Part 16 (1/2)

G.o.d made a garden, it was men built walls; But the wide sea from men is wholly freed; Freely the great waves rise and storm and break, Nor softlier go for any landlord's need, Where rhythmic tides flow for no miser's sake And none hath profit of the brown sea-weed, But all things give themselves, yet none may take.

_Moira O'Neill_

Moira O'Neill is known chiefly by a remarkable little collection of only twenty-five lyrics, _Songs from the Glens of Antrim_ (1900), simple tunes as unaffected as the peasants of whom she sings. The best of her poetry is dramatic without being theatrical; melodious without falling into the tinkle of most ”popular” sentimental verse.

A BROKEN SONG

'_Where am I from?_' From the green hills of Erin.

'_Have I no song then?_' My songs are all sung.

'_What o' my love?_' 'Tis alone I am farin'.

Old grows my heart, an' my voice yet is young.

'_If she was tall?_' Like a king's own daughter.

'_If she was fair?_' Like a mornin' o' May.

When she'd come laughin' 'twas the runnin' wather, When she'd come blus.h.i.+n' 'twas the break o' day.

'_Where did she dwell?_' Where one'st I had my dwellin'.

'_Who loved her best?_' There's no one now will know.

'_Where is she gone?_' Och, why would I be tellin'!

Where she is gone there I can never go.

BEAUTY'S A FLOWER

_Youth's for an hour, Beauty's a flower, But love is the jewel that wins the world._

Youth's for an hour, an' the taste o' life is sweet, Ailes was a girl that stepped on two bare feet; In all my days I never seen the one as fair as she, I'd have lost my life for Ailes, an' she never cared for me.

Beauty's a flower, an' the days o' life are long, There's little knowin' who may live to sing another song; For Ailes was the fairest, but another is my wife, An' Mary--G.o.d be good to her!--is all I love in life.

_Youth's for an hour, Beauty's a flower, But love is the jewel that wins the world._

_John McCrae_

John McCrae was born in Guelph, Ontario, Canada, in 1872. He was graduated in arts in 1894 and in medicine in 1898. He finished his studies at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore and returned to Canada, joining the staff of the Medical School of McGill University. He was a lieutenant of artillery in South Africa (1899-1900) and was in charge of the Medical Division of the McGill Canadian General Hospital during the World War. After serving two years, he died of pneumonia, January, 1918, his volume _In Flanders Fields_ (1919) appearing posthumously.

Few who read the t.i.tle poem of his book, possibly the most widely-read poem produced by the war, realize that it is a perfect rondeau, one of the loveliest (and strictest) of the French forms.

IN FLANDERS FIELDS

In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.