Lays from the West

  Then the spirit reached her fingers,
    Taper things of rosy snow,
  Took my songs, and as she took them,
    "Tiny germs," she whispered "go!
  Root among the coming hours,
    Seeds are ye of many flowers,
  Which from out the winds will grow!"

* * * * *

Dedicated

WITH MUCH GRATITUDE AND AFFECTION

TO

MRS. T. SPOTISWOOD ASH,

THE MANOR HOUSE,

BELLAGHY, IRELAND.

* * * * *

IN THE NORTHWEST.

"I'll not forget Old Ireland, were it fifty times as fair."

  In myriads o'er the prairie
    Bright flowers bloom strangely fair,
  There's beauty in the clear blue sky,
    There's sweetness in the air;
  And loveliness, with lavish hand,
    Decks dell and dingle gay;
  Yet still I love my native land—
    The Green Isle, far away.

  The poplar quivers in the breeze,
    And by the blue lake's side.
  The regal iris, tall and fair,
    Blooms in her native pride;
  But I dream of the broad beeches' shade
    In glens beside Lough Neagh
  And my longing thoughts go back to thee,
    O, Green Isle, far away!

  Strange birds, in painted plumage gay,
    In hundreds haunt the grove;
  O'er marsh and moor, the loon and heron,
    The coot and plover rove;
  But I miss the lark's glad matin song,
    And the thrush and blackbird's lay,
  The summer songsters, sweet and wild,
    In the Green Isle, far away.
  Along the blue horizon line
    The "bluffs" rise 'gainst the sky,
  But in dreams I see Old Erin's coast—
    Her mountains wild and high
  Slieve Gallon, with his hoary head
    Gold-crowned at close of day,
  When sunset lights the grand old hills
    In the Green Isle, far away.

  There's beauty in the woodland wilds
    With their varied foliage fair,
  But, cowering from the light of day,
    The grim wolf shelters there.
  Ah! dear old woods, where I have roamed
    At eve of summer day,
  No hidden dangers haunt your glades,
    In the Green Isle, far away.

  The clear Assiniboine winds free
    Through many a fertile vale;
  The antlered deer and graceful hind
    Bound o'er the wooded dale;
  But I miss the quiet rural scenes—
    The farm-house, thatched and grey,
  That memory fondly pictures now
    Of the Green Isle, far away.

  The Sabbath morn its holy calm
    Breathes o'er the prairie lands,
  And the answering heart hears Nature's psalm
    And the wild woods clap their hands.
  But I long to hear the church bell's sound
    Tell to these wilds that day,
  When thousands meet to praise and pray
    In the Green Isle far away.

  Here life lays hold of brighter things
    For the fair years to be,
  But the deathless Past and all her dreams,
    Old land, belong to thee!
  The buried love, the buried hope
    Of youth's glad summer day,
  That blend with unforgotten scenes
    Of the Green Isle, far away.

  And while we love this pleasant land
    And own it good and fair,
  Our hearts' first love goes backward
    And fondly lingers there—
  Back to the dear home country,
    Then forward to that day
  When all shall meet together,
    From the Green Isle pass'd away.

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