|THE sounds of wild harp-music were ascending at even from the depths of Glenmara. The sun had sunk, and the hues that had been woven round the west were wasting themselves away on the horizon. The faint shell-pink had drifted and dwindled far from the place of sunset. The woods of the slopes looked very dark now that the red glances from the west were withdrawn from their glossy foliage; but the heather-swathed mountains, towering through the soft blue air to the dark blue sky, were richly purple, as though the sunset hues had become entangled amongst the heather, and had forgotten to fly back to the west that had cast them forth. The little tarn at the foot of the lowest crags was black and still, waiting for the first star-glimpse, and from its marge came the wild notes of a harp fitfully swelling and waning; and then arose the still wilder and more melancholy tones of a man's voice chanting what seemed like a weird dirge to the fading twilight, and the language was the Irish Celtic--that language every song of which sounds like a dirge sung over its own death:-- Why art thou gone from us, White Dove of the Irish woods? Why art thou gone who made all the leaves tremulous with the low voice of love? Love that tarried yet afar, though the fleet swallow had come back to us-- Love that stayed in the far lands though the primrose had cast its gold by the streams-- Love that heard not the voice sent forth from every new- budded briar-- This love came only when thou earnest, and rapture thrilled the heart of the green land. Why art thou gone from us, White Dove of the Irish woods? This is a translation of the wild lament that arose in the twilight air and stirred up the echoes of the rocks. Then the fitful melody of the harp made an interlude:-- Why art thou gone from us, sweet Linnet of the Irish woods? Why art thou gone from us whose song brought the Spring to our land? Yea, flowers to thy singing arose from the earth in bountiful bloom, And scents of the violet, scents of the hawthorn--all scents of the spring Were wafted about us when thy voice was heard albeit in autumn. All thoughts of the spring--all its hopes woke and breathed through our hearts, Till our souls thrilled with passionate song and the perfume of spring which is love. Why art thou gone from us, sweet Linnet of the Irish woods? Again the chaunter paused and again his harp prolonged the wailing melody. Then passing into a more sadly soft strain, he continued his song:--