I had a chair at every hearth, When no one turned to see, With "Look at that old fellow there, "And who may he be?" And therefore do I wander now, And the fret lies on me. The road-side trees keep murmuring Ah, wherefore murmur ye, As in the old days long gone by, Green oak and poplar tree? The well-known faces are all gone And the fret lies on me. THE BALLAD OF FATHER GILLIGAN The old priest Peter Gilligan Was weary night and day; For half his flock were in their beds, Or under green sods lay. Once, while he nodded on a chair, At the moth-hour of eve, Another poor man sent for him, And he began to grieve. "I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace, "For people die and die"; And after cried he, "God forgive! "My body spake, not I!" He knelt, and leaning on the chair He prayed and fell asleep; And the moth-hour went from the fields, And stars began to peep. They slowly into millions grew, And leaves shook in the wind; And God covered the world with shade, And whispered to mankind. Upon the time of sparrow chirp When the moths came once more, The old priest Peter Gilligan Stood upright on the floor. "Mavrone, mavrone! the man has died, "While I slept on the chair"; He roused his horse out of its sleep, And rode with little care. He rode now as he never rode, By rocky lane and fen; The sick man's wife opened the door: "Father! you come again!" "And is the poor man dead?" he cried, "He died an hour ago," The old priest Peter Gilligan In grief swayed to and fro. "When you were gone, he turned and died "As merry as a bird." The old priest Peter Gilligan He knelt him at that word. "He who hath made the night of stars "For souls, who tire and bleed, "Sent one of His great angels down "To help me in my need. "He who is wrapped in purple robes, "With planets in His care, "Had pity on the least of things "Asleep upon a chair." THE TWO TREES Beloved, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there; From joy the holy branches start, And all the trembling flowers they bear. The changing colours of its fruit Have dowered the stars with merry light; The surety of its hidden root Has planted quiet in the night; The shaking of its leafy head Has given the waves their melody, And made my lips and music wed, Murmuring a wizard song for thee. There, through bewildered branches, go Winged Loves borne on in gentle strife, Tossing and tossing to and fro The flaming circle of our life. When looking on their shaken hair, And dreaming how they dance and dart, Thine eyes grow full of tender care: Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.