With many a floating corse,

And with many a woman's wail.

They have lighted the islands with ruin's torch,

And the holy men of Iona's church

In the temple of God lay slain;
All but Aodh, the last Culdee,
But bound with many an iron chain,
Bound in that church was he.

And where is Aodh's bride?

Rocks of the ocean flood!

Plunged she not from your heights in pride,
And mock'd the men of blood?
Then Ulvfagre and his bands

In the temple lighted their banquet up,
And the print of their blood-red hands
Was left on the altar cup.

'Twas then that the Norseman to Aodh said, "Tell where thy church's treasure's laid,

Or I'll hew thee limb from limb."

As he spoke the bell struck three,

But the torches again burnt bright,

And brighter than before,

When an aged man of majestic height

Enter'd the temple door.

Hush'd was the revellers' sound,

They were struck as mute as the dead,

And their hearts were appall'd by the very sound

Of his footsteps' measured tread.

Nor word was spoken by one beholder,

Whilst he flung his white robe back o'er his

shoulder,

And stretching his arms-as eath

Unriveted Aodh's bands,

As if the gyves had been a wreath
Of willows in his hands.

All saw the stranger's similitude
To the ancient statue's form;
The Saint before his own image stood,

And grasp'd Ulvfagre's arm.

Then up rose the Danes at last to deliver

Their chief, and shouting with one accord,
They drew the shaft from its rattling quiver,
They lifted the spear and sword,
And levell❜d their spears in rows.
But down went axes and spears and bows,
When the Saint with his crosier sign'd,

The archer's hand on the string was stopt,
And down, like reeds laid flat by the wind,
Their lifted weapons dropt.

The Saint then gave a signal mute,

And though Ulvfagre will'd it not, He came and stood at the statue's foot, Spell-riveted to the spot,

Till hands invisible shook the wall,

And the tottering image was dash'd Down from its lofty pedestal.

On Ulvfagre's helm it crash'd—
Helmet, and skull, and flesh, and brain,
It crush'd as millstones crush the grain.
Then spoke the Saint, whilst all and each
Of the Heathen trembled round,

And the pauses amidst his speech

Were as awful as the sound:

"Go back, ye wolves! to your dens" (he cried), "And tell the nations abroad,

How the fiercest of your herd has died,

That slaughter'd the flock of God.

Gather him bone by bone,

And take with you o'er the flood The fragments of that avenging stone That drank his heathen blood.

These are the spoils from Iona's sack,

The only spoils ye shall carry back;
For the hand that uplifteth spear or sword
Shall be wither'd by palsy's shock,

And I come in the name of the Lord
To deliver a remnant of his flock."

A remnant was call'd together,

A doleful remnant of the Gaël,

And the Saint in the ship that had brought him

hither

Took the mourners to Innisfail.

Unscathed they left Iona's strand,

When the opal morn first flush'd the sky,

For the Norse dropt spear, and bow, and brand, And look'd on them silently;

Safe from their hiding-places came

Orphans and mothers, child and dame:

But, alas! when the search for Reullura spread, No answering voice was given,

For the sea had gone o'er her lovely head,

And her spirit was in Heaven.

1824.

THE TURKISH LADY.

'Twas the hour when rites unholy Call'd each Paynim voice to prayer,

And the star that faded slowly

Left to dews the freshen'd air.

Day her sultry fires had wasted,

Calm and sweet the moonlight rose;

Ev'n a captive spirit tasted

Half oblivion of his woes.

Then 'twas from an Emir's palace
Came an Eastern lady bright:
She, in spite of tyrants jealous,

Saw and loved an English knight.

"Tell me, captive, why in anguish

Foes have dragg'd thee here to dwell, Where poor Christians as they languish Hear no sound of Sabbath bell?"

""Twas on Transylvania's Bannet, When the Crescent shone afar,