The Singer. To M. N.

Once to old Erin of the singing streams
I went upon the wings of dreams,
And it was night of cloud and sweeping wind,
With here and there a shining star
Upon the dark wastes of the sky defined.
And where the mountains loomed and soughing trees
Waved above valleys stretching dim and far,
I saw the Mother's loved and mighty form
Enrobed as tho in silver of the rain,
Her heaving breast, her curving hips,
Her posture as of one who fate defies,
Her hands clenched fast, her face raised to the storm,
And deathless courage in her eyes:
And rich and loud from out her parted lips,
To harpnotes thrilling with the whole world's pain,
Came forth her song of resolute demand
That God might bless and save her land.