Cul-ri. Erin."
That gazing toward her on my heart might fall
A full contrition,
That I might then bewail my evils all,
Though hard the addition;
That I might bless the Lord who all things orders
For their great good.
The countless hierarchies through Heaven's bright borders--
Land, strand, and flood,
That I might search all books and from their chart
Find my soul's calm;
Now kneel before the Heaven of my heart,
Now chant a psalm;
Now meditate upon the King of Heaven,
Chief of the Holy Three;
Now ply my work by no compulsion driven.
What greater joy could be?
Now plucking dulse upon the rocky shore,
Now fishing eager on,
Now furnishing food unto the famished poor;
In hermitage anon:
The guidance of the King of Kings
Has been vouchsafed unto me;
If I keep watch beneath His wings,
No evil shall undo me.

HAIL, BRIGIT!

An old Irish poem on the Hill of Alenn recording the disappearance of
the Pagan World of Ireland and the triumph of Christianity by the
establishment at Kildare of the convent of Brigit, Saint and Princess.

Safe on thy throne,
Triumphing Bride,
Down Liffey's side,
Far to the coast,
Rule with the host
Under thy care
Over the Children of Mighty Cathair.

God's hid intents
At every time,
For pure Erin's clime
All telling surpass.
Liffey's clear glass
Mirrors thy reign,
But many proud masters have passed from his plain.

When on his banks
I cast my eyes thorough
The fair, grassy Curragh,
Awe enters my mind
At each wreck that I find
Around me far strown
Of lofty kings' palaces gaunt, lichen-grown!

Laery was monarch
As far as the Main;
Vast Ailill's reign!
The Curragh's green wonder
Still grows the blue under,
The old rulers thereon
One after other to cold death have gone.

Where is Alenn far-famed,
How dear in delights!
Beneath her what Knights
What Princes repose
How feared by her foes
When Crimthan was Chief--
Crimthan of Conquests--now passes belief!

Proudly the triumph-shout
Rang from his victor lords,
Round their massed shock of swords;
While their foes' serried, blue
Spears they struck through and through;
Blasts of delight
Blared from their horns over hundreds in flight.

Blithe, on their anvils
Even-hued, blent
The hammers' concent;
From the Brugh the bard's song
Brake