But forth one wavelet, then another, curled,
Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed,
Rose, reddened, and its seething breast
Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed
the world.

THE IRISH WOLF-HOUND
(From "The Foray of Con O'Donnell ")

By Denis Florence MacCarthy

S fly the shadows o'er the grass,
He flies with step as light and

sure,

He hunts the wolf through Tos

tan pass,

And starts the deer by Lisa

noure.

The music of the Sabbath bells,

O Con! has not a sweeter sound
Than when along the valley swells
The cry of John Mac Donnell's hound.

His stature tall, his body long,

His back like night, his breast like snow, His fore-leg pillar-like and strong,

His hind-leg like a bended bow; Rough curling hair, head long and thin, His ear a leaf so small and round; Not Bran, the favorite dog of Fin,

Could rival John Mac Donnell's hound.

THE FROSTED PANE

By Charles G. D. Roberts

NE night came Winter noiselessly and leaned

Against my window-pane.

In the deep stillness of his heart convened

The ghosts of all his slain.

Leaves, and ephemera, and stars of earth,

And fugitives of grass,

White spirits loosed from bonds of mortal birth, He drew them on the glass.

AUTOCHTHON

By Charles G. D. Roberts

I

AM the spirit astir

To swell the grain,

When fruitful sons confer

With laboring rain;

I am the life that thrills

In branch and bloom;

I am the patience of abiding hills,
The promise masked in doom.

When the sombre lands are wrung,
And storms are out,

And giant woods give tongue,
I am the shout;

And when the earth would sleep,
Wrapped in her snows,

I am the infinite gleam of eyes that keep
The post of her repose.

I am the hush of calm,
I am the speed,

The flood-tide's triumphing psalm,

The marsh-pool's heed;

I work in the rocking roar

Where cataracts fall;

I flash in the prismy fire that dances o'er
The dew's ephemeral ball.

I am the voice of wind

And wave and tree,
Of stern desires and blind,

Of strength to be;

I am the cry by night

At point of dawn,

The summoning bugle from the unseen height,

In cloud and doubt withdrawn.

I am the strife that shapes

The stature of man, The pang no hero escapes,

The blessing, the ban;

I am the hammer that moulds

The iron of our race,

The omen of God in our blood that a people beholds,

The foreknowledge veiled in our face.

THE HAWKBIT

By Charles G. D. Roberts

OW sweetly on the autumn scene,
When haws are red amid the

green,

The hawkbit shines with face of cheer,

The favorite of the faltering
year!

When days grow short and nights grow cold,
How fairly gleams its eye of gold
On pastured field and grassy hill,
Along the roadside and the rill!

It seems the spirit of a flower,
This offspring of the autumn hour,
Wandering back to earth to bring
Some kindly afterthought of spring.

A dandelion's ghost might so
Amid Elysian meadows blow,
Become more fragile and more fine
Breathing the atmosphere divine.

THE FLIGHT OF THE GEESE By Charles G. D. Roberts

HEAR the low wind wash the

softening snow,

The low tide loiter down the

shore. The night,

Full filled with April forecast,

hath no light.

The salt wave on the sedge-flat pulses slow.

Through the hid furrows lisp in murmurous flow The thaw's shy ministers; and hark! The height Of heaven grows weird and loud with unseen flight Of strong hosts prophesying as they go!

High through the drenched and hollow night their wings

Beat northward hard on winter's trail. The sound
Of their confused and solemn voices, borne
Athwart the dark to their long arctic morn,
Comes with a sanction and an awe profound,
A boding of unknown, foreshadowed things.

I

WALDEINSAMKEIT

By Ralph Waldo Emerson
DO not count the hours I spend
In wandering by the sea;
my loyal friend,

The forest is

Like God it useth me.