Verse > Anthologies > Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. > Poems of Places > Ireland
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed.  Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Ireland: Vol. V.  1876–79.
Appendix: Arraglen
Kate of Arraglen
Denny Lane
WHEN first I saw thee, Kate,
That summer evening late,
Down at the orchard gate
          Of Arraglen,
I felt I ’d ne’er before        5
Seen one so fair, asthore,
I feared I ’d never more
          See thee again,—
I stopped and gazed at thee,
My footfall luckily        10
Reached not thy ear, though we
          Stood there so near;
While from thy lips a strain,
Soft as the summer rain,
Sad as a lover’s pain,        15
          Fell on my ear.
I ’ve heard the lark in June,
The harp’s wild plaintive tune,
The thrush, that aye too soon
          Gives o’er his strain,—        20
I ’ve heard in hushed delight
The mellow horn at night,
Waking the echoes light
          Of wild Loch Lene;
But neither echoing horn,        25
Nor thrush upon the thorn,
Nor lark at early morn,
          Hymning in air,
Nor harper’s lay divine,
E’er witched this heart of mine,        30
Like that sweet voice of thine,
          That evening there.
And when some rustling, dear,
Fell on thy listening ear,
You thought your brother near,        35
          And named his name,
I could not answer, though,
As luck would have it so,
His name and mine, you know,
          Were both the same,—        40
Hearing no answering sound,
You glanced in doubt around,
With timid look, and found
          It was not he;
Turning away your head,        45
And blushing rosy red,
Like a wild fawn you fled
          Far, far from me.
The swan upon the lake,
The wild rose in the brake,        50
The golden clouds that make
          The west their throne,
The wild ash by the stream,
The full moon’s silver beam,
The evening star’s soft gleam,        55
          Shining alone,
The lily robed in white,
All, all are fair and bright;
But ne’er on earth was sight
          So bright, so fair,        60
As that one glimpse of thee,
That I caught then, machree,
It stole my heart from me
          That evening there.
And now you ’re mine alone,        65
That heart is all my own,—
That heart that ne’er hath known
          A flame before.
That form of mould divine,
That snowy hand of thine,        70
Those locks of gold, are mine
Was lover ever seen
As blest as thine, Kathleen?
Hath lover ever been        75
          More fond, more true?
Thine is my every vow!
Forever, dear, as now!
Queen of my heart be thou!
          Mo cailin ruadh! 1        80
Note 1. My golden-haired girl. [back]

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