Throw open wide your golden gates,
O poet-landed month of June,
And waft me, on your spicy breath,
The melody of birds in tune.

O fairest palace of the three,
Wherein Queen Summer holdeth sway,
I gaze upon your leafy courts
From out the vestibule of May.

I fain would tread your garden walks,
Or in your shady bowers recline;
Then open wide your golden gates,
And make them mine, and make them mine.

Dark are the waters of sorrow, Mavourneen,
Bleak the grey rocks that surround the cold wave;
Pale are the small silver daisies that borrow
Life from the green sod that's laid on a grave.

Cheerless the songs of the thrushes, Mavourneen,
Scentless the blossom of each hawthorn tree;
Salt is the hot tear that bitterly rushes,
Kneeling by green altar sacred to thee.

Blue is the low, misty mountain, Mavourneen,
We lived on, loved on, and toiled on of yore;
Clear the bright torrent that runs from its fountain,
Bursting in glee by our own lowly door.

Here there are rarely things one rarely sees.
Nothing to swell the dictionary for.
Trees and poppies, rosy intimacies.
A crab that treads a stream or walks ashore.
Never a sudden noise except the crows.
Small bird songs and insects and toads until
Ears with little further to hear must close;
Or if they're still open close to the whippoorwill.

Let those who love the ocean dredge the ocean,
Or those who praise the Rockies, find new peaks.
The itch for progress never set me in motion.
I love a man the more the less he speaks.

'Twas the dusky Hallowe'en—
Hour of fairy and of wraith,
When in many a dim-lit green,
'Neath the stars' prophetic sheen,
As the olden legend saith,
All the future may be seen,
And when—an older story hath—
Whate'er in life hath ever been
Loveful, hopeful, or of wrath,
Cometh back upon our path.
I was dreaming in my room,
'Mid the shadows, still as they;
Night, in veil of woven gloom,
Wept and trailed her tresses gray
O'er her fair, dead sister—Day.
To me from some far-away
Crept a voice—or seemed to creep—
As a wave-child of the deep,

Repose upon her soulless face,
Dig the grave and leave her;
But breathe a prayer that, in his grace,
He who so loved this toiling race
To endless rest receive her.

Oh, can it be the gates ajar
Wait not her humble quest,
Whose life was but a patient war
Against the death that stalked from far
With neither haste nor rest;

To whom were sun and moon and cloud,
The streamlet's pebbly coil,
The transient, May-bound, feathered crowd,
The storm's frank fury, thunder-browed,
But witness of her toil;

Whose weary feet knew not the bliss

Out of the shadows of sadness,
Into the sunshine of gladness,
Into the light of the blest;
Out of a land very dreary,
Out of a world very weary,
Into the rapture of rest.

Out of to-day's sin and sorrow,
Into a blissful to-morrow,
Into a day without gloom;
Out of a land filled with sighing,
Land of the dead and the dying,
Into a land without tomb.

Out of a life of commotion,
Tempest-swept oft as the ocean,
Dark with the wrecks drifting o'er;
Into a land calm and quiet,
Never a storm cometh nigh it,
Never a wreck on its shore.

Mute Memory stands at Valour's awful shrine,
In tears Britannia mourns her hero dead;
A world's regret, brave ABERCROMBIE's thine,
For nature sorrow'd as thy spirit fled!

For, not the tear that matchless courage claims,
To honest zeal, and soft compassion due,
Alone is thine—o'er thy adored remains
Each virtue weeps, for all once lived in you.

Yes, on thy deeds exulting I could dwell,
To speak the merits of thy honour'd name;
But, ah! what need my humble muse to tell,
When Rapture's self has echoed forth thy fame?

Among the fields the camomile
Seems blown mist in the lightning's glare:
Cool, rainy odors drench the air;
Night speaks above; the angry smile
Of storm within her stare.

The way that I shall take to-night
Is through the wood whose branches fill
The road with double darkness, till,
Between the boughs, a window's light
Shines out upon the hill.

The fence; and then the path that goes
Around a trailer-tangled rock,
Through puckered pink and hollyhock,
Unto a latch-gate's unkempt rose,
And door whereat I knock.

I SAW a Ruler take his stand,
And trample on a mighty land;
The People crouched before his beck,
His iron heel was on their neck,
His name shone bright through blood and pain,
His sword flashed back their praise again.

I saw another Ruler rise:
His words were noble, good, and wise;
With the calm sceptre of his pen
He ruled the minds and thoughts of men:
Some scoffed, some praised,—while many heard,
Only a few obeyed his word.

Another Ruler then I saw:
Love and sweet Pity were his law;
The greatest and the least had part

If the Diviltry mixed wid Man
Is leavin' us far from good,
Faith, let us be honest at least, me lad,
As Divil or Saint we should!

And though few av us walk the path
That the Holier Men have trod,
To be fair wid the Sinner as well as the Saint
Is keepin' in touch wid God!