Last nig to a artan road to listen to some Irised for t t country beauty  no  must turn its s ears to listen. Presently a score of men and boys and girls, rees to listen. Somebody sang Sa Muirnin Diles, and tor, mournful songs of separation, of deatood up and began to dance, o, and t glad song of meeting  to  under tain I looked at every day ted into trees, and oo melted aions of men. No titude of mind, an emotional form, t o older verses, or even to forgotten myt it o one of t under to ts of trees  of knoory tages t  s to carry one as far, for t a little of t, one kno ties to t is, indeed, t of tocracies of t, and because it refuses rivial, tty, as certainly as t o itself t and most unforgetable ts of tions, it is t art is rooted.  is spoken by tel, appreciation of ts t a single mind gives unity and design to, spreads quickly ws hour is come.

    In a society t  out imaginative tradition, only a fe of millions—favoured by ters and by ance, and only ter mucanding of imaginative t “tion is the man himself.”

    ts into tood t  in broken  does not fall silent. And so it o me t radition by making old songs live again, or by gatories into books, take part in t a feual poverty, take part also. t is  cried out, “If t t not Caesar’s friend.”

    1901.