Till each like a golden image was pollen'd from head to feet, And each was as dry as a cricket, with thirst in the middleday heat.

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Blossom and blossom, and promise of blossom, but never a

fruit!

And we hated the Flowering Isle, as we hated the isle that was mute,

And we tore up the flowers by the million and flung them in bight and bay,

And we left but a naked rock, and in anger we sail'd away.

VI.

And we came to the Isle of Fruits: all round from the cliffs and the capes,

Purple or amber, dangled a hundred fathom of grapes,

And the warm melon lay like a little sun on the tawny sand, And the fig ran up from the beach and rioted over the land, And the mountain arose like a jewell'd throne thro' the fragrant air,

Glowing with all-color'd plums and with golden masses of

pear,

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And the crimson and scarlet of berries that flamed upon bine

and vine,

But in every berry and fruit was the poisonous pleasure of wine ; And the peak of the mountain was apples, the hugest that ever were seen,

And they prest, as they grew, on each other, with hardly a leaflet between,

And all of them redder than rosiest health or than utterest

shame,

And setting, when Even descended, the very sunset aflame; And we stay'd three days, and we gorged and we madden'd, till every one drew

His sword on his fellow to slay him, and ever they struck and they slew;

And myself, I had eaten but sparely, and fought till I sunder'd

the fray,

Then I bade them remember my father's death, and we sail'd

away.

VII.

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And we came to the Isle of Fire: we were lured by the light from afar,

For the peak sent up one league of fire to the Northern Star ; Lured by the glare and the blare, but scarcely could stand

upright,

For the whole isle shudder'd and shook like a man in a mortal

affright;

We were giddy besides with the fruits we had gorged, and so crazed that at last

There were some leap'd into the fire; and away we sail'd, and we past

Over that undersea isle, where the water is clearer than air : Down we look'd: what a garden! O bliss, what a Paradise

there!

Towers of a happier time, low down in a rainbow deep

Silent palaces, quiet fields of eternal sleep!

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And three of the gentlest and best of my people, whate'er I

could say,

Plunged head down in the sea, and the Paradise trembled

away.

VIII.

And we came to the Bounteous Isle, where the heavens lean low on the land,

And ever at dawn from the cloud glitter'd o'er us a sun-bright

hand,

Then it open'd and dropt at the side of each man, as he rose from his rest,

Bread enough for his need till the laborless day dipt under the West;

And we wander'd about it and thro' it. O never was time so

good!

And we sang of the triumphs of Finn, and the boast of our ancient blood,

And we gazed at the wandering wave as we sat by the gurgle, of springs,

And we chanted the songs of the Bards and the glories of fairy kings;

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But at length we began to be weary, to sigh, and to stretch

and yawn,

Till we hated the Bounteous Isle and the sun-bright hand of

the dawn,

For there was not an enemy near, but the whole green isle was our own,

And we took to playing at ball, and we took to throwing the

stone,

And we took to playing at battle, but that was a perilous play, For the passion of battle was in us, we slew and we sail'd away.

IX.

And we came to the Isle of Witches and heard their musical

cry

'Come to us, O come, come !' in the stormy red of a sky Dashing the fires and the shadows of dawn on the beautiful

shapes,

For a wild witch naked as heaven stood on each of the loftiest

capes,

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And a hundred ranged on the rock like white sea-birds in

a row,

And a hundred gamboll'd and pranced on the wrecks in the sand below,

And a hundred splash'd from the ledges, and bosom'd the burst of the spray,

But I knew we should fall on each other, and hastily sail'd

away.

X.

And we came in an evil time to the Isle of the Double Towers, One was of smooth-cut stone, one carved all over with flowers, But an earthquake always moved in the hollows under the dells, And they shock'd on each other and butted each other with clashing of bells,

And the daws flew out of the Towers and jangled and wrangled in vain,

And the clash and boom of the bells rang into the heart and

Till the passion of battle was on us, and all took sides with

the Towers,

There were some for the clean-cut stone, there were more for the carven flowers,

And the wrathful thunder of God peal'd over us all the day, For the one half slew the other, and after we sail'd away.

XI.

And we came to the Isle of a Saint who had sail'd with Saint Brendan of yore,

He had lived ever since on the isle and his winters were

fifteen score,

And his voice was low as from other worlds, and his eyes were sweet,

And his white hair sank to his heels and his white beard fell to his feet,

And he spake to me, 'O Maeldune, let be this purpose of thine! Remember the words of the Lord when he told us "Vengeance

His fathers have slain thy fathers in war or in single strife,
Thy fathers have slain his fathers, each taken a life for a life,
Thy father had slain his father, how long shall the murder last?
Go back to the Isle of Finn and suffer the past to be past.'

And we kiss'd the fringe of his beard and we pray'd as we

heard him pray,

And the holy man he assoil'd us, and sadly we sail'd away.

XII.

And we came to the isle we were blown from, and there on the shore was he,

The man that had slain my father. I saw him and let him be. O weary was I of the travel, the trouble, the strife, and the sin, When I landed again, with a tithe of my men, on the Isle of Finn.

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THE POET'S SONG.

THE rain had fallen, the Poet arose,

He pass'd by the town and out of the street,
A light wind blew from the gates of the sun,
And waves of shadow went over the wheat,
And he sat him down in a lonely place,

And chanted a melody loud and sweet,
That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud,
And the lark drop down at his feet.

The swallow stopt as he hunted the fly,

The snake slipt under a spray,

The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak,
And stared with his foot on the prey,

And the nightingale thought, I have sung many songs,

But never a one so gay,

For he sings of what the world will be

When the years have died away.'

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