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Thy cheek too swiftly flushes; o'er thine eye
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,
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,
As if some wailing spirit in the strings
Met and o'ermaster'd him but yielding then To the strong prophet-impulse, mournfully, Like moaning waters, o'er the harp he pour'd 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,
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, Touch'd solemnly by death!
Fair art thou Morna!
The sadness of thine eye
Is beautiful as silvery clouds
On the dark-blue summer sky!
And thy voice comes like the sound
Of a sweet and hidden rill,
That makes the dim woods tuneful round
But soon it must be still!
Silence and dust
On thy sunny lips must lie,
Make not the strength of love thy trust,
A stronger yet is nigh!
No strain of festal flow
Young art thou, Morna!
Yet on thy gentle head,
Like heavy dew on the lily's leaves,