And thus his wild lament was pour'd Thro' the dark resounding night, And the battle knew no more his sword, He heard strange voices moaning In every wind that sigh'd; From the searching stars of heaven he shrank Humbly the conqueror died.* * Originally published in the Literary Souvenir for 1827. CAROLAN'S PROPHECY. * Thy cheek too swiftly flushes; o'er thine eye For peace on earth; oh! therefore, child of song! A SOUND of music, from amidst the hills, And the wind's whisper in the mountain-ash. * Founded on a circumstance related of the Irish Bard, in the "Percy Anecdotes of Imagination." Whose clusters droop'd above. His head was bow'd His hand was on his harp, yet thence its touch Th' unchaining of his soul, the gush of song: And pallid braiding flowers, was beautiful, With trembling midst our joy, lest aught unseen By his own rushing stream?-Once more he gaz'd From the deep chords his wandering hand brought out A few short festive notes, an opening strain Of bridal melody, soon dashed with grief, Met and o'ermaster'd him but yielding then The trouble of his haunted soul, and sang Voice of the grave! I hear thy thrilling call; It comes in the dash of the foaming wave, In the sear leaf's trembling fall! In the shiver of the tree, I hear thee, O thou voice! And I would thy warning were but for me, That my spirit might rejoice. But thou art sent For the sad earth's young and fair, For the graceful heads that have not bent To the wintry hand of care ! They hear the wind's low sigh, And the river sweeping free, And the green reeds murmuring heavily, And the woods-but they hear not thee! Long have I striven With my deep foreboding soul, But the full tide now its bounds hath riven, And darkly on must roll. There's a young brow smiling near, With a bridal white-rose wreath, Unto me it smiles from a flowery bier, Fair art thou, Morna! The sadness of thine eye Is beautiful as silvery clouds On the dark-blue summer sky! |