Poetry
Saint Bride of the Isles
AT last she comes across the seas, Our sweet Saint Bride ; She comes to bless the Hebrides, Her shallop that no mortal secs Sped by a gently-blowing breeze And full still tide.
'Tis she who tends all kindly fires On earth that glow—
The warmth the sun in spring acquires, The heat the cottage hearth respires, Soft flame of heart-enshrined desires That poets know.
Before her come her heralds three, Bright, fresh and fair-- The white-winged searcher of the sea, The rathe lamb frisking on the lea, The dandelion spark we see Lit everywhere.
From out the winter of the year Like light at morn, To dark, wet rocks and rushy mere She brings a message of good cheer That spring has come and summer's near And hope re-born.
Wild skerries where the spray-cloud soars Her joy have caught ; From Jura, where the whirlpool pours, North by dim lochs and russet moors Passes the Lady of the Shores Like a glad thought.
Now wakes in every drystone shelling 'Mid island hills, Like dawn upon the darkness stealing, And strong as youth, a valiant feeling Of hope and happiness and healing , For earthly ills.
Jorpst,ANDERSQN: STEWAUT.
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