TELL me, ye wingèd winds,
That round my pathway roar,
Do ye not know some spot
Where mortals weep no more?
Some lone and pleasant dell,
Some valley in the west,
Where, free from toil and pain,
The weary soul may rest?
The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low,
And sighed for pity as it answered,—“No...
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Up the dale and down the bourne,
O’er the meadow swift we fly;
Now we sing, and now we mourn,
Now we whistle, now we sigh.By the grassy-fringèd river,
Through the murmuring reeds we sweep;
Mid the lily-leaves we quiver,
To their very hearts we creep.Now the maiden rose is blushing
At the frolic things we... -
From “Wicklow”
YES, this is Wicklow; round our feet
And o’er our heads its woodlands smile;
Behold it, love—the garden sweet
And playground of our stormy isle.* * * * *
Is it not fair—the leafy land?
Not boasting Nature’s sterner pride,
Voluptuous beauty, scenes that stand
By minds immortal...