'Air, air! blue air and white! Whither I flee, whither, O whither, O whither I flee!' (Thus the Lark hurried, mounting from the lea) 'Hills, countries, many waters glittering bright, Whither I see, whither I see! deeper, deeper, deeper, whither I see, see, see!' 'Gay Lark,' I said, 'The song that's bred In happy nest may well to heaven make flight.' 'There's something, something sad, I half remember'--piped a broken strain. Well sung, sweet Robin! Robin sung again. 'Spring's opening cheerily, cheerily! be we glad!' Which moved, I wist not why, me melancholy mad, Till now, grown meek, With wetted cheek, Most comforting and gentle thoughts I had. THE ABBOT OF INNISFALLEN The Abbot of Innisfallen awoke ere dawn of day; Under the dewy green leaves went he forth to pray. The lake around his island lay smooth and dark and deep, And wrapt in a misty stillness the mountains were all asleep. Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac when the dawn was dim and gray; The prayers of his holy office he faithfully 'gan say. Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac while the dawn was waxing red; And for his sins' forgiveness a solemn prayer he said: Low kneel'd that holy Abbot while the dawn was waxing clear; And he pray'd with loving-kindness for his convent-brethren dear. Low kneel'd that blessed Abbot while the dawn was waxing bright; He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland, he pray'd with all his might. Low kneel'd that good old Father while the sun began to dart; He pray'd a prayer for all men, he pray'd it from his heart. His blissful soul was in Heaven, tho' a breathing man was he; He was out of time's dominion, so far as the living may be. The Abbot of Innisfallen arose upon his feet; He heard a small bird singing, and O but it sung sweet! It sung upon a holly-bush, this little snow-white bird; A song so full of gladness he never before had heard. It sung upon a hazel, it sung upon a thorn; He had never heard such music since the hour that he was born. It sung upon a sycamore, it sung upon a briar; To follow the song and hearken this Abbot could never tire. Till at last he well bethought him; he might no longer stay; So he bless'd the little white singing-bird, and gladly went his way.