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“FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING.”
Oh ! once the harp of Innisfail a
Was strung full high to notes of gladness;
it often told a tale
Of more prevailing sadness.
Sad was the note, and wild its fall,
As winds that moan at night forlorn
Along the isles of Fion-Gall,
When, for O'Connor's child to mourn,
The harper told, how lone, how far
From any mansion's twinkling star,
From any path of social men,
Or voice, but from the fox's den,
The lady in the desert dwelt;
And yet no wrongs, no fear she felt :
Say, why should dwell in place so wild,
Sweet lady! she no more inspires
As, in the palace of her sires,
She bloom'd a peerless flower.
Gone from her hand and bosom, gone,
The royal broche, the jewell'd ring,
That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone,
Like dews on lilies of the spring.
Yet why, though fall’n her brother's kerne,
Beneath De Bourgo's battle stern,
b Kerne, the ancient Irish foot soldiery. c Rude hut, or cabin.
While yet in Leinster unexplored,
Her friends survive the English sword ;
Why lingers she from Erin's host,
So far on Galway's shipwreck'd coast;
Why wanders she a huntress wild
O'Connor's pale and lovely child ?
And fix'd on empty space, why burn
Her eyes with momentary wildness ;
And wherefore do they then return
To more than woman's mildness?
Dishevell’d are her raven locks;
On Connocht Moran's name she calls ;
And oft amidst the lonely rocks
Placed in the foxglove and the moss,
Behold a parted warrior's cross !
That is the spot where, evermore,
The lady, at her shieling door,