Of the foremost birds the burthen
    Most melodiously unfolded
  Tells of all the works of wonder
    God wrought before the world He moulded.

  Then a sweet crowd heavenward lifted,
    When the nocturn bells are pealing,
  Chants His purposes predestined
    Until the Day of Doom’s revealing.

  Next a flock whose thoughts are blessed,
    Under twilight’s curls dim sweeping,
  Hymn God’s wondrous words of Judgment
    When His Court of Doom is keeping.

  One and forty on a hundred
    And a thousand, without lying,
  Was their number, joined to virtue,
    Put upon each bird-flock flying.

  Who these faultless birds should hearken,
    Thus their strains of rapture linking,
  For the very transport of it,
    Unto death would straight be sinking.

  Pray for us, O mighty Mary! 
    When earth’s bonds no more are binding,
  That these birds our souls may solace,
    In the Land of Philip’s finding.

[Footnote A:  A fair, or open-air assembly.]

Lays of Monk and Hermit

THE SCRIBE

(From the Early Irish)

  For weariness my hand writes ill,
    My small sharp quill runs rough and slow;
  Its slender beak with failing craft
    Gives forth its draught of dark blue flow.

  And yet God’s blessed wisdom gleams
    And streams beneath my fair brown palm,
  The while quick jets of holly ink
    The letters link of prayer or psalm.

  So still my dripping pen is fain
    To cross the plain of parchment white,
  Unceasing, at some rich man’s call,
    Till wearied all am I to-night.

THE HERMIT’S SONG

(See Eriu, vol.  I, p. 39, where the Irish text will be found.  It dates from the ninth century)

  I long, O Son of the living God,
    Ancient, eternal King,
  For a hidden hut on the wilds untrod,
    Where Thy praises I might sing;
  A little, lithe lark of plumage grey
    To be singing still beside it,
  Pure waters to wash my sin away,
    When Thy Spirit has sanctified it. 
  Hard by it a beautiful, whispering wood
    Should stretch, upon either hand,
  To nurse the many-voiced fluttering brood
    In its shelter green and bland. 
  Southward, for warmth, should my hermitage face,
    With a runnel across its floor,
  In a choice land gifted with every grace,
    And good for all manner of store. 
  A few true comrades I next would seek
    To mingle with me in prayer,
  Men of wisdom, submissive, meek;
    Their number I now declare,
  Four times three and three times four,
    For every want expedient,
  Sixes two within God’s Church door,
    To north and south obedient;