But ties around this heart were spun, That could not, would not, be undone ! VIII. At bleating of the wild watch-fold Thus sang my love—“ Oh come with me: "Our bark is on the lake behold: "Our steeds are fasten'd to the tree. "Come far from Castle-Connor's clans "Come with thy belted forestere, "And I, beside the lake of swans, "Shall hunt for thee the fallow deer; "And build thy hut and bring thee home "The wild fowl, and the honey-comb; "And berries from the wood provide, "And play my clarshech 12 by thy side. 12 The harp. "Then come, my love !"-How could I stay? Our nimble stag-hounds track'd the way, And I pursued by moonless skies, The light of Connocht Moran's eyes. IX. And fast and far, before the star Of day-spring rush'd we thro' the glade, And saw at dawn the lofty bawn 13 Of Castle-Connor fade. Sweet was to us the hermitage Of this unplough'd, untrodden shore: And well he knew, my huntsman dear, 13 Ancient fortification. 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! X. When all was hush'd at even tide, I heard the baying of their beagle: 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" heard, Lamenting sooth his grave. Dragg'd to their hated mansion back, 'Twas but when those grim visages, 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. 4 The Irish lamentation for the dead. |