"Then long shalt thou tarry, oh Morna!" he cried, "Cold, cold is thy hero, and slain by my hand, His tomb will I rear upon Cromla's dark hills; Oh turn on Duchomar thy soft beaming eye, For his arm is like lightning, which withers and kills." "Has he fallen in death, the brave offspring of Anim?" The maiden exclaim'd in the accents of wo, "The first in the chase, and the foremost in battle, Oh sad is my bosom, and dark was the blow! “And dark is Duchomar, and deadly his vengeance, He hath blasted each hope which was bright in the bud; Fell foe unto Morna, oh lend me thy weapon, For Cathba I loved, and I still love his blood." He yielded the sword to her mourning and sighs,- "Daughter of blue-shielded Cormac! thy blow "Oh give me to Morna, the maiden of beauty, Her dreams in the darkness are fraught with my name, My tomb she will raise in the caves on the mountain, That hunters may welcome the mark of my fame. "She will hang o'er my grave like the mists of the morning, And dwell on my memory with fondness and pride,— my bosom is cold, and the lifeblood is ebbing, Oh Morna, draw forth the cold blade from my side." But Slowly and sadly she came at his bidding, And drew forth the sword from his fast-bleeding breast, But he plunged the red steel in her own lovely bosom, And laid her fair form on the damp earth to rest. Her tresses dishevell'd around her were flowing, The blood gurgling fast from the wide-gaping wound, And the eye that was bright, and the cheek that was glowing, In dimness and pallor and silence were bound. Oh Morna! be thou as the moon, when its light 1836. TO THE MUSE, AFTER MY BROTHER'S DEATH. Aн, where art thou wandering, sweet spirit of song, Ah, whither art fled in thy beauty and gladness? Dost thou shrink from the heart that is tinctured with sadness, Since last waved around me thy pinions of light, Like a flow'ret of summer, he wither'd and died, Then return to my bosom, thou wakener of joy, 1836. LINES ON HEARING SOME PASSAGES READ FROM MRS. HEMANS' 66 RECORDS OF WOMAN." Он, pause not yet, for many an hour The thrilling, melting sweetness Of that seraph strain to hear. Dispel not yet the soften'd joy Priestess of song! could we but feel How many a soul would bow before How many now elated With the muse's faintest smile, With softest touch thy magic hand Awaked the sleeping lyre, To all a woman's tenderness, And all a poet's fire. And proudly soar'd thy lofty mind 1836. [Unfinished.] AN APPEAL FOR THE BLIND. THOUGH thousands pass the mourner by, When sorrow turns its glance on thee. For soft compassion's slumbering ray, Oh fan to life the kindling spark, Till brightly burns its radiant flame, Scan the dark page of life, and say If there thy searching eye can find A wo more keen, a fate more sad, Than that which marks the helpless blind. Launch'd forth on life's uncertain path, No ray to pierce the gloom within, His spirit from the shades of night. Nature, whose smile, so pure and fair, Has not a single smile for him. When pale disease, with blighting hand, On love's fond gaze, or friendship's smile. Not so with him—his soul, chain'd down Favour'd by heaven! oh haste thee on, Thy blest Redeemer points the way,— Thou canst not raise their drooping lids, But oh! there is a world within, More bright, more beautiful than ours; A world which, nursed by culturing hands, Will blush with fairest, sweetest flowers. And thou canst make that desert mind |