The three sought out the lovely Child,
    On whom, white-blossomed Bethel smiled,
  Three, o’er all knowledge granted sway,
    Three Seers of the Vision they.

  The Promise of the Great All-wise
    Was present to their prescient eyes,
  A Vision beckoning from afar,
    The Christ Child cradled on a star;

  A lofty star of lucent ray,
    It swam before them through the day,
  And when earth’s hues were lost in night,
    It still led on with loving light.

  And still the lucky Royal Three
    Went following it full readily;
  And still across the firmament
    An arch of blessed might it went.

  So rushing radiant, round and soft,
    Past every star that paced aloft,
  Right joyously it stayed for them
    At last o’er blessed Bethlehem.

  O, then each Monarch of the Three
    With worship fell upon his knee,
  And gave, while God he loud extolled,
    His frankincense and myrrh and gold.

  They recognised the Babe’s bright face
    And Mary in her Virgin grace. 
  ’Twas thus the Star’s Epiphany
    Showed Christ their King to the Kings three.

QUATRAINS

HOSPITALITY

  Whether my house is dark or bright,
  I close it not on any wight,
  Lest Thou, hereafter, King of Stars,
  Against me close Thy Heavenly bars.

  If from a guest who shares thy board
  Thy dearest dainty thou shalt hoard,
  ’Tis not that guest, O never doubt it,
  But Mary’s Son shall do without it.

THE BLACKBIRD

  Ah, Blackbird, that at last art blest
   Because thy nest is on the bough,
  No Hermit of the clinking bell,
  How soft and well thy notes fall now.

MOLING SANG THIS

  With the old when I consort
   Jest and sport they straight lay by;
  When with frolic youth I am flung,
   Maddest of the young am I.

THE CHURCH BELL IN THE NIGHT

  Sweet little bell, sweet little bell,
   Struck long and well upon the wind,
  I’d rather tryst with thee to-night
   Than any maiden light of mind.

THE CRUCIFIXION

  At the first bird’s early crying,
  They began Thy Crucifying,
  O Thou of face as woeful wan,
  As the far-flown winter swan.

  Sore the suffering and the shame
  Put upon Thy Sacred Frame;
  Ah! but sorer the heartache
  For Thy stricken Mother’s sake.

THE PILGRIM AT ROME

  Unto Rome wouldst thou attain,
  Great the toil is, small the gain,
  If the King thou seekest therein
  Travel not, with thee, from Erin.

ON A DEAD SCHOLAR