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352 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
In thy fair valley and on thy strong tide, That gave and took, and taking all, yet gave, Kilfenora! |
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SAINT BRIGID
1~\ /TID dewy pastures girdled with blue air, 1 V I Where ruddy kine the limpid waters drink, Through violet-purpled woods of green Kil-dare, 'Neath rainbow skies, by tinkling rivulet's brink, O Brigid, young, thy tender, snow-white feet
In days of old on breezy morns and eves Wandered through labyrinths of sun and shade, Thy face so innocent-sweet Shining with love that neither joys nor grieves Save as the angels, meek and holy maid !
With white fire in thy hand that burned no man,
But cleansed and warmed where'er its rays might fall, Nor ever wasted low, or needed fan,
Thou walk'dst at eve among the oak-trees tall. There thou didst chant thy vespers, while each star
Grew brighter listening through the leafy screen. Then ceased the song-bird all his love-notes soft, His music near or far,
Hushing his passion 'mid the sombre green To let thy peaceful whispers float aloft.
And still from heavenly choirs thou steal'st by night
To tell sweet Aves in the woods unseen, To tend the shrine-lamps with thy flambeau white |
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