To cottage lights that lure you in
From rainy Western skies;
And by the friendly glow within
Of simple talk, and wise,
And tales of magic, love or arms
From days when princes met
To listen to the lay that charms
The Connacht peasant yet.
There Honour shines through passions dire,
There beauty blends with mirth—
Wild hearts, ye never did aspire
Wholly for things of earth!
Cold, cold this thousand years—yet still
On many a time-stained page
Your pride, your truth, your dauntless will,
Burn on from age to age.
And still around the fires of peat
Live on the ancient days;
There still do living lips repeat
The old and deathless lays.
And when the wavering wreaths ascend,
Blue in the evening air,
The soul of Ireland seems to bend
Above her children there.
[WILLIAM MORRIS]
† Oct. 4, 1896
Singer of Jason’s quest and Sigurd’s doom!
Teller of vision-haunted wanderings!
Who touched a strange new music from the strings
Of old Romance—a space amidst the gloom
Of cloudy centuries thou didst illume;
And there thy word a dreamlike splendour flings
On crown and helm—and even the tears of things
Brighten thy morning world’s immortal bloom.