For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives
A faithful band. With solemn rites between,
'Twas sung, how they were lovely in their lives,
And in their deaths had not divided been.
Touched by the music, and the melting scene,
Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd-
Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen
To veil their eyes, as passed each much-loved shroud-
While woman's softer soul in woe dissolved aloud.
Then mournfully the parting bugle bid
Its farewell, o'er the grave of worth and truth;
Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid
His face on earth-him watched, in gloomy ruth,
His woodland guide: but words had none to soothe
The grief that knew not consolation's name :
Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth,
He watched, beneath its folds, each burst that came
Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame!
"And I could weep "-the Oneyda chief
His descant wildly thus begun :
"But that I may not stain with grief
The death-song of my father's son,
Or bow this head in woe!
For by my wrongs, and by my wrath!
To morrow Areouski's breath
(That fires yon heaven with storms of death), Shall light us to the foe :
And we shall share, my Christian boy !
The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy!
"But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep,
The spirits of the white man's heaven
Forbid not thee to weep-
Nor will the Christian host,
Nor will thy father's spirit grieve,
To see thee on the battle's eve,
Lamenting, take a mournful leave
Of her who loved thee most:
She was the rainbow to thy sight!
Thy sun-thy heaven-of lost delight!
"To-morrow let us do or die !
But when the bolt of death is hurled,
Ah! whither then with thee to fly.
Shall Outalissi roam the world?
Seek we thy once-loved home?
The hand is gone that cropt its flowers:
Unheard their clock repeats its hours!
Cold is the earth within their bowers!
And should we thither roam,
Its echoes, and its empty tread,
Would sound like voices from the dead!
"Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed?
And by my side, in battle true,
A thousand warriors drew the shaft?
Ah! there in desolation cold
The desert serpent dwells alone,
Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone,
And stones themselves to ruins grown,
Like me, are death-like old.
Then seek we not their camp-for there
The silence dwells of my despair!
"But hark, the trump !-to-morrow thou
In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears;
E'en from the land of shadows now
My father's awful ghost appears,
Amidst the clouds that round us roll;
He bids my soul for battle thirst-
He bids me dry the last-the first-
The only tears that ever burst
From Outalissi's soul;
Because I may not stain with grief
The death-song of an Indian chief!"
H! once the harp of Innisfail t
Was strung full high to notes of gladness;
But yet it often told a tale
Of more prevailing sadness.
Sad was the note, and wild its fall,
As winds that moan at night forlorn
Along the isles of Fion-Gall,
When, for O'Connor's child to mourn,
The harper told, how lone, how far
From any mansion's twinkling star,
From any path of social men,
Or voice, but from the fox's den,
The lady in the desert dwelt ;
And yet no wrongs, no fear she felt:
Say, why should dwell in place so wild,
O'Connor's pale and lovely child?
The ancient name of Ireland.
Sweet lady! she no more inspires
Green Erin's hearts with beauty's power,
As, in the palace of her sires,
She bloomed a peerless flower.
Goue from her hand and bosom, gone,
The royal brooch, the jewelled ring,
That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone,
Like dews on lilies of the spring.
Yet why, though fallen her brother's kerne*
Beneath De Bourgo's battle stern,
While yet in Leinster unexplored,
Her friends survive the English sword;
Why lingers she from Erin's host,
So far on Galway's shipwrecked coast;
Why wanders she a huntress wild-
O'Connor's pale and lovely child?
And fixed on empty space, why burn
Her eyes with momentary wildness;
And wherefore do they then return
To more than woman's mildness?
Dishevelled are her raven locks;
On Connocht Moran's name she calls;
And oft amidst the lonely rocks
She sings sweet madrigals.
Placed in the foxglove and the moss,
Behold a parted warrior's cross!
That is the spot where, evermore,
The lady, at her shieling + door,
* The plural of kern-an Irish foot soldier.
† A rude hut.
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