The amber ripples sang their song, When suddenly from far o'erhead A lark's pure voice mixed with the throng Of lovely things about us spread. Some flowers were there, so near the brink Their shadows in the waves were thrown; While mosses, green and gray and pink, Grew thickly round each smooth dark stone. And, over all, the summer sky, Shut out the town we left behind; 'Twas joy to stand in silence by, One bright chain linking mind to mind. O, little lonely mountain spot! Your place within my heart will be Apart from all Life's busy lot A true, sweet, solemn memory. _Rose Kavanagh_ THE CHILDREN OF LIR Out upon the sand-dunes thrive the coarse long grasses, Herons standing knee-deep in the brackish pool, Overhead the sunset fire and flame amasses, And the moon to Eastward rises pale and cool: Rose and green around her, silver-grey and pearly, Chequered with the black rooks flying home to bed; For, to wake at daybreak birds must couch them early, And the day's a long one since the dawn was red. On the chilly lakelet, in that pleasant gloaming, See the sad swans sailing: they shall have no rest: Never a voice to greet them save the bittern's booming Where the ghostly sallows sway against the West. 'Sister,' saith the grey swan, 'Sister, I am weary,' Turning to the white swan wet, despairing eyes; 'O,' she saith, 'my young one.' 'O,' she saith, 'my dearie,' Casts her wings about him with a storm of cries. Woe for Lir's sweet children whom their vile step-mother Glamoured with her witch-spells for a thousand years; Died their father raving--on his throne another-- Blind before the end came from his burning tears. She--the fiends possess her, torture her for ever, Gone is all the glory of the race of Lir; Gone and long-forgotten like a dream of fever: But the swans remember all the days that were. Hugh, the black and white swan with the beauteous feathers; Fiachra, the black swan with the emerald breast; Conn, the youngest, dearest, sheltered in all weathers, Him his snow-white sister loves the tenderest. These her mother gave her as she lay a-dying, To her faithful keeping, faithful hath she been, With her wings spread o'er them when the tempest's crying, And her songs so hopeful when the sky's serene.