While I, his evening food to dress, When all was hush'd at even tide, Spare-spare him-Brazil-Desmond fierce! In vain-no voice the adder charms; Their weapons cross'd my sheltering arms: Another's sword has laid him low Another's and another's; And every hand that dealt the blow Aye me! it was a brother's! Yes, when his moanings died away, XI. Warm in his death-wounds sepulchred, Alas! my warrior's spirit brave, Nor mass nor ulla-lulla 14 heard, Lamenting sooth his grave. Dragg'd to their hated mansion back, The Irish lamentation for the dead. XII. But Heav'n, at last, my soul's eclipse Did with a vision bright inspire: I woke, and felt upon my lips Was in the turret where I lay: That standard, with so dire a look, As ghastly shone the moon and pale, E5 I gave, that every bosom shook Beneath its iron mail. XIII. And go! I cried, the combat seek, Ye hearts that unappalled bore The anguish of a sister's shriek, For sooner guilt the ordeal brand |