Her eyes are bright and tearless, But wide with yearning pain; She longs for nothing earthly, But O! to hear again The sound that held her listening Upon her moonlit path! The rippling fairy music That filled the lonely rath. Her lips, that once have tasted The fairy banquet's bliss, Shall glad no mortal lover With maiden smile or kiss. She's dead to all things living Since that November Eve; And when she dies in autumn No living thing will grieve. _T.W. Rolleston_ WERE YOU ON THE MOUNTAIN? _From the Irish_ O, were you on the mountain, or saw you my love? Or saw you my own one, my queen and my dove? Or saw you the maiden with the step firm and free? And say, is she pining in sorrow like me? I was upon the mountain, and saw there your love, I saw there your own one, your queen and your dove; I saw there the maiden with the step firm and free And she was _not_ pining in sorrow like thee. _Douglas Hyde_ MY GRIEF ON THE SEA _From the Irish_ My grief on the sea, How the waves of it roll! For they heave between me And the love of my soul! Abandoned, forsaken, To grief and to care, Will the sea ever waken Relief from despair? My grief and my trouble Would he and I wear, In the province of Leinster, Or County of Clare? Were I and my darling-- O, heart-bitter wound!-- On board of the ship For America bound. On a green bed of rushes All last night I lay, And I flung it abroad With the heat of the day. And my love came behind me-- He came from the south; His breast to my bosom, His mouth to my mouth. _Douglas Hyde_ MY LOVE, O, SHE IS MY LOVE _From the Irish_ She casts a spell, O, casts a spell, Which haunts me more than I can tell. Dearer because she makes me ill, Than who would will to make me well. She is my store, O, she my store, Whose grey eye wounded me so sore, Who will not place in mine her palm, Who will not calm me any more. She is my pet, O, she my pet, Whom I can never more forget; Who would not lose by me one moan, Nor stone upon my cairn set, She is my roon, O, she my roon, Who tells me nothing, leaves me soon; Who would not lose by me one sigh, Were death and I within one room. She is my dear, O, she my dear, Who cares not whether I be here. Who would not weep when I am dead, Who makes me shed the silent tear. Hard my case, O, hard my case, How have I lived so long a space, She does not trust me any more, But I adore her silent face.