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ST. KEVIN AND KATHLEEN, by                    
First Line: Come, kathleen, pure and soft as dew
Last Line: Life's current pure and fresh for ever!


COME, Kathleen, pure and soft as dew,
The lake is heaving at our feet,
The stars ascend the eternal blue,
Primeval granite makes our seat.
Beneath eternal skies above,
'Mid everlasting hills around,
I speak of love -- immortal love! --
Such as in Eden first was found.
Let each look through the other's soul,
Until each thought within that lies,
Like spar o'er which these clear waves roll,
Unveil its lustre to our eyes.

I bless thee, Kathleen, o'er and o'er,
For all the joy thy smiles have brought me,
And mysteries of loving lore
Thy very presence oft hath taught me.
For beauty innocent as thine --
Such lovely soul in lovely form --
Still makes diviner aught divine,
And calms the spirit's wildest storm.
Whene'er I muse -- how oft! -- on thee,
Half-seen, each high and holy feeling
Of love and immortality
Take shape, like angels round me wheeling.

To thee I owe the purest flowers
Of song that o'er my pathway burst,
And holy thought, at midnight hours,
From thine unconscious beauty nurst.
There is no stain on flowers like these,
That from my heart to thine are springing;
And thoughts of thee are like the breeze,
When bells for midnight mass are ringing.
Without thy knowledge from thee beams
Some gentle and refining light,
That fills my heart with childhood's dreams,
And I grow purer in thy sight.

Thou art no queen -- no hero I --
But thou'rt the fairest Christian maid
To whom the worship of a sigh,
By Christian bard was ever paid.
And this I am -- Sire -- God above,
Who made my soul of that rich flame,
All adoration, song, and love,
That from thine own great Spirit came!
Than mine no purer, warmer zeal
For justice and sublime desire
Of freedom, truth, and human weal
Glows in the seraph ranks of fire.

I've bower'd thee in a lonely shrine --
My bosom's convent-garden, sweet --
Where song and pray'r their signs combine,
Where love and adoration meet.
I've rob'd thee like Ban-Tierna olden
Of Eire, in a vesture green;
And clasped thee with a girdle golden
O'er all my dream-world saint and queen.
I've starr'd thy hands with Irish gems,
And sought to wreathe thy rich brown hair,
The oakwood's dewy diadems,
And won the sacred shamrocks there.

Oh, would that thou could'st read my heart,
Or that my lips might be unseal'd,
And by love's lamp, in every part,
My spirit's inmost crypt reveal'd!
Within, like maid in minstrel tale,
One lovely vision sleeping lies;
Beside her Hope, with forehead pale,
And timid Joy, with downcast eyes.
'T is Love, in long enchantment bound,
I know not how, in torpor there;
The spells obey but one sweet sound --
When Kathleen sings, they melt in air.

See! over yonder mountains, crack'd
And sunder'd by volcanic fire,
Sings Glendalough's white cataract --
Fit chord of such a granite lyre.
And then the cloud-born waterfall
Summons aloud, from rock and wood,
The child-like springs, and leads them all,
With laughter to this gloomy flood.
And thus thy love my heart shall lave --
When sorrow's rocks, faith-cloven, sever,
Giving a glimpse of God -- and save
Life's current pure and fresh for ever!





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