"But Heaven, at last, my soul's eclipse Did with a vision bright inspire: I woke and felt upon my lips
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 gasp unhurt, than 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 nnrolls,
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 vizor 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.
*An important battle was fought here, 10th August 1315, which decided the subjection of Ireland.
Dire was the looks that o'er their backs
The angry parting brothers threw :
But now, behold! like cataracts,
Come down the hills in view,
O'Connor's plumèd 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.'
Written at the request of the Highland Society in London, when met to commemorate the 21st of March, the day of Victory in Egypt.
LEDGE to the much-loved land that gave us
birth!
Invincible romantic Scotia's shore !
Pledge to the memory of her parted worth!
And first, amidst the brave, remember Moore !
And be it deemed not wrong that name to give,
In festive hours, which prompts the patriot's sigh!
Who would not envy such as Moore to live?
And died he not as heroes wish to die?
Yes, though too soon attaining glory's goal,
To us his bright career too short was given;
Yet in a mighty cause his phoenix soul
Rose on the flames of victory to Heaven!
How oft (if beats in subjugated Spain
One patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn For him!-How oft on far Corunna's plain Shall British exiles weep upon his urn!
Peace to the mighty dead !—our bosom thanks
In sprightlier strains the living may inspire!
Joy to the chiefs that lead old Scotia's ranks,
Of Roman garb and more than Roman fire!
Triumphant be the thistle still unfurled,
Dear symbol wild! on Freedom's hills it grows, Where Fingal stemmed the tyrants of the world, And Roman eagles found unconquered foes.
Joy to the band * this day on Egypt's coast,
Whose valour tamed proud France's tricolor,
And wrenched the banner from her bravest host,
Baptised Invincible in Austria's gore!
Joy for the day on red Vimeira's strand,
When, bayonet to bayonet opposed,
First of Britannia's host her Highland band
Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost closed!
Is there a son of generous England here
Or fervid Erin ?-he with us shall join,
To pray that in eternal union dear,
The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine!
Types of a race who shall the invader scorn,
As rocks resist the billows round their shore;
Types of a race who shall to time unborn
Their country leave unconquered as of yore!
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