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452 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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Here the first daisies break free from the sod, Stars looking up with their first glance to God ! Here, ere the first days of April are done, Stand the swart cherry trees robed with the sun; In the deep woodland the windflowers blow ; Where young grass is springing, the crocuses glow, Down the green glen is the primrose's light, Soft shines the hawthorn's raiment of white; Round the rough knees of the crab-tree a ring Of daffodils dance for joy of the spring; And then my bright river, so full and so free, Sings as it wanders through woodland and lea.
Fed with a thousand invisible rills, Girdled around with the awe of the hills, High in the mountains you spring to the light, Pure as the dawn from the dark ring of night. Well may the fairies keep revelry round, There where you cleave the thin air at a bound, And rush on the crag with your arms outspread — Only a fairy could step where you tread 'Mid the deep echoes you pause to arouse, 'Mid the grim rocks with the frown on their brows, Type of young Freedom, bold river, to me; Leaping the crags, sweeping down to Lough Neagh.
Many a ruin, both abbey and cot,
Sees in your mirror a desolate lot.
Many an ear lying shut far away
Hearkened the tune that your dark ripples play
One—I remember her better than all —
She knew every legend of cabin and hall;
Wept when the Law and the Famine-time met, |
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