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She's death to all things living,
THE DEAD AT CLONMACNOIS.
In a quiet watered land, a land of roses,
And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations
There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblest
Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham
There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara,
Battle-banners of the Gael, that in Kieran's plain of crosses
And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia,
Deep the sod above Clan Creidé and Clan Conaill,
Many and many a son of Conn, the Hundred-Fighter,
Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers,
THE LAST DESIRE.
When the time comes for me to die,
"What wilt thou?" I shall say:
"O God, thy world was great and fair!
Have thanks for all my days have seen;
"I loved, I toiled; throve ill and well;
"I seek not, Lord, thy purging fire,
The loves re-knit, the crown, the palm;
In deep, eternal calm."
SONG OF MAELDUIN.
There are veils that lift, there are bars that fall,
There are hurrying feet, and we dare not wait,
Fair, fair they shine through the burning zone-
And oh! to follow, to seek, to dare,
The cloudy stair of the Brig o' Dread
Is the dizzy path that our feet must tread-
O children of Time-O Nights and Days,
The music calls and the gates unclose,
We die in the bliss of a great new birth,
WENTWORTH DILLON, EARL OF ROSCOMMON.
WENTWORTH DILLON, EARL OF ROSCOMMON, born about 1633, was nephew and godson to the Earl of Stafford. He was at the Protestant College at Caen when, by the death of his father, he became Earl of Roscommon, at the age of ten. He remained abroad, traveled in Italy till the Restoration, when he came in with King Charles the Second, became captain of the Band of Pensioners, took for a time to gambling, married, indulged his taste in literature, which was strongly under the French influence, and had a project for an English academy like that of France.
He translated into verse Horace's 'Art of Poetry,' Virgil's sixth Eclogue, one or two Odes of Horace, and a passage from Guarini's 'Pastor Fido. Of his original writing the most important piece is 'An Essay on Translated Verse,' carefully polished in the manner of Boileau, sensible, and often very happy in expression. He died Jan. 17, 1684, after a fervent utterance of two lines from his own version of 'Dies Irae '—
"My God, my Father, and my Friend,
and was buried in Westminster Abbey.
Johnson says "that he is perhaps the only correct writer in verse before Addison," and Pope wrote:
"To him the wit of Greece and Rome was known,
FROM THE ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE.
Each poet with a different talent writes,
You grow familiar, intimate, and fond;
Your thoughts, your words, your styles, your souls agree,
No longer his interpreter, but he . .
Immodest words admit of no defense For want of decency is want of sense.
Yet 't is not all to have a subject good, It must delight as when 't is understood.