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A cabin on the mountain-side hid in a grassy nook,

With door and window open wide, where friendly stars may look,

The rabbit shy can patter in, the winds may enter free-
Who throng around the mountain throne in living ecstasy.

And when the sun sets dimmed in eve, and purple fills the air,
I think the sacred hazel-tree is dropping berries there,
From starry fruitage waved aloft where Connla's well o'er-

For, sure, the immortal waters run through every wind that blows.

I think, when night towers up aloft and shakes the trembling dew,

How every high and lonely thought that thrills my spirit


Is but a shining berry dropped down through the purple air, And from the magic tree of life the fruit falls everywhere.


I said my pleasure shall not move;
It is not fixed in things apart;
Seeking not love-but yet to love-
I put my trust in mine own heart.

I knew the fountain of the deep

Wells up with living joy, unfed;
Such joys the lonely heart may keep,
And love grow rich with love unwed.

Still flows the ancient fount sublime

But oh! For my heart, shed tears, shed tears! Not it, but love, has scorn of time—

It turns to dust beneath the years.

1 "Sinend, daughter of Lodan Lucharglan, son of Ler, out of the Land of Promise, went to Connla's Well, which is under sea, to behold it. That is a well at which are the hazels of wisdom and inspirations, that is, the hazels of the science of poetry, and in the same hour their fruit and their blossom and their foliage break forth, and then fall upon the well in the same shower, which raises upon the water a royal surge of purple."-The Voagey of Bran.


It was the fairy of the place,
Moving within a little light,

Who touched with dim and shadowy grace
The conflict at its fever height.

It seemed to whisper "Quietness,"
Then quietly itself was gone:
Yet echoes of its mute caress

Were with me as the years went on.

It was the warrior within

Who called: "Awake! prepare for fight! Yet lose not memory in the din;

Make of thy gentleness thy might;

"Make of thy silence words to shake
The long enthronéd kings of earth:
Make of thy will the force to break
Their towers of wantonness and mirth."

It was the wise all-seeing soul

Who counseled neither war nor peace: "Only be thou thyself that goal

In which the wars of Time shall cease."


As flow the rivers to the sea

Adown from rocky hill or plain, A thousand ages toiled for thee

And gave thee harvest of their grain;

And weary myriads of yore

Dug out for thee earth's buried lore.

The shadowy toilers for thee fought,
In chaos of primeval day,

Blind battles with they knew not what;
And each before he passed away
Gave clear articulate cries of woe:
Your pain is theirs of long ago.

And all the old heart-sweetness sung,
The joyous life of man and maid
In forests when the earth was young,
In rumors round your childhood strayed:
The careless sweetness of your mind
Comes from the buried years behind.

And not alone unto your birth

Their gifts the weeping ages bore, The old descents of God on earth

Have dowered thee with celestial lore: So, wise, and filled with sad and gay, You pass into the further day.


In the wet dusk silver sweet,
Down the violet-scented ways,

As I moved with quiet feet

I was met by mighty days.

On the hedge the hanging dew

Glassed the eve and stars and skies;
While I gazed a madness grew
Into thundered battle-cries.

Where the hawthorn glimmered white
Flashed the spear and fell the stroke-

Ah, what faces pale and bright
Where the dazzling battle broke!

There a hero-hearted queen

With young beauty lit the van:
Gone! the darkness flowed between
All the ancient wars of man.

While I paced the valley's gloom,
Where the rabbits pattered near,

Shone a temple and a tomb

With the legend carven clear:

"Time put by a myriad fates

That her day might dawn in glory;

Death made wide a million gates

So to close her tragic story."


When the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies,
All its vaporous sapphire, violet glow and silver gleam,
With their magic flood me through the gateway of the eyes;
I am one with the twilight's dream.

When the trees and skies and fields are one in dusky mood,
Every heart of man is rapt within the mother's breast:
Full of peace and sleep and dreams in the vasty quietude,
I am one with their hearts at rest.

From our immemorial joys of hearth and home and love
Strayed away along the margin of the unknown tide,
All its reach of soundless calm can thrill me far above
Word or touch from the lips beside.

Aye, and deep and deep and deeper let me drink and draw From the olden fountain more than light or peace or dream, Such primeval being as o'erfills the heart with awe, Growing one with its silent stream.


Its edges foamed with amethyst and rose,
Withers once more the old blue flower of day:
There where the ether like a diamond glows,
Its petals fade away.

A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air;
Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows;
The great deep thrills-for through it everywhere
The breath of Beauty blows.

I saw how all the trembling ages past,
Molded to her by deep and deeper breath,
Neared to the hour when Beauty breathes her last
And knows herself in death.



THE REV. MATTHEW RUSSELL was born in Newry, County Down, July 13, 1834. He studied at Maynooth, joining the Society of Jesus and officiating as a priest at Limerick and Dublin. He is the nephew of Dr. Russell of Maynooth and the brother of the late Lord Russell of Killoween, Q.C., M.P., the first Catholic Attorney-General since Sir Thomas More.

In 1873 Father Russell started The Irish Monthly under the name of Catholic Ireland, and he still edits this excellent magazine, one of the best literary periodicals that Ireland has produced. Few men have deserved so well of that small body of Irishmen who care whether literature live or die in their midst. To his Irish Monthly he has gathered all the beginnings of the Irish literature of his day. All classes and creeds hail one another in this pleasant meeting-place. Everywhere in the magazine one finds the influence of the gracious and beneficent personality that presides over its fortunes. The little periodical has real distinction apart from the names, distinguished and to be distinguished, that are ever among its contributors.

Father Russell has written numberless biographical and critical articles, and a library of books has been published out of the contents of this magazine. He has published among other books: 'Emanuel,a Book of Eucharistic Verses' (eight editions); 'Madonna; Verses on Our Lady and the Saints' (three editions); 'Erin,' verses Irish and Catholic (two editions) 'The Harp of Jesus, a PrayerBook in Verse,' 'Idylls of Killoween,' and one or two prose works.



"How strange one never tires of the lark!" We were strolling round and round the garden, he and she, and little Mary and I-he and she arm-in-arm, and I hand-inhand with little Mary,-and the singing of the lark overhead seemed a part of the August sunshine. And my gentle cousin Annie said: "How strange one never tires of the lark!"

Yes, although it is so monotonous; on and on, almost the same always. A mere trill of joy, a mere gush of love and gratitude, a mere trickle of the simplest melody. No triumphant burst, no riotous gurgle, no pathetic murmur, no agonizing spasm, no subtle gradation, no mellow fall from treble down to bass, no splendid leap from bass up

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