’Air, air! blue air and white! 
Whither I flee, whither, O whither, O whither I flee!’
(Thus the Lark hurried, mounting from the lea)
’Hills, countries, many waters glittering bright,
Whither I see, whither I see! deeper, deeper, deeper, whither I see, see,
see!’
‘Gay Lark,’ I said,
’The song that’s bred
In happy nest may well to heaven make flight.’

’There’s something, something sad,
I half remember’—­piped a broken strain. 
Well sung, sweet Robin!  Robin sung again. 
‘Spring’s opening cheerily, cheerily! be we glad!’
Which moved, I wist not why, me melancholy mad,
Till now, grown meek,
With wetted cheek,
Most comforting and gentle thoughts I had.

THE ABBOT OF INNISFALLEN

The Abbot of Innisfallen
awoke ere dawn of day;
Under the dewy green leaves
went he forth to pray. 
The lake around his island
lay smooth and dark and deep,
And wrapt in a misty stillness
the mountains were all asleep. 
Low kneel’d the Abbot Cormac
when the dawn was dim and gray;
The prayers of his holy office
he faithfully ’gan say. 
Low kneel’d the Abbot Cormac
while the dawn was waxing red;
And for his sins’ forgiveness
a solemn prayer he said: 
Low kneel’d that holy Abbot
while the dawn was waxing clear;
And he pray’d with loving-kindness
for his convent-brethren dear. 
Low kneel’d that blessed Abbot
while the dawn was waxing bright;
He pray’d a great prayer for Ireland,
he pray’d with all his might. 
Low kneel’d that good old Father
while the sun began to dart;
He pray’d a prayer for all men,
he pray’d it from his heart. 
His blissful soul was in Heaven,
tho’ a breathing man was he;
He was out of time’s dominion,
so far as the living may be.

    The Abbot of Innisfallen
      arose upon his feet;
    He heard a small bird singing,
      and O but it sung sweet! 
    It sung upon a holly-bush,
      this little snow-white bird;
    A song so full of gladness
      he never before had heard. 
    It sung upon a hazel,
      it sung upon a thorn;
    He had never heard such music
      since the hour that he was born. 
    It sung upon a sycamore,
      it sung upon a briar;
    To follow the song and hearken
      this Abbot could never tire. 
    Till at last he well bethought him;
      he might no longer stay;
    So he bless’d the little white singing-bird,
      and gladly went his way.

    But, when he came to his Abbey,
      he found a wondrous change;
    He saw no friendly faces there,
      for every face was strange. 
    The strange men spoke unto him;
      and he heard from all and each
    The foreign tongue of the Sassenach,
      not wholesome Irish speech. 
    Then the oldest monk came