Shines the lily like the sun,
Crystal-pure, a cold sweet nun;
With her austere lip she sings
To her heart of heavenly things.
Gazeth through a night of June
To her sister-saint the moon;
With the stars communeth long
Of the angels and their song.
But when summer died last year
Rose and lily died with her;
Shamrock stayeth every day,
Be the winds or gold or grey.
Irish hills, grey as the dove,
Know the little plant I love;
Warm and fair it mantles them,
Stretching down from throat to hem.

And it laughs o'er many a vale,
Sheltered safe from storm and gale;
Sky and sun and stars thereof
Love the gentle plant I love.
Soft it clothes the ruined floor,
Of many an abbey, grey and hoar,
And the still home of the dead
With its green is carpeted.

Roses for an hour of love,
With the joy and pain thereof;
Stand my lilies white to see
All for prayer and purity.

These are white as the harvest moon,
Roses flush like the heart of June;
But my shamrock brave and gay,
Glads the tired eyes every day.

O the red rose shineth rare,
And the lily saintly fair;

But

my shamrock, one in three, Takes the inmost heart of me!

Katharine Tynan Hinkson.

CLXXXIX

WAYS OF WAR

A TERRIBLE and splendid trust
Heartens the host of Inisfail :
Their dream is of the swift sword-thrust,
A lighting glory of the Gael.

Croagh Patrick is the place of prayers,
And Tara the assembling place :
But each sweet wind of Ireland bears
The trump of battle on its race.

From Dursey Isle to Donegal,

From Howth to Achill, the glad noise Rings and the heirs of glory fall,

Or victory crowns their fighting joys.

A dream! a dream! an ancient dream!
Yet, ere peace come to Inisfail,
Some weapons on some field must gleam,
Some burning glory fire the Gael.

That field may lie beneath the sun,
Fair for the treading of an host:

That field in realms of thought be won,
And armed minds do their uttermost :

Some way, to faithful Inisfail,

Shall come the majesty and awe Of martial truth, that must prevail, To lay on all the eternal law.

Lionel Johnson.

V

CANADA