hen it comes upon the angry sea?

ALEXANDER THE GREAT

Four men stood by the grave of a man,
The grave of Alexander the Proud;
They sang words without falsehood
Over the prince from fair Greece.

Said the first man of them:
'Yesterday there were around the king
The men of the world--a sad gathering!
Though to-day he is alone.'

'Yesterday the king of the brown world
Rode upon the heavy earth:
Though to-day it is the earth
That rides upon his neck.'

'Yesterday,' said the third wise author,
'Philip's son owned the whole world:
To-day he has nought
Save seven feet of earth.'

'Alexander the liberal and great
Was wont to bestow silver and gold:
To-day,' said the fourth man,
'The gold is here, and it is nought.'

Thus truly spoke the wise men
Around the grave of the high-king:
It was not foolish women's talk
What those four sang.

QUATRAINS

THE SCRIBE

A hedge of trees surrounds me,
A blackbird's lay sings to me;
Above my lined booklet
The trilling birds chant to me.

In a grey mantle from the top of bushes
The cuckoo sings:
Verily--may the Lord shield me!--
Well do I write under the greenwood.

ON A DEAD SCHOLAR

Dead is Lon
Of Kilgarrow, O great hurt!
To Ireland and beyond her border
It is ruin of study and of schools.

THE CRUCIFIXION

At the cry of the first bird
They began to crucify Thee, O cheek like a swan!
It were not right ever to cease lamenting--
It was like the parting of day from night.

Ah! though sore the suffering
Put upon the body of Mary's Son--
Sorer to Him was the grief
That was upon her for His sake.

THE PILGRIM AT ROME

To go to Rome
Is much of trouble, little of profit:
The King whom thou seekest here,
Unless thou bring Him with thee, thou wilt not find.

HOSPITALITY

O King of stars!
Whether my house be dark or bright,
Never shall it be closed against any one,
Lest Christ close His house against me.

If there be a guest in your house
And you conceal aught from him,
'Tis not the guest that will be without it,
But Jesus, Mary's Son.

THE BLACKBIRD

Ah, blackbird, thou art satisfied
Where thy nest is in the bush:
Hermit that clinkest no bell,
Sweet, soft, peaceful is thy note.

MOLING SANG THIS