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 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, O'Connor's pale and lovely 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; So far on Galway's shipwreck'd coast; O'Connor's pale and lovely child? 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? Dishevell❜d are her raven locks, 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, The lady, at her shieling door, Rude hut, or cabin. For lo! to love-lorn fantasy, The hero of her heart is nigh. IV. Bright as the bow that spans the storm, In Erin's yellow vesture clad, A son of light-a lovely form, He comes and makes her glad : Now o'er the hills in chase he flits, The hunter and the deer a shade! Sweet mourner! those are shadows vain, That cross the twilight of her brain; Yet she will tell you, she is blest, Of Connocht Moran's tomb possess'd, |