her unworthy triumph when
With the consciousness of two grandpapas,
And glances round with an anxious thrill,
But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee,
“I did not catch your remark, because I was so entranced with that charming Vaws!”
Dies erit prægelida
Sinistra quum Bostonia. 1 It will be a very cold day when Boston gets left.
THOMAS W. HAZEN ROLLESTON.
(1857 –) THOMAS W. H. ROLLESTON was born in 1857 near Shinrone, King's County, the youngest son of Charles Rolleston Spunner, Q. C., County Judge of Tipperary. He was educated at St. Columba's College, Rathfarnham, and at Trinity College, Dublin, where he won the Vice-Chancellor's prize for English verse, and was graduated in 1878. He has lived much in Europe, chiefly in Dresden. He has translated Walt Whitman into German and is a critic of great refinement. He has written 'The Teaching of Epictetus' and a ‘Life of Lessing '; has contributed poems to The Academy, The Speaker, and other reviews, and is represented in every modern Irish anthology. Two small volumes of his poems have been issued by The Rhymers' Club. He was first Honorary Secretary of the London Irish Literary Society, and is a Vice-President of the National Literary Society of Dublin. He has edited The Prose Writings of Thomas Davis,'«Selections from Plato,' and Ellen O'Leary's poems.
ON THE COLLOQUY OF THE ANCIENTS.'
From a Lecture on · Imagination and Art in Gaelic Literature.'
Imaginative literature has two themes to deal withMankind and Nature. I do not speak in this connection of purely religious literature, embodying a definite creed, which has a place apart and laws and conditions of its own. But, of course, a literature dealing with mankind must be judged among other things, by the nature of the spiritual laws, if any, which it recognizes as living forces in human society, and to that extent it looks out upon the divine as well as upon the human world.
Now we have in the works I have mentioned a very rich and interesting collection both of the nature poetry of the Gael and of that which deals with humanity. As regards the former-nature poetry—the principal work translated in “Silva Gadelica '—the long prose piece known as the Colloquy of the Ancients'-must have been quite a revelation to many readers. This work is one of the Ossianic cycle of Irish prose romances, but it is rather a collection of tales than an individual work of literary art, and thus illustrates what the explorer will so often meet with-the inability of the Celtic writer to give form and