BREEHID, THE DAUGHTER OF PATRICK.

New Zealand Tablet, 20 February 1919, Page 37

BREEHID, THE DAUGHTER OF PATRICK.

(From the Irish.) There’s never a High King’s son But, seeing this queenly one, Would raise her to his throne, Above all womenkind : , Her two eyes, dewy bright As morning after night, Her laughter, murmuring light. As the green leaves in the wind ! What wonder Erin’s men Are stricken with love’s pain— I gaze, and gaze again. And her radiance makes me fear ! Her throat, that shames the swan. Her slender shape, fine-drawn With pencils of the dawn. Wound as a wounding spear! To the High Rath should you go And behold her, soft as snow, Her amber curls ablow• From Death his power you wrest! White the boughs when cuckoos call. White the honey-showers that fall On the hill, but whiter than all Is the Pearl of the Snowy Breast ! O, maid of the fingers fine, Beyond daughters of Eve divine. Nor name nor fame is mine But what your hand shall save ! An hundred men of the South You make weak as with hunger and drouth. But the word and the kiss of your mouth Would bring me back from the grave! The man who measured the deep, , Where the silver planets sweep. And the midnight lightnings leap, He saw the Kingdoms Seven : Here and there he sought Among jewel-maids fine-wrought, But to match her beauty was naught Under the roof of heaven ! —Alice Furlong.