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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-
And when the sun sets dimmed in eve, and purple fills the air,
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.
OUR THRONES DECAY.
I said my pleasure shall not move;
I knew the fountain of the deep
Wells up with living joy, unfed;
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.
THE THREE COUNSELORS.
It was the fairy of the place,
Who touched with dim and shadowy grace
It seemed to whisper "Quietness,"
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
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,
Blind battles with they knew not what;
And all the old heart-sweetness sung,
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.
THE MEMORY OF EARTH.
In the wet dusk silver sweet,
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;
Where the hawthorn glimmered white
Ah, what faces pale and bright
There a hero-hearted queen
With young beauty lit the van:
While I paced the valley's gloom,
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."
BY THE MARGIN OF THE GREAT DEEP.
When the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies,
When the trees and skies and fields are one in dusky mood,
From our immemorial joys of hearth and home and love
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.
THE GREAT BREATH.
Its edges foamed with amethyst and rose,
A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air;
I saw how all the trembling ages past,
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.
MONOTONY AND THE LARK.
A PROSE IDYLL.
"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