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Then it open'd and dropt at the side of each man, as he rose from his rest. Bread enough for his need till the labourless day dipt under the West; And we wander'd about it and thro' it. O never was time so good! And we sang of the triumphs of Finn, and the boast of our ancient blood, And we gazed at the wandering wave as we sat by the gurgle of springs, And we chanted the songs of the Bards and the glories of fairy kings; But at length we began to be weary, to sigh, and to stretch and yawn, Till we hated the Bounteous Isle and the sunbright hand of the dawn, For there was not an enemy near, but the whole green Isle was our own, And we took to playing at ball, and we took to throwing the stone, And we took to playing at battle, but that was a perilous play, For the passion of battle was in us, we slew and we sail'd away.


And we past to the Isle of Witches and heard their musical cry 'Come to us, O come, come' in the stormy red of a sky

Dashing the fires and the shadows of dawn on the beautiful shapes, For a wild witch naked as heaven stood on each of the loftiest capes,

And a hundred ranged on the rock like white sea-birds in a row, And a hundred gamboll'd and prancez

on the wrecks in the sand below, And a hundred splash'd from the ledges. and bosom'd the burst of the spray, But I knew we should fall on each other. and hastily sail'd away.


And we came in an evil time to the Isle of the Double Towers,

One was of smooth-cut stone, one carved all over with flowers,

But an earthquake always moved in the hollows under the dells,

And they shock'd on each other and butted each other with clashing of bells,

And the daws flew out of the Towers and jangled and wrangled in vain, And the clash and boom of the bells rang into the heart and the brain, Till the passion of battle was on us, and all took sides with the Towers, There were some for the clean-cut stone, there are more for the carven dowers,

And the wrathful thunder of God peal'd over us all the day,

For the one half slew the other, and after we sail'd away.


And we came to the Isle of a Saint who had sail'd with St. Brendan of yore,

He had lived ever since on the Isle and his winters were fifteen score, And his voice was low as from other worlds, and his eyes were sweet, And his white hair sank to his heels and his white beard fell to his feet, And he spake to me, 'O Maeldune, let be this purpose of thine! Remember the words of the Lord when he told us "Vengeance is mine!" His fathers have slain thy fathers in war or in single strife,

Thy fathers have slain his fathers, each taken a life for a life,

Thy father had slain his father, how long shall the murder last?

Go back to the Isle of Finn and suffer the Past to be Past.'

And we kiss'd the fringe of his beard and we pray'd as we heard him pray, And the Holy man he assoil'd us, and sadly we sail'd away.


And we came to the Isle we were blown from, and there on the shore was he,

The man that had slain my father. I saw him and let him be.

O weary was I of the travel, the trouble, the strife and the sin, When I landed again, with a tithe of my men, on the Isle of Finn.

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Whereon the Spirit of God moves as he will

Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep,

From that true world within the world we see,

Whereof our world is but the bounding shore

Out of the deep, Spirit, out of the deep,

With this ninth moon, that sends the hidden sun

Down yon dark sea, thou comest, darling boy.

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HALLOWED be Thy name-Halleluiah!—
Infinite Ideality!
Immeasurable Reality!
Infinite Personality!
Hallowed be Thy name-


We feel we are nothing-for all is Tha
and in Thee;
We feel we are something that also has
come from Thee;
We know we are nothing. but The
wilt help us to be.
Hallowed be Thy name — Halleluiah!

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TO THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.' THOSE that of late had fleeted far and fast To touch all shores, now leaving to the skill

Of others their old craft seaworthy still, Have charter'd this; where, mindful of the past,

Our true co-mates regather round the mast;

Of diverse tongue, but with a common will
Here, in this roaring moon of daffodil
And crocus, to put forth and brave the

For some, descending from the sacred peak

Of hoar high-templed Faith, have leagued
Their lot with ours to rove the world

And some are wilder comrades, sworn to

If any golden harbour be for men
In seas of Death and sunless gulfs of

TO THE REV. W. H. BROOKFIELD. BROOKS, for they call'd you so that knew you best,

Old Brooks, who loved so well to mouth my rhymes,

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