that to thee?" asked Moling. "The venom and the hurt of
the curse will be on the lips from which it will come." After further
parley, the Devil paid this tribute to Moling:

He is pure gold, the sky around the sun,
A silver chalice brimmed with blessed wine,
An Angel shape, a book of lore divine,
Whoso obeys in all the Eternal One.

He is a foolish bird that fowlers lime,
A leaking ship in utmost jeopardy,
An empty vessel and a withered tree,
Who disobeys the Sovereign Sublime.

A fragrant branch with blossoms overrun,
A bounteous bowl with honey overflowing,
A precious stone, of virtue past all knowing
Is he who doth the will of God's dear Son.

A nut that only emptiness doth fill,
A sink of foulness, a crookt branch is he
Upon a blossomless crab-apple tree,
Who doeth not his Heavenly Master's will.

Whoso obeys the Son of God and Mary--
He is a sunflash lighting up the moor,
He is a dais on the Heavenly Floor,
A pure and very precious reliquary.

A sun heaven-cheering he, in whose warm beam
The King of Kings takes ever fresh delight,
He is a temple, noble, blessed, bright,
A saintly shrine with gems and gold a-gleam.

The altar he, whence bread and wine are told,
While countless melodies around are hymned,
A chalice cleansed from God's own grapes upbrimmed,
Upon Christ's garment's hem the joyful gold.

THE HYMN OF ST. PHILIP

(From the Early Irish)

Philip the Apostle holy
At an Aonach[A] once was telling
Of the immortal birds and shapely
Afar in Inis Eidheand dwelling.

East of Africa abiding
They perform a labour pleasant;
Unto earth there comes no colour
That on their pinions is not present.

Since the fourth Creation morning
When their God from dust outdrew them,
Not one plume has from them perished,
And not one bird been added to them.

Seven fair streams with all their channels
Pierce the plains wherethrough they flutter,
Round whose banks the birds go feeding,
Then soar thanksgiving songs to utter.

Midnight is their hour apportioned,
When, on magic coursers mounted,
Through the starry skies they circle,
To chants of angel choirs uncounted.

Of the foremost birds the burthen
Most melodiously unfolded
Tells of all the works of wonder
God wrought before the world He moulded.

Then a sweet crowd heavenward lift