THERE beams no light from thy hall to-night, Oh House of Fame; No mead-vat seethes and no smoke upwreathes O'er the hearth's red flame; No high bard sings for the joy of thy kings, And no harpers play; No hostage moans at thy dungeon rings As in Muircherteach's day. Fallen! fallen! to ruin all in The covering mould; The painted yew, and the curtains blue, And the cups of gold; The linen, yellow as the corn when mellow, That the princes wore; And the mirrors brazen for your queens to gaze in, They are here no more. The sea-bird's pinion thatched Gormlai's grianan; And through windows clear, Without crystal pane, in her Ard-righ's reign She looked forth from here. There were quilts of eider on her couch of cedar; And her silken shoon Were as green and soft as the leaves aloft On a bough in June. Ah, woe unbounded! where the harp once sounded The wind now sings; The grey grass shivers where the mead in rivers Was outpoured for kings; The min and the mether are lost together With the spoil of the spears; The strong dun only has stood dark and lonely Through a thousand years. But I am not in woe for the wine-cup's flow, For the banquet's cheer, For tall princesses with their trailing tresses And their broidered gear; My grief and my trouble for this palace noble With no chief to lead 'Gainst the Saxon stranger on the day of danger Out of Aileach Neid. |