With him in Ros-grenca the cattle are lowing

At earliest dawn,

On the brink of the summer the pigeons are cooing And doves on the lawn.

Colum Kill, "St. Colum of the Churches."

From An Ode to Ireland1

I

TRAVELLED its fruitful provinces round,
And in every one of the five I found,
Alike in church and in palace hall,
Abundant apparel and food for all.
Gold and silver I found and money,
Plenty of wheat and plenty of honey;
I found God's people rich in pity;
Found many a feast and many a city.
I found in each great church, moreo'er,
Whether on Ireland or on shore,
Piety, learning, fond affection,
Holy welcome and kind protection
I found in Munster unfettered of any
Kings and queens and poets a many,
Poets well skilled in music and measure;
Prosperous doings, mirth and pleasure.
I found in Connacht the just, redundance
Of riches, milk in lavish abundance;
Hospitality, vigor, fame,

From Ireland: Historic and Picturesque, by Charles Johnston. By permission of the John C. Winston Co., Publishers. Philadelphia.

In Cruacan's land of heroic name
I found in Ulster, from hill to glen,
Hardy warriors, resolute men,

Beauty that bloomed when youth was gone,
And strength transmitted from sire to son
I found in Leinster the smooth and sleek,
From Dublin to Slewmargy's peak,
Flourishing pastures, valor, health,
Song-loving worthies, commerce, wealth.
I found in Meath's fair principality
Virtue, vigor, and hospitality;
Candor, joyfulness, bravery, purity
Ireland's bulwark and security.

I found strict morals in age and youth,
I found historians recording truth.
The things I sing of in verse unsmooth

I found them all; I have written sooth.

King Alfred travelled for several years in Ireland and wrote this on his departure.

ENGLAND

This precious stone set in the silver sea,

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

William Shakespeare.

A ripple of land; such little hills the sky

Can stoop to tenderly, and the wheatfields climb;
Such nooks of valleys lined with orchises,
Fed full of noises by invisible streams;
The open pastures where you scarcely tell
White daisies from white dew; at intervals
The mythic oaks and elm trees standing out
Self-poised upon their prodigy of shade,
I thought my father's land was worthy too
Of being my Shakespeare's.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

And one, an English home

gray twilight pour'd

On dewy pastures, dewy trees,

Softer than sleep-all things in order stored,

A haunt of ancient Peace.

Alfred Tennyson.