He had cast his jewell'd sabre, That many a field had won, With a robe of ermine for its bed, On the pallid face came down, Low tones, at last, of woe and fear Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones, "There is no crimson on thy cheek, And on thy lip no breath; I call thee, and thou dost not speak- And fearful things are whispering That I the deed have done For the honour of thy father's name, "Well might I know death's hue and mien, But on thine aspect, boy! What, till this moment, have I seen Save pride and tameless joy? Swiftest thou wert to battle, And bravest there of all How could I think a warrior's frame "I will not bear that still cold lookRise up, thou fierce and free! Wake as the storm wakes! I will brook Lift brightly up, and proudly, Hath my word lost its power on earth? "Didst thou not know I loved thee well? "Thou wert the first, the first, fair child, That in mine arms I press'd: Thou wert the bright one, that hast smiled Like summer on my breast! I rear'd thee as an eagle, To the chase thy steps I led, I bore thee on my battle-horse, I look upon thee-dead! "Lay down my warlike banners here, And bury my red sword and spear, And thus his wild lament was pour'd He heard strange voices moaning From the searching stars of heaven he shrank— CAROLAN'S PROPHECY.' Thy cheek too swiftly flushes, o'er thine eye For peace on earth; oh! therefore, child of song! A SOUND of music, from amidst the hills, And the wind's whisper in the mountain-ash, 1 Founded on the following circumstance related in the Percy Anecdotes of imagination. "It is somewhat remarkable that Carolan, the Irish bard, even in his gayest mood, never could compose a planxty for a Miss Brett, in the county of Sligo, whose father's house he frequented, and where he always met with a reception due to his exquisite taste and mental endowments. One day, after an unsuccessful attempt to compose something in a sprightly strain for this lady, he threw aside his harp with a mixture of rage and grief; and addressing himself in Irish to her mother, "Madam," said he, "I have often, from my great respect to your family, attempted a planxty in order to celebrate your daughter's perfections, but to no purpose. Some evil genius hovers over me; there is not a string in my harp that does not vibrate a melancholy sound when I set about this task. I fear she is not doomed to remain long among us; 'nay,' said he, emphatically, she will not survive twelve months.' The event verified the prediction, and the young lady died within the period limited by the unconsciously prophetic bard." Whose clusters droop'd above. His head was bow'd, Th' unchaining of his soul, the gush of song- With trembling 'midst our joy, lest aught unseen By his own rushing stream?-Once more he gazed Voice of the grave! I hear thy thrilling call; It comes in the dash of the foaming wave, |