'Twas but when those grim visages,
The angry brothers of my race,
Glared on each eyeball's aching throb,
And checked my bosom's power to sob,
Or when my heart with pulses drear,
Beat like a death-watch to my ear.
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 ranged, 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 ravaged 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,
I gave,—that every bosom shook
Beneath its iron mail.
"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, then ye
shall hold
The banner with victorious hand,
Beneath a sister's curse unrolled.
O stranger! by my country's loss !
And by my love! and by the cross
I swear I never could have spoke
The curse that severed nature's yoke;
But that a spirit o'er me stood,
And fired me with the wrathful mood;
And frenzy to my heart was given,
To speak the malison of heaven.
They would have crossed themselves all mute; They would have prayed to burst the spell;
But, at the stamping of my foot,
Each hand down powerless fell!
And go to Athunree! (I cried,)
High lift the banner of your pride !
But know that where its sheet unrolls,⚫
The weight of blood is on your souls!
Go where the havoc of your kerne
Shall float as high as mountain fern!
Men shall no more your mansion know;
The nettles on your hearth shall grow!
Dead as the green oblivious flood
That mantles by your walls, shall be
The glory of O'Connor's blood!
Away! away to Athunree!
Where, downward when the sun shall fall,
The raven's wing shall be your pall!
And not a vassal shall unlace
The visor from your dying face!
"A bolt that overhung our dome,
Suspended till my curse was given,
Soon as it passed these lips of foam,
Pealed in the blood-red heaven.
Dire was the look that o'er their backs
The angry parting brothers threw :
But now, behold! like cataracts,
Come down the hills in view
O'Connor's plumed partisans:
Thrice ten Kilnagorvian clans
Were marching to their doom:
A sudden storm their plumage tossed,
A flash of lightning o'er them crossed,
And all again was gloom!
"Stranger! I fled the home of grief,
At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall:
I found the helmet of my chief,
His bow still hanging on our wall,
And took it down, and vowed to rove
This desert place a huntress bold;
Nor would I change my buried love
For any heart of living mould.
No! for I am a hero's child;
I'll hunt my quarry in the wild;
And still my home this mansion make,
Of all unheeded and unheeding,
And cherish, for my warrior's sake-
'The flower of love lies bleeding.'
WHAT'S hallowed ground? Has earth a clod
Its Maker meant not should be trod
By man, the image of his God,
Unscourged by Superstition's rod,
To bow the knee?
That's hallowed ground where, mourned and missed,
The lips repose our love has kissed :--
But where 's their memory's mansion? Is 't
Yon churchyard's bowers?
No! in ourselves their souls exist,
A part of ours.
A kiss can consecrate the ground
Where mated hearts are mutual bound:
The spot where love's first links were wound,
That ne'er are riven,
Is hallowed down to earth's profound,
And up to Heaven!
For time makes all but true love old ;
The burning thoughts that then were told
Run molten still in memory's mould ;
And will not cool
Until the heart itself be cold
In Lethe's pool.
What hallows ground where heroes sleep?
"T is not the sculptured piles you heap !—
In dews that heavens far distant weep
Their turf may bloom,
Or genii twine beneath the deep
Their coral tomb.
But strew his ashes to the wind
Whose sword or voice has served mankind-
And is he dead whose glorious mind
Lifts thine on high ?-
To live in hearts we leave behind
Is 't death to fall for Freedom's right?
He's dead alone that lacks her light!
And murder sullies in Heaven's sight
The sword he draws :
What can alone ennoble fight?
A noble cause !
Give that! and welcome War to brace
Her drums, and rend Heaven's reeking space! The colors planted face to face,
Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase, Shall still be dear.
And place our trophies where men kneel
To Heaven !—But Heaven rebukes my zeal.
The cause of truth and human weal,
Transfer it from the sword's appeal
To peace and love.
Peace! love!-the cherubim that join
Their spread wings o'er devotion's shrine !
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine,
Where they are not;
The heart alone can make divine
To incantations dost thou trust,
And pompous rites in domes august?
See mouldering stones and metal's rust
Belie the vaunt,
That men can bless one pile of dust
With chime or chant.
The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man ! Thy temples-creeds themselves grow wan! But there's a dome of nobler span,
Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban—
Its space is Heaven!
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