And at her keene the fairy-grass Trembles on dun and barrow; Around the foot of her ancient crosses The grave-grass shakes and the nettle swings; In haunted glens the meadow-sweet Flings to the night-wind Her mystic mournful perfume; The sad spearmint by holy wells Breathes melancholy balm. Sometimes she lifts her head, With blue eyes tearless, And gazes athwart the reek of night Upon things long past, Upon things to come. And sometimes, when the moon Brings tempest upon the deep, And roused Atlantic thunders from his caverns in the West, The wolf-hound at her feet Springs up with a mighty bay, And chords of mystery sound from the wild harp at her side, Strung from the heart of poets; And she flies on the verge of the tempest Around her shuddering isle, With grey hair streaming: A meteor of evil omen, The spectre of hope forlorn, Keening, keening! She keenes, and the strings of her wild harp shiver On the gusts of night: O'er the four waters she keenes--over Moyle she keenes, O'er the Sea of Milith, and the Strait of Strongbow, And the Ocean of Columbus. And the Fianna hear, and the ghosts of her cloudy hovering heroes; And the swan, Fianoula, wails o'er the waters of Inisfail, Chanting her song of destiny, The rune of the weaving Fates. And the nations hear in the void and quaking time of night, Sad unto dawning, dirges, Solemn dirges, And snatches of bardic song; Their souls quake in the void and quaking time of night, And they dream of the weird of kings, And tyrannies moulting, sick In the dreadful wind of change. Wail no more, lonely one, mother of exiles, wail no more, Banshee of the world--no more! Thy sorrows are the world's, thou art no more alone; Thy wrongs, the world's. _John Todhunter_ AGHADOE There's a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe, There's a green and silent glade in Aghadoe, Where we met, my Love and I, Love's fair planet in the sky, O'er that sweet and silent glade in Aghadoe. There's a glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe, There's a deep and secret glen in Aghadoe, Where I hid from the eyes of the red-coats and their spies That year the trouble came to Aghadoe. O! my curse on one black heart in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, On Shaun Dhuv, my mother's son in Aghadoe, When your throat fries in hell's drouth salt the flame be in your mouth, For the treachery you did in Aghadoe! For they tracked me to that glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, When the price was on his head in Aghadoe; O'er the mountain through the wood, as I stole to him with food, When in hiding lone he lay in Aghadoe.