THE HILL OF MAEVE

This is the hill of Maeve, the queen,

A mighty bulwark of gray-green

Whereon was set, by hands unknown,

A rugged monument of stone.

The great winds mourn, and sobs the wave

Beneath the lichened cairn of Maeve.

From many a rocky Leitrim height

O'er Lough Gill's waters, blue and bright,

From where Benbulbin fronts the foam,

And sees the Sligo ships put home,

Maeve's hill is like a pharos flame,

As is eternally her name!

‘ Neath azure tides of morning air

Ripple the waves of Ballysadare

Under where frowning Knocknarea

Looks o'er the Rosses far to sea,—

Looks far to sea, remembering

Maeve's loveliness, a vanished thing.

The cromlechs, gray with eld, below,

Recall the dreams of long ago,—

The dreams of kern and king, both slave

To beauty, and the white Queen Maeve;

And though she slumbers, deep, so deep,

Her golden memory may not sleep!