"Thou wert the first, the first fair child, That in mine arms I press'd; Thou wert the bright one, that hast smil'd Like summer on my breast! I reared thee as an eagle, To the chase thy steps I led, I bore thee on my battle-horse, I look upon thee-dead! 66 Lay down my warlike banners here, Never again to wave, And bury my red sword and spear, Chiefs! in my first-born's grave! Thou too art mute, my son !" 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, By a blue stream of Erin, where it swept Flashing thro' rock and wood; the sunset's light Was on his wavy silver-gleaming hair, 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; Seem'd present to his dream; and she indeed, And pallid braiding flowers, was beautiful, Too dim without its brightness!-Did such fear 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, 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! |