As a white candle In a holy place, So is the beauty Of an agèd face. As the spent radiance Of the winter sun, So is a woman When her travail done. Her brood gone from her, And her thoughts as still As the waters Under a ruined mill. So we might turn from one to another of these old and ever-new themes: not alone in this poet's work, but also in that of Mr Padraic Colum, whom he resembles. We shall notice in their music a characteristic harmony. It is a blending of three diverse elements: the individual, the national, and the universal. One would expect a discord sometimes; but the measure of the success of this verse is that it contrives to be, at one and the same time, specifically lyrical (and therefore a reflection of personality), definitely Irish, and completely human. Most of the poems will illustrate this, but for an obvious example take this one by Mr Campbell: I met a walking-man; His head was old and grey. I gave him what I had To crutch him on his way. The man was Mary's Son, I'll swear; A glory trembled in his hair! And since that blessed day I've never known the pinch: I plough a broad townland, And dig a river-inch; And on my hearth the fire is bright For all that walk by day or night. If one found that on a bit of torn paper in the wilds of Africa, one would know it for unquestionable Irish. There are half a dozen signs, but the spirit of the last two lines is enough. The element of personality is there, too; clearly visible in tone and choice of words to those who know the poet's work a little. But stronger than all is the human note, with all that it implies of man's need of religion, his incorrigible habit of making God in his own image, and the half comical, half pathetic materialism of his faith. There are, of course, some occasions when the blending is unequal: when one or other of the three elements, usually that of national feeling, weighs down the balance. But, on the other hand, there are many pieces in which it is very intimate and subtle. Then it follows that the poet is at his best, for he has forgotten the immediacy of self and country and the world of men and things in the joy of singing. Of such is this "Cradle Song" by Mr Colum: O, men from the fields! Come softly within. Tread softly, softly, O! men coming in. Mavourneen is going From me and from you, To Mary, the Mother, Whose mantle is blue! From reek of the smoke And cold of the floor, And the peering of things Across the half-door. O, men from the fields! Soft, softly come thro'. Mary puts round him Her mantle of blue. Such also is Mr Colum's "Ballad Maker," from which I quote the first and last stanzas: