Unheard their clock repeats its hours! Its echoes, and its empty tread, 'Would sound like voices from the dead? XXXVIII. 'Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Ah! there in desolation cold, The desert serpent dwells alone, 'Where grass o'ergrows each mould'ring bone, "And stones themselves to ruin grown, Like me, are death-like old. 'Then seek we not their camp-for there The silence dwells of my despair! XXXIX. But hark, the trump-to-morrow thou 'In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears: 'Because I may not stain with grief END OF PART THIRD. OH once the harp of Innisfail* Was strung full high to notes of gladness; But yet it often told a tale Of more prevailing sadness. Sad was the note, and wild its fall, As winds that moan at night forlorn When for O'Connor's child to mourn, And yet no wrongs, no fear she felt: * The ancient name of Ireland. 778345 A |