But ties around this heart were spun,

That could not, would not, be undone !

VIII.

At bleating of the wild watch-fold

Thus sang my love—“ Oh come with me:

"Our bark is on the lake behold:

"Our steeds are fasten'd to the tree.

"Come far from Castle-Connor's clans

"Come with thy belted forestere,

"And I, beside the lake of swans,

"Shall hunt for thee the fallow deer;

"And build thy hut and bring thee home

"The wild fowl, and the honey-comb;

"And berries from the wood provide, "And play my clarshech 12 by thy side.

12 The harp.

"Then come, my love !"-How could I stay?

Our nimble stag-hounds track'd the way,

And I pursued by moonless skies,

The light of Connocht Moran's eyes.

IX.

And fast and far, before the star

Of day-spring rush'd we thro' the glade,

And saw at dawn the lofty bawn 13

Of Castle-Connor fade.

Sweet was to us the hermitage

Of this unplough'd, untrodden shore:
Like birds all joyous from the cage,
For man's neglect we lov'd it more.

And well he knew, my huntsman dear,
To search the game with hawk and spear;

13 Ancient fortification.

While I, his evening food to dress,

Would sing to him in happiness.

But oh, thou midnight of despair!

When I was doom'd to rend

my

hair:

The night, to me of shrieking sorrow!

The night, to him that had no morrow!

X.

When all was hush'd at even tide,

I heard the baying of their beagle:
Be hush'd! my Connocht Moran cried,
'Tis but the screaming of the eagle.
Alas! 'twas not the eyrie's sound,

Their bloody bands had track'd us out;

Up-list'ning starts our couchant hound-

And hark! again, that nearer shout

Brings faster on the murderers.

Spare-spare him-Brazil-Desmond fierce! In vain-no voice the adder charms;

Their weapons cross'd my sheltering arms:

Another's sword has laid him low

Another's and another's;

And every hand that dealt the blow

Aye me! it was a brother's!

Yes, when his moanings died away,

Their iron hands had dug the clay,

And o'er his burial turf they trod,

And I beheld-Oh God! Oh God!

His life-blood oozing from the sod!

XI.

Warm in his death-wounds sepulchred,

Alas! my warrior's spirit brave,

Nor mass nor ulla-lulla" heard,

Lamenting sooth his grave.

Dragg'd to their hated mansion back,
How long in thraldom's grasp I lay,
I know not, for my soul was black,
And knew no change of night or day.
One night of horror round me grew;
Or if I saw, or felt, or knew,

'Twas but when those grim visages,
The angry brothers of my race,

Glared on each eye-ball's aching throb, And check'd my bosom's pow'r to sob; Or when my heart with pulses drear, Beat like a death- watch to my ear.

4 The Irish lamentation for the dead.