"There is no crimson on thy cheek,

And on thy lip no breath,

I call thee, and thou dost not speak-
They tell me this is death!

And fearful things are whispering

That I the deed have done

For the honour of thy father's name,

Look up, look up, my son!

"Well might I know death's hue and mien,

But on thine aspect, boy!

What, till this moment, have I seen,

Save pride and tameless joy?

Swiftest thou wert to battle,

And bravest there of all

How could I think a warrior's frame

Thus like a flower should fall?

"I will not bear that still, cold look

Rise up, thou fierce and free!

Wake as the storm wakes! I will brook

All, save this calm, from thee!

Lift brightly up, and proudly,

Once more thy kindling eyes!

Hath my word lost its power on earth? I say to thee, arise!

"Didst thou not know I lov'd thee well?

Thou didst not! and art gone

In bitterness of soul, to dwell

Where man must dwell alone.

Come back, young fiery spirit!
If but one hour, to learn

The secrets of the folded heart,

That seem'd to thee so stern.

“Thou wert the first, the first, fair child,

That in mine arms I press'd;

Thou wert the bright one, that hast smil'd

Like summer on my breast!

I reared thee as an eagle,

To the chase thy steps I led,

I bore thee on my battle-horse,

Never again to wave,

And bury my red sword and spear,
Chiefs! in my first-born's grave!

And leave me !—I have conquer'd,
I have slain-my work is done!

Whom have I slain ?—ye answer not—
Thou too art mute, my son!"

And thus his wild lament was pour'd

Thro' the dark resounding night,

And the battle knew no more his sword,
Nor the foaming steed his might.

He heard strange voices moaning

From the searching stars of heaven he shrank—

Humbly the conqueror died.*

* Originally published in the Literary Souvenir for 1827.

CAROLAN'S PROPHECY.*

Thy cheek too swiftly flushes; o'er thine eye
The lights and shadows come and go too fast,
Thy tears gush forth too soon, and in thy voice
Are sounds of tenderness too passionate

For peace on earth; oh! therefore, child of song!
'Tis well thou shouldst depart.

A SOUND of music, from amidst the hills,
Came suddenly, and died; a fitful sound
Of mirth, soon lost in wail.-Again it rose,
And sank in mournfulness.-There sat a bard,
By a blue stream of Erin, where it swept
Flashing thro' rock and wood; the sunset's light
Was on his wavy, silver-gleaming hair,

And the wind's whisper in the mountain-ash,

* Founded on a circumstance related of the Irish Bard, in the "Percy Anecdotes of Imagination."