That hallow'd graveyard yonder And while their gifts we own, boys— O, the Maiden on her throne, boys, Nor wily tongue shall move us, Who ne'er forsook the right; No gates to guard the hill, Yet the Maiden on her throne, boys, Charlotte Elizabeth Tonna. CLXXI KINCORA (From the Irish) O, WHERE, Kincora ! is Brien the Great? And where is the beauty that once was thine? O, where are the princes and nobles that sate At the feast in thy halls, and drank the red wine? Where, O, Kincora ? O, where, Kincora! are thy valorous lords? O, whither, thou Hospitable! are they gone? O, where are the Dalcassians of the golden swords? And where are the warriors Brien led on? Where, O, Kincora ? And where is Donogh, King Brien's son? And where is Conàing, the beautiful chief? And Kian and Corc? Alas! they are gone; They have left me this night alone with my grief! Left me, Kincora ! O, where is Duvlann of the Swift-footed Steeds? And where is Kiàn, who was son of Molloy? And where is king Lonergan, fame of whose deeds In the red battle no time can destroy? Where, O, Kincora ! I am MacLaig, and my home is on the lake: Thither often, to that palace whose beauty is fled, Came Brien to ask me, and I went for his sake, O, my grief! that I should live and Brien be dead! Dead, O, Kincora ! James Clarence Mangan. CLXXII DARK ROSALEEN (From the Irish) O! my Dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep! The priests are on the ocean green, Upon the ocean green; And Spanish ale shall give you hope, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, Over hills, and through dales, The Erne at its highest flood I dashed across unseen, For there was lightning in my blood My own Rosaleen! O! there was lightning in my blood, All day long, in unrest, To and fro do I move, The very soul within my breast Is wasted for you, love! To think of you, my Queen, My own Rosaleen! To hear your sweet and sad complaints, Woe and pain, pain and woe, Are my lot, night and noon, "Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, My own Rosaleen! "Tis you shall have the golden throne, "Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, My Dark Rosaleen! Over dews, over sands, Will I fly for your weal; Your holy, delicate white hands At home, in your emerald bowers, You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers, My own Rosaleen! You'll think of me through daylight's hours, I could scale the blue air, I could plough the high hills, And one beamy smile from you My own Rosaleen! Would give me life and soul anew, O! the Erne shall run red With redundance of blood, The earth shall rock beneath our tread, And flames wrap hill and wood, And gun-peal and slogan cry Wake many a glen serene, Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! The Judgment Hour must first be nigh, My Dark Rosaleen! James Clarence Mangan. CLXXIII THE BAY OF DUBLIN O, BAY of Dublin! how my heart you're troublin', Like frozen fountains, that the sun sets bubblin', My early, latest thought you'll fail to be,— O! none here knows how very fair that place is, Sweet Wicklow mountains! the soft sunlight sleepin' You crowd around me like young maidens peepin' CLXXIV LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT I'm sitting on the stile, Mary, That bright May morning long ago |