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While I, his evening food to dress,
Would sing to him in happiness.
But oh, thou midnight of despair!
When I was doom'd to rend my hair:
The night, to me of shrieking sorrow!
The night, to him that had no morrow!

When all was hush'd at even tide,
I heard the baying of their beagle:
Be hush'd! my Connocht Moran cried,
'Tis but the screaming of the eagle.
Alas! 'twas not the eyrie's sound,
Their bloody bands had track'd us out;
Up-list'ning starts our couchant hound-
And hark! again, that nearer shout
Brings faster on the murderers.

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,
Their iron hands had dug the clay,
And o'er his burial turf they trod,
And I beheld-Oh God! Oh God!
His life-blood oozing from the sod!

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,
How long in thraldom's grasp I lay,
I know not, for my soul was black,
And knew no change of night or day.
One night of horror round me grew;
Or if I saw, or felt, or knew,
'Twas but when those grim visages,
The angry brothers of my race,
Glared on each eye-ball's aching throb,
And check'd my bosom's pow'r to sob;
Or when my heart with pulses drear,
Beat like a death-watch to my ear.

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
A prophetess's fire.
Thrice in the east a war-drum beat,
I heard the Saxon's trumpet sound,
And rang'd as to the judgment seat
My guilty, trembling brothers round.
Clad in the helm and shield they came;
For now De Bourgo's sword and flame
Had ravag'd Ulster's boundaries,
And lighted up the midnight skies.
The standard of O'Connor's sway

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,
Go!-and return no more!

For sooner guilt the ordeal brand
Shall grasp unhurt, than ye shall hold
The banner with victorious hand,
Beneath a sister's curse unroll'd.
Oh stranger! by my country's loss!
And by my love! and by the cross!
I swear I never could have spoke
The curse that sever'd nature's yoke;

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