And leave me !—I have conquer'd, And thus his wild lament was pour'd He heard strange voices moaning In every wind that sigh'd; From the searching stars of heaven he shrank— *Originally published in the Literary Souvenir for 1827. CAROLAN'S PROPHECY.* Thy cheek too swiftly flushes; o'er thine eye Are sounds of tenderness too passionate For peace on earth; oh! therefore, child of song! A SOUND of music, from amidst the hills, By a blue stream of Erin, where it swept * Founded on a circumstance related of the Irish Bard, in the Percy Anecdotes of Imagination. Was on his wavy, silver-gleaming hair, And the wind's whisper in the mountain-ash, Whose clusters droop'd above. His head was bow'd, Th' unchaining of his soul, the gush of song: Many, and graceful forms! yet one alone Seem'd present to his dream; and she indeed, With her pale, virgin brow, and changeful cheek, And pallid braiding flowers, was beautiful, With trembling 'midst our joy, lest aught unseen By his own rushing stream?-Once more he gaz'd From the deep chords his wandering hand brought out A few short festive notes, an opening strain Of bridal melody, soon dashed with grief, As if some wailing spirit in the strings Met and o'ermaster'd him but yielding then Voice of the grave! I hear thy thrilling call; It comes in the dash of the foaming wave, In the sear leaf's trembling fall! In the shiver of the tree, I hear thee, O thou voice! And I would thy warning were but for me, That my spirit might rejoice. But thou art sent For the sad earth's young and fair, For the graceful heads that have not bent And the river sweeping free, And the green reeds murmuring heavily, And the woods-but they hear not thee! Long have I striven With my deep foreboding soul, But the full tide now its bounds hath riven, And darkly on must roll. There's a young brow smiling near, With a bridal white-rose wreath,Unto me it smiles from a flowery bier, Touch'd solemnly by death! Fair art thou, Morna ! The sadness of thine eye Is beautiful as silvery clouds On the dark-blue summer sky! And thy voice comes like the sound Of a sweet and hidden rill, That makes the dim woods tuneful round But soon it must be still! Silence and dust On thy sunny lips must lie, Make not the strength of love thy trust, A stronger yet is nigh! |