Was strung full high to notes of gladness; But yet it often told a tale Of more prevailing sadness. • Ireland. Sad was the note, and wild its fall, As winds that moan at night forlorn 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? II. Sweet lady! she no more inspires Green Erin's hearts with beauty's pow'r, As in the palace of her sires She bloom'd a peerless flow'r. 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, While yet in Leinster unexplor'd, Her friends survive the English sword; 7 Kerne, the ancient Irish foot soldiery. III. 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? On Connocht Moran's name she calls; And oft amidst the lonely rocks She sings sweet madrigals. Plac'd in the foxglove and the moss, Behold a parted warrior's cross! That is the spot where, evermore, Rude hut, or cabin. |