Thy mystic ministries Of glorious far skies, Thy wild-rose sermons, Sweet, Like dreams profound and fleet, Thy woodland harmony Thou givest me.
The vision that can see, The loving will to learn, How fair thy skies may be, What in thy roses burn, Thy secret harmonies,-- Ah, give me these!
Love, shall I liken thee unto the rose That is so sweet? Nay, since for a single day she grows, Then scattered lies upon the garden-rows Beneath our feet.
But to the perfume shed when forests nod, When noonday shines, That lulls us as we tread the woodland sod, Eternal as the peace of God The scent o’ pines.
By a dim shore where water darkening Took the last light of spring, I went beyond the tumult, harkening For some diviner thing.
Where the bats flew from the black elms like leaves, Over the ebon pool Brooded the bittern’s cry, as one that grieves Lands ancient, bountiful.
I saw the fire-flies shine below the wood, Above the shallows dank, As Uriel, from some great altitude, The planets rank on rank.
And now unseen along the shrouded mead One went under the hill; He blew a cadence on his mellow reed, That trembled and was still.
It seemed as if a line of amber fire Had shot the gathered dusk, As if had blown a wind from ancient Tyre Laden with myrrh and musk.
He gave his luring note amid the fern; Its enigmatic fall Haunted the hollow dusk with golden turn And argent interval.
I could not know the message that he bore, The springs of life from me Hidden; his incommunicable lore As much a mystery.
And as I followed far the magic player He passed the maple wood; And, when I passed, the stars had risen there, And there was solitude.
Through storm and fire and gloom, I see it stand Firm, broad, and tall, The Celtic Cross that marks our Fatherland, Amid them all! Druids and Danes and Saxons vainly rage Around its base; It standeth shock on shock, and age on age, Star of our scatter’d race.
O Holy Cross! dear symbol of the dread Death of our Lord, Around thee long have slept our martyr dead Sward over sward. An hundred bishops I myself can count Among the slain: Chiefs, captains, rank and file, a shining mount Of God’s ripe grain.
The monarch’s mace, the Puritan’s claymore, Smote thee not down; On headland steep, on mountain summit hoar, In mart and town, In Glendalough, in Ara, in Tyrone, We find thee still, Thy open arms still stretching to thine own, O’er town and lough and hill.