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223

VIII. THE ISLAND OF INISFALLEN.

The holy sunshine like a garment lay,
A sacerdotal vesture dense with gold,
On every shelving mound, and slumbrous wold,
As round and round we paced at noon our way.
Onward we paced by many a winding bay,
And hollow lawn that seemed to have ta'en its mould
From wave-like anthems rolling here of old,
While yet old rites maintained harmonious sway.
Green slopes we trod, majestic as the plains
Of sand disclosed by Ocean's ebbing tide:
Hard by were groves of ash through which we spied
The ruined convent with its weather-stains,
From whose calm bosom passed of old the strains
This Eden of blue lakes that sanctified.
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