Delightful would it be to me
    From a rock pinnacle to trace
  Continually
    The Ocean’s face: 
  That I might watch the heaving waves
    Of noble force
  To God the Father chant their staves
    Of the earth’s course. 
  That I might mark its level strand,
    To me no lone distress,
  That I might hark the sea-bird’s wondrous band—­
    Sweet source of happiness. 
  That I might hear the clamorous billows thunder
    On the rude beach. 
  That by my blessed church side I might ponder
    Their mighty speech. 
  Or watch surf-flying gulls the dark shoal follow
    With joyous scream,
  Or mighty ocean monsters spout and wallow,
    Wonder supreme! 
  That I might well observe of ebb and flood
    All cycles therein;
  And that my mystic name might be for good
    But “Cul-ri.  Erin.” 
  That gazing toward her on my heart might fall
    A full contrition,
  That I might then bewail my evils all,
    Though hard the addition;
  That I might bless the Lord who all things orders
    For their great good. 
  The countless hierarchies through Heaven’s bright borders—­
    Land, strand, and flood,
  That I might search all books and from their chart
    Find my soul’s calm;
  Now kneel before the Heaven of my heart,
    Now chant a psalm;
  Now meditate upon the King of Heaven,
    Chief of the Holy Three;
  Now ply my work by no compulsion driven. 
    What greater joy could be? 
  Now plucking dulse upon the rocky shore,
    Now fishing eager on,
  Now furnishing food unto the famished poor;
    In hermitage anon: 
  The guidance of the King of Kings
    Has been vouchsafed unto me;
  If I keep watch beneath His wings,
    No evil shall undo me.

HAIL, BRIGIT!

An old Irish poem on the Hill of Alenn recording the disappearance of the Pagan World of Ireland and the triumph of Christianity by the establishment at Kildare of the convent of Brigit, Saint and Princess.

    Safe on thy throne,
  Triumphing Bride,
  Down Liffey’s side,
  Far to the coast,
  Rule with the host
  Under thy care
  Over the Children of Mighty Cathair.

    God’s hid intents
  At every time,
  For pure Erin’s clime
  All telling surpass. 
  Liffey’s clear glass
  Mirrors thy reign,
  But many proud masters have passed from his plain.

    When on his banks
  I cast my eyes thorough
  The fair, grassy Curragh,
  Awe enters my mind
  At each wreck that I find
  Around me far strown
  Of lofty kings’ palaces gaunt, lichen-grown!

    Laery was monarch
  As far as the Main;
  Vast Ailill’s reign! 
  The Curragh’s green wonder
  Still grows the blue under,
  The old rulers thereon
  One after other to cold death have gone.