The Irish Legend; Or M'Donnell, and the Norman de Borgos:: A Biographical Tale
Printed from the author's improved American edition, at the Chronicle Office, by J. M'Combie., 1854 - 272 páginas
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appearance approaching arms Aveline battle better brave brother brought called castle cause chief coming danger Daniel dark daughter door Dunluce enemy engaged entered eyes face father fear field fire forces forward give green hand happy harp head hear heard heart hill hope horse Ireland Irish island kind knew known lady land leave light look M'Quillan manner matter mean mind morning mountain nature nearly never night O'Cahan O'Donnell O'Neill passed performed person poor present raised received regarding remained rock Rose round seemed seen sent shore side Sir Coll soldier soon sound stand stood strangers stream sword taken tell thing thought took turned voice wall wind wish wood young
Página 2 - Harp of my country ! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, When proudly, my own Island Harp ! I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song...
Página 267 - RICH and rare were the gems she wore, And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore; But oh ! her beauty was far beyond Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand. ' ' Lady ! dost thou not fear to stray, " So lone and lovely through this bleak way? " Are Erin's sons so good or so cold, ' ' As not to be tempted by woman or gold?
Página 2 - That ev'n in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. Dear Harp of my Country ! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine ! Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine ; If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone ; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thy own.
Página 270 - Fergus' banks, But slain our Chief ; When rose his camp in wild alarm, How would the triumph of his ranks Be dashed with grief ! How would the troops of Murbach mourn, If on the Curlew Mountains...
Página 269 - Two princes of the line of Conn Sleep in their cells of clay beside O'Donnell Roe ; Three royal youths, alas ! are gone, Who lived for Erin's weal, but died For Erin's woe...
Página 269 - O woman of the Piercing Wail, Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay With sigh and groan, Would God thou wert among the Gael! Thou wouldst not then from day to day Weep thus alone.
Página 268 - Are Erin's sons so good or so cold, As not to be tempted by woman or gold .'" " Sir Knight ! I feel not the least alarm -, No son of Erin will offer me harm : For, though they love woman and golden store. Sir Knight ! they love honour and virtue more...
Página 269 - Ulster's bands. Theirs were not souls wherein dull Time Could domicile Decay or house Decrepitude ! They passed from Earth ere Manhood's prime, Ere years had power to dim their brows Or chill their blood.
Página 269 - Derry's plains — in rich Drumclieff — Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned In olden years, No day could pass but woman's grief Would rain upon the burial-ground Fresh floods of tears...
Página 270 - What do I say ? Ah, woe is me ! Already we bewail in vain Their fatal fall! And Erin, once the Great and Free, Now vainly mourns her breakless chain, And iron thrall ! Then, daughter of O'Donnell, dry Thine overflowing eyes, and turn Thy heart aside, For Adam's race is born to die, And sternly the sepulchral urn Mocks human pride!