Once the yard was fertile and fair, And lilac bushes near: And a Yankee counted with fretful care, Under the solacing shadows there, The gain of every year.

The crowded walls of trade arose And gloomed the avenue: But a Munster man at each day's close Built in the tree his hope's rainbows, And saw his dreams come true.

The years have thickened the darkened air, But the tree is still on guard: It comforts the young Italian there, Who sees the future blossoming fair From the tree in the tenement yard.

America, Ireland and Italy All have loved this poor old tree.

OLD HUDSON ROVERS

(For Joyce Kilmer)

When the dreamy night is on, up the Hudson river, And the sheen of modern taste is dim and far away, Ghostly men on phantom rafts make the waters shiver, Laughing in the sibilance of the silver spray.

Yea, and up the woodlands, staunch in moonlit weather, Go the ghostly hors.e.m.e.n, adventuresome to ride, White as mist the doublet-braize, bandolier and feather, Fleet as gallant Robin Hood in an eventide.

Times are gone that knew the craft in the role of rovers, Fellows of the open, care could never load: Unalarmed for bed or board, they were leisure's lovers, Summer bloomed in story on the Hyde Park Road.

Summer was a blossom, but the fruit was autumn, Fragrant haylofts for a bed, cider-cakes in store, Warmer was a cup they know, when the north wind caught 'em Down at Benny Havens' by the West Point sh.o.r.e.

Idlers now-and loafers pa.s.s, joy is out of fashion, Honest fun that fooled a dog or knew a friendly gate, Now the craft are vagabonds, sick with modern pa.s.sion, Riding up and down the sh.o.r.e, on an aching freight; Sullen are the battered looks, cheerless talk or tipsy, Sickly in the smoky air, starving in the day, Pining for a city's noise at Kingston or Po'keepsie, Eager more for Gotham and a great White Way.

Rich is all the countryside, but glory has departed, What if yachts and mansions be, by the river's marge!

Dim though was a hillside, lamps were happy-hearted, Near the cove of Rondout in a hut or barge.

Silken styles are tyrants, fashion kills the playtime, Robs the heart of largess that is kindly to the poor, Richer were the freemen, welcome as the Maytime, Glad was boy or maiden, seeing Brennan of the moor.

Send us back the olden knights, tell no law to track 'em, Give to boy and maid the storytellers as of yore, Millionaires in legend-wealth, though no bank would back 'em, But old Benny Havens by the West Point Sh.o.r.e.

Off with lazy vagabonds, social ghosts that shiver, Give to worthy road-men the great green way, And we'll hear a song again up the Hudson river, Ringing from a drifting raft, set in silver spray.

A WINTER MINSTER

(For Fr. C. L. O'Donnell)

The interlacing trees Arise in Gothic traceries, As if a vast cathedral deep and dim; And through the solemn atmosphere The low winds hymn Such thoughts as solitude will hear.

To lead your way across Gray carpet aisles of moss Unto the chantry stalls, The sumach candelabra are alight; Along the cloister walls, Like chorister and acolyte, The shrubs are vested white; The dutiful monastic oak In his gray-friar cloak Keeps penitential ways And solemn orisons of praise; For beads upon the cincture-vine Red berries warm with color shine, And to their constant rosary The bedesmen firs incline; And fair as frescoes be Among the shrines of Italy, These lights and shadows are, Impalpable in gray and green Upon the hills afar And the gold westering sun between.

The music! Hark!

Oh, an it be no rapturous lark, Yet has the lesser chant The blessedness of song.

The s...o...b..rd mendicant Intones the antiphon-- Et laboremus nos;

And all the grottoed aisles along, Where servitors rejoice, The chorused echoes run--

Oremus nos.

The inspiration of the breeze Gives every reed a voice From tenebrae and silences; Over the valleys borne, Come organ harmonies; And when the low winds call, The pines with miserere mourn A requiem musical, Softer than moonbeams fall Across the starry oriels of night, Flooding the azure round With hushed delight And sanct.i.ty of sound.

THE DARK LITTLE ROSE

IRELAND

When shall we find the spring come in, And the fragrant air it blows?

And when shall the bounty of summer win Fairer than fields of Camolin For the dark little Rose?

Long was the winter, the storms how long!

What flower may live i' the snows!

No bloom shall last under heels of wrong, If the heart-blood be not deathless strong, As the dark little Rose.

Sing hers the culture sweeter than rain That healed old Europe's woes; Older than bowers of Lille and Louvain Grew by the Rhine and the towns of Spain From the dark little Rose.

Leagues in the sunlight never shall fail While the broad, round ocean flows; Though never a fleet goes up Kinsale, See, all the world is within the pale Of the dark little Rose.

THE MONK MAELANFAID

Maelanfaid saw a tiny bird A-grieving on the ground, And O, the sad lament he heard, That sorrow's self might sound: He could not read a note or word The song of grief inwound.

Maelanfaid went within his cell To keep a fast and pray, To listen to a voice would tell The mystery away: What was the red long pain befell The bird of grief all day?

"Maelanfaid," airy voices call, "MacOcha Molv is dead, Who killed no creature great or small, Who helped all life instead: Now griefs of bird and blossom fall Around his funeral bed."

THE YOUNG ADVENTURERS

We will go adventuring, will you come adventuring, Hail, to all who sail with us the seven pleasant seas: All the sh.o.r.es with lily bells, all the flutes of woodland dells Are calling like a legend upon a fragrant breeze.

Throw away the haughty cares, children here are millionaires, Laughter take for baggage and give your laugh a song; We must sail the seas of gra.s.s, round the isles of clover pa.s.s, And delve in leagues of shadowland, when clouds come along.

Caves are walled with treasure trove, rich as any south-sea cove, Bullion of the meadow where the gold sun flows;

Round the reefs of mignonette, up the waves of violet, Fragrant go our sails and spars with attar of the rose.

On, gay adventurers, bravely ride the billowy furze, Golden foil and dewy pearls are swaying to a tune: Quaff the brew of red raspberry through the vine veils gossamery.

Till we turn when night comes down alleys of the moon.