Once I strayed from Charleville, As careless as could be; I wandered over plain and hill Until I reached the Lee, - And there I found a flowery dell Of beauty rare to tell, With woods around as rich in swell As eye shall ever see. Wild-birds warbled in their bower Songs passing soft and sweet, And brilliant hues adorned each flower That bloomed beneath my feet. All sickness, feebleness, and pain. The wounded heart and tortured brain, Would vanish, ne'er to come again, In that serene retreat Lying in my lonely lair In sleep medreamt I saw A damsel wonderfully fair, Whose beauty waked my awe. Her eyes were lustrous to behold, Her tresses shone like flowing gold. And nigh her stood that urchin bold. Young Love, who gives earth law. The Boy drew near me, smiled, and laughed, And from his quiver drew A delicately pointed shaft Whose mission I well knew. But that bright maiden raised her hand, And in a tone of high command Exclaimed, ' "Forbear! put up your brand, - He hath not come to woo." Damsel of the queenly brow, I spake, " my life, my love. What name, I pray thee, bearest thou Here or in heaven above " Banba and Eire am I called, And Heber's kingdom, now enthralled, I mourn my heroes, fetter-galled. While all alone I rove. Together then in that sweet place In saddest mood we spoke, Lamenting much the valiant race Who wear the exile's yoke. And never hear aught glad or blithe. Naught but the sound of spade or scythe. And see naught but the willow withe, Or gloomy grove of oak. " But hear, - I have a tale to tell," She said, - "a cheering tale; The Lord of Heaven, I know full well. Will soon set free the Gael. A band of warriors, great and brave. Are coming o'er the ocean wave; And you shall hold the lands God gave Your sires, both hill and vale. A woful day, a dismal fate, Will overtake your foes, - Gray hairs, the curses of deep hate, And sickness and all woes Death will bestride them in the night. Their every hope shall meet with blight, And God will put to utter flight Their long enjoyed repose. My curse be on the Saxon tongue, And on the Saxon race! Those foreign churls are proud and strong. And venomous and base. Absorbed in greed, and love of self, They scorn the poor: slaves of the Guelph, They have no soul except for pelf. God give them sore disgrace!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 38. THE MORROW'S MESSAGE by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI MANASSAS [JULY 21, 1861] by CATHERINE ANNE WARFIELD THE DREAM THAT CRACKED A WHIP by FRANCES AIRTH FESTUBERT: THE OLD GERMAN LINE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |