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He had cast his jewelld sabre,
That many a field had won,
His fair and first-born son.
With a robe of ermine for its bed,
Was laid that form of clay,
Through the rich tent made way;
On the pallid face came down, Which the Lord of nations mutely watch’d,
In the dust, with his renown.
Low tones, at last, of woe and fear
From his full bosom broke-
How then the proud man spoke !
Had shouted far and high, Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones,
Burden'd with agony.
“There is no crimson on thy cheek,
And on thy lip no breath;
They tell me this is death!
That I the deed have done-
Look up, look up, my son!
“Well might I know death's hue and mien,
But on thine aspect, boy!
Save pride and tameless joy?
And bravest there of all-
Thus like a flower should fall ?
“I will not bear that still cold look
Rise up, thou fierce and free! Wake as the storm wakes! I will brook
All, save this calm, from thee! Lift brightly up, and proudly,
Once more thy kindling eyes ! Hath
my word lost its power on earth? I say to thee, arise!
“ Didst thou not know I loved thee well ?
Thou didst not! and art gonè, In bitterness of soul, to dwell
Where man must dwell alone. Come back, young fiery spirit !
If but one hour, to learn The secrets of the folded heart
That seem'd to thee so stern.
“ 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 reard 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,
Never again to wave,
Chiefs ! in my first-born's grave!
I have slain--my work is done! Whom have I slain ?-ye answer not
Thou too art mute, my son!”
And thus his wild lament was pour'd
Through the dark resounding night, And the battle knew no more his sword,
Nor the foaming steed his might. He heard strange voices moaning
In every wind that sigh'd; From the searching stars of heaven he shrank
Humbly the conqueror died.
CAROL AN’S PROPHECY.'
Thy cheek too swiftly Alushes, o'er thine eye
A SOUND of music, from amidst the hills,
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, ,
Voice of the grave
In the sere-leaf's trembling fall!