Unheard their clock repeats its hours!
Cold is the hearth within their bow'rs!
And should we thither roam,

Its echoes, and its empty tread,

'Would sound like voices from the dead?

XXXVIII.

'Or shall we cross yon mountains blue,
Whose streams my kindred nation quafi"d;
And by my side, in battle true,
"A thousand warriors drew the shaft?

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:
Even from the land of shadows now
'My father's awful ghost appears,
'Amidst the clouds that round us roll;
'He bids my soul for battle thirst-
He bids me dry the last-the first-
The only tears that ever burst
From Outalissi's soul;

'Because I may not stain with grief
'The death-song of an Indian chief.'

END OF PART THIRD.

O'CONNOR'S CHILD,

OR,

THE FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING.

E

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
Along the isles of Fion-Gael,

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
The lovely pale O'Connor's child?

* The ancient name of Ireland.

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