surprise. Those who alone knew his secret, marvelled at his pluck when he was told the worst. He continued saying the Sunday Parish Mass until he almost fainted on the altar, and he preached up to the very last. When remonstrated with for so overtaxing his strength he always said: "When I turn round and see the faces of the people looking up at me, I cannot resist saying a few words to them." He loved his people, and the most pathetic scene ever witnessed in Doneraile took place the first Sunday he said Mass after his return from the hospital. He spoke of the extreme kindness he had received there from doctors, nurses and nuns, and the risk he ran in leaving the place; but he said: "Once I felt able to be out of bed I was pining for home you were rarely out of my mind, and I was longing to be back with you again, and to be amongst the little children." He thanked them for their unvarying kindness during the many years he had been with them, and as a proof of his affection for them he pointed out the place where he wished to be buried, outside the church, so that the little children and poor people would say a prayer for him on their way in and out of chapel. He asked them to excuse any want in the execution of his duty to them from that time forward, and added, "It will not be from want of will, but want of strength." Everyone, men as well as women, cried bitterly that day, and in the end the poor Canon himself gave way to tears.

Our pastor was a very undemonstrative man but very sincere and true to his friends. Though he could not but know of his world-wide fame, still he was one of the humblest of beings: all the praise and honour bestowed on him by all classes had not the slightest effect on him. He looked upon it as a genuine pleasure to sit down and write a novel, and he often assured us that it was a rest to him, when tired out and weary, to take up his pen and write for half an hour: it was not the least strain or effort. On one occasion he said: "The words just flow from my pen when I begin to write, so you are mistaken if you think I am injured by it." To our mind it was the real pleasure derived from it, combined with the assurance from many Protestants that his works were having a very beneficial

effect on their souls, and were the cause of some conversions, that influenced him to continue the good work.

The sketch by Father Phelan, S.J., contains much authentic information. Anything that we ourselves could write would only give a faint idea of what our saintly Canon really was. All who knew him well agree in thinking that God rarely gave so many beautiful traits of character to any one human being. We ourselves heard one of the Protestants of the parish remark lately that the Canon was the nearest approach to an angel he had ever met.

He lived and worked for God alone. Human respect found no place in his labours or his writings, as was proved by his continuance of the latter, notwithstanding the censure and discouragement received from his home critics. He is now, we feel sure, enjoying the reward of his patient endurance of his sufferings of mind and body.

A DEATH

(From the French of Alfred de Musset.)

Fair was she-if Night sleeping spread
In the chill chapel's sombre lair
Where Angelo has built her bed,
Cold, motionless-be counted fair.

Good was she-yes, if it suffice

To casual ope the purse and palms
Unmarked by God, with heart of ice:
If gold, sans pity, make an alms.

She thought-yes, if the empty noise
Of sweetest tones all cadence fraught
Like to the running brooklet's voice,
If that be held to augur thought.

She prayed-yes, if two lovely eyes
That bent to earth an instant lay,
Then, lifted upward, stared the skies-
If one may term all that to pray.

She would have smiled-yes, if the flow'r
That never oped its bosom yet

Could feel the freshness, sweetness, pow'r
Of winds that pass it and forget.

She would have wept-yes, if her hand
That o'er her heart she coldly drew,
Had caught in human clay the grand
Redemption of celestial dew.

She would have loved-yes, had not pride,
Like to the useless lamp apart

They set some dreary bier beside,

Kept watch upon her barren heart.

She never lived although she's dead.
Of life she only wore the look.
When came her hour-still all unread-
Her cold hands merely dropped the book.

JOHN J. HAYDEN.

WAR POEMS OF KATHARINE TYNAN*

A

LL the poets have been stirred to write of the War; but not all have shown themselves capable of turning from their old familiar themes and melodies to make acceptable music out of the terrible or tearful suggestions of the hour. One might have thought that the lyrism of Katharine Tynan would not lend itself to the change. The intimate singer of quiet Irish country-sides and of oldfashioned Irish pieties, the mistress of a Franciscan range of rustic and heavenly things-was it to be supposed that she would fairly face the new chaos, the blood and tears that have fallen upon Europe, and before that vision would find the right words and notes for songs that all would be the better and the happier for hearing? Anyone who thus doubted or still doubts must be recommended to take up this volume of poems in war time." Doubt will have given way to far pleasanter feelings ere he has savoured the charm and consolation of half of them. He will find here nothing superficial or cold, nothing forced or crude, nothing unworthy of the authoress or the subject. The poet is indeed herself in these pages, yet, as is fitting, not quite the self of old days.

66

Already some of these poems have given wide-spread consolation to sufferers at home-to the bereaved, whose martyrdom is often severer, because more prolonged, than that of the dear ones who have fallen beside the Yser or the Hellespont. Already the stanzas "Flower of Youth" have circulated in countless leaflets, and have fulfilled a fulfilled a double mission of comfort; for the profits accruing from its sale have been devoted to helping on the good work of a Dublin Red Cross Hospital. (1)

"Flower of Youth: Poems in War Time. By Katharine Tynan. London Sidgwick and Jackson, Ltd., 3 Adam Street, Adelphi. 1915. 3s. 6d.

'These leaflets may be obtained from Messrs. Sidgwick and Jackson at the cost of 24d. each, post free, or 2s. 1d. per doz.

Other pieces will have a still stronger intrinsic appeal to Irish feeling. Such is "The Watchers" with its poignant contrast between the peace of an Irish valley, where

The fields of harvest golden-white,

The fields of pasture rich and green
Sleep on, nor fear the kindly night,
The watching mountains set between,

where

St. Patrick and St. Brigid hold

The vale, its little houses, all,

While men-at-arms in white and gold

Glide swiftly by the outer wall;

and the ruin and sorrow of Belgium, the ghastly image of which awakes the thrill of sudden horror and puzzled faith:

What are her angels doing, then,

And are the Belgian saints asleep,
That in this night of dule and pain

The Belgians mourn, the Belgians weep?

We single out nothing else for special commendation. But we will end by saying that there is not a poem we should willingly miss between "Joining the Colours," which opens the volume and "Resurrection," which closes it.

G. O'NEILL.