[Illustration: _Here is the well-spring of those sparkling, saving waters-- Here, in the heart of Mary’s Blessed Boy!_ (_See page 33._) ] Prince Ragnal AND OTHER HOLIDAY VERSES BY ELEANOR C. DONNELLY [Illustration] PHILADELPHIA H. L. Kilner & Co. PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1898, by Eleanor C. Donnelly. TO MY REVERED FRIEND OF MANY YEARS, Rev. Matthew Russell, S. J., Editor of the “Irish Monthly,” Dublin, Ireland, THIS LITTLE BOOK IS DEDICATED BY HIS SPECIAL PERMISSION. FINDING LIST [Illustration] PAGE PRINCE RAGNAL 9 CHRISTMAS CAROL 22 AT DAME NOËL’S 26 A MURILLO 29 THE STABLE OF BETHLEHEM 31 THE THREE MASSES ON CHRISTMAS DAY 34 THE GOD-MAN 37 BETHLEHEM’S QUEEN 38 Prince Ragnal. [Illustration] A Christmas Legend of Early Christian Ireland. [Illustration] THE EVE. White and chill from the wintry skies, The starlight falls upon ancient Eire: The wind makes moan thro’ the leafless trees Of Devenish Isle, like a soul in fear,-- Deep in the heart of its snowy woods, Fanning a peat-flame, lone and drear. [Illustration] The ruined hut where that turf-fire glows Hath never a roof of thatch or stone, But bow and spear on the rude walls hang, And a bed of skins on the floor is strewn, Where, close to the embers, stern and still, Ragnal the leper sits alone. [Illustration] Ragnal of Errigal, prince of doom, His face, a death-mask of despair;-- The foul disorder’s loathly scales Lacquer his skin with their hideous glair: Dulling the blue of his brave young eye, Dimming the gold of his tangled hair. [Illustration] Bowed like a churl of three-score ten, His peakéd chin in his wasted hands, He watches the flames with a sluggish eye, Sparkle and glow in their fiery dance; Till, deep in the embers, pictured, lie His life’s lost hopes--its dead romance. [Illustration] A royal castle beside the sea, On breezy cliffs, exultant, set: A Prince and Princess, young and fair, Pacing the grassy parapet, The golden fringe of his long, bright hair Sweeping the maiden’s locks of jet. [Illustration] Thro’ perfum’d air, replete with peace, The swallows skim the blue waves’ flow: The lovely Dympna’s hand, at rest On her lover’s arm (a thing of snow)-- Thrills, as he bends his head, and breathes In her blushing ear, a whisper low. [Illustration] She gathers the fleece of her floating veil From the nodding shade of his raven plume, As, gravely pleading, he bends again To hear those bright lips speak his doom. --Why does she start and lift her head? Why are her cheeks devoid of bloom? [Illustration]