And falls the sun with mellower streak
On Sliv-na-goilas's (12) giant peak.
Still as its dead, is now the breeze,
In Ard-na-mrahir's weeping trees,
So deep its silence, you might tell
Each plashing rain-drop as it fell ;
Beneath its brow, the waters wild
Are sleeping, like a weary child
That sinks from fretful fit to rest,
On its fond mother's peaceful breast.
On yonder grave cold lies the turf
Besprent with rain and ocean's surf,
So purely, freshly green,
And kneeling by that narrow bed,
With pallid cheek and drooping head,
A lonely form is seen.
Long kneels he there in speechless woe,
Silent as she who lies below
In her cold and silent room;
The trees hang motionless above,
There's not a breath of wind to move
The dripping eagle-plume;
Well might you know that man of grief To be Ivera's widow'd chief.
He rose at last, and as he took
Of that dear spot, his last sad look,
Convulsive trembled all his frame,
He strove to utter Eva's name;
Then wildly rushing to the shore,
Was never seen or heard of more. (13)
There is a green island in lone Gougane Barra,
Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow;
In deep-vallied Desmond-a thousand wild fountains
Come down to that lake, from their home in the moun-
tains.
There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken willow
Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow;
As, like some gay child, that sad monitor scorning,
It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning.
And its zone of dark hills-oh! to see them all bright-
ning,
When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning;
And the waters rush down, mid the thunder's deep rattle,
Like clans from their hills at the voice of the battle;
And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming,
And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are screaming.
Oh! where is the dwelling in valley, or highland,
So meet for a bard as this lone little island!
How oft when the summer sun rested on Clara,
And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera,
Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the
And trod all thy wilds with a Minstrel's devotion,
And thought of thy bards, when assembling together,
In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depth of thy heather;
They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter
And waked their last song by the rush of thy water.
High sons of the lyre, oh! how proud was the feeling,
To think while alone through that solitude stealing,
Though loftier Minstrels green Erin can number,
I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber,
And mingled once more with the voice of those fountains,
The songs even echo forgot on her mountains,
And glean'd each grey legend, that darkly was sleeping Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty was creeping.
Least bard of the hills! were it mine to inherit,
The fire of thy harp, and the wing of thy spirit,
With the wrongs which like thee to our country has
bound me,
Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around me,
Still, still in those wilds may young liberty rally,
And send her strong shout over mountain and valley,
The star of the west may yet rise in its glory,
And the land that was darkest, be brightest in story.
I too shall be gone ;-but my name shall be spoken
When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken;
Some Minstrel will come, in the summer eve's gleaming,
When Freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming,
And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion,
Where calm Avon Buee seeks the kisses of ocean,
Or plant a wild wreath, from the banks of that river,
O'er the heart, and the harp, that are sleeping for ever.
TO A SPRIG OF MOUNTAIN HEATH.
Thou little stem of lowly heath!
Nursed by the wild winds hardy breath,
Dost thou survive, unconquer'd still,
Thy stately brethren of the hill?
No more the morning mist shall break,
Around Clogh-grenans towering oak;
The stag no more with glance of pride,
Looks fearless from its hazle side;
But there thou livest lone and free
The IIermit plant of Liberty.
Child of the mountain! many a storm
Hath drench'd thy head and shook thy form,
Since in thy depths Clan-muire lay,
To wait the dawning of that day;
And many a sabre, as it beamed
Forth from its heather scabbard gleamed,
When Leia its vengeance hot did slake
In yonder city of the lake,
And its proud Saxon fortress bore,
The banner green of Reiry More.
Thou wert not then as thou art now,
Upon a bondsman-minstrel's brow;
But wreathing round the harp of Leix,
When to the strife it fired thee free,
Or from the helmet battle sprent,
Waved where the cowering Saxon bent.
Yet blush not, for the bard you crown,
Ne'er stooped his spirits homage down,
And he can wake tho' rude his skill,
The songs you loved on yonder hill.
Repine not, that no more the spring
Its balmy breath shall round thee fling:
No more the heath cock's pinion sway,
Shall from thy blossom dash the spray,
More sweet, more blest, thy lot shall prove,
Go-to the breast of her I love,
And speak for me to that blue eye;
Breathe to that heart my fondest sigh;
And tell her in thy softest tone
That he who sent thee is her own.
NOTE.-The Fortress alluded to is the Castle of Carlow, built in the time of King JOHN, and still an imposing ruin. RIERY MORE was the Chieftain of Liex (the present Queen's County) in the time of ELIZABETH-he was brave, politic, and accomplished above his ruder countrymen of that period; he stormed the Castle of Carlow, which being within the pale, belonged to the English; they never had a more skilful enemy in the country. RIERE, Anglice ROGER.-Carlow, or Cahir-lough, literally the City of the Lake.-Clough-grenna, the sunny hill. It is near Carlow but in the Queen's County, and was formerly thickly covered with oak.
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