And chords of mystery sound from the wild harp at her side,

Strung from the heart of poets;
And she flies on the wings of tempest
Around her shuddering isle,
With gray hair streaming:
A meteor of evil omen,
The spectre of hope forlorn,
Keening, keening!

She keenes, and the strings of her wild harp shiver

On the gusts of night:

O'er the four waters she keenes -over Moyle she keenes,

O'er the sea of Milith, and the Strait of Strongbow,

And the Ocean of Columbus.

And the Fianna hear, and the ghost of her cloudy hovering heroes;

A holy light that shone of yore

He saw, despis'd, and left behind: His heart was rotting to the core

Lock'd in the slumbers of the mind: Not beat of drum, nor sound of fife, Could rouse it to a sense of life.

A cry was heard, inton'd and slow,

Of one who had no wares to vend : His words were gentle, dull, and low,

And he call'd out, "Old souls to
mend!"

He peddled on from door to door,
And look'd not up to rich or poor.

His step kept on as if in pace

With some old timepiece in his head, Nor ever did its way retrace ;

Nor right nor left turn'd he his tread, But utter'd still his tinker's cry To din the ears of passers-by.

So well they knew the olden note

Few heeded what the tinker spake, Though here and there an ear it smote

And seem'd a sudden hold to take; But they had not the time to stay, And it would do some other day.

Still on his way the tinker wends,

Though jobs be far between and few; But here and there a soul he mends

And makes it look as good as new.
Once set to work, once fairly hir'd,
His dull old hammer seems inspir'd.

Over the task his features glow;

He knocks away the rusty flakes; A spark flies off at every blow;

At every rap new life awakes. The soul once cleans'd of outward sins, His subtle handicraft begins.

Like iron unanneal'd and crude,

The soul is plunged into the blast;

To temper it, however rude,

'Tis next in holy water cast;

Then on the anvil it receives
The nimblest stroke the tinker gives.

The tinker's task is at an end:

Stamp'd was the cross by that last blow.
Again his cry, "Old souls to mend !"
Is heard in accents dull and low.
He pauses not to seek his pay,
That too will do another day.

One stops and says, "This soul of mine
Has been a tidy piece of ware,