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98 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow, As, like some gay child that sad monitor scorning, It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning.
And its zone of dark hills—oh ! to see them all
bright'ning, When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightÂning, And the waters come down, 'mid the thunder's deep
rattle, Like clans from their hills at the voice of the battle: And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming, And wildly from Malloc * the eagles are screaming : Oh, where is the dwelling, in valley or highland, So meet for a bard as this lone little island ?
How oft, when the summer sun rested on Clara,«
And lit the blue headland of sullen Ivera,
Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the
ocean, And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion, And thought on the bards who, oft gathering together, In the cleft of thy rocks, and the depth of thy heather, Dwelt far from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter, As they raised their last song by the rush of thy
water !
High sons of the lyre ! oh, how proud was the feeling To dream while alone through that solitude stealing; Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number, I alone waked the strain of her harp from its slumber, |
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1 A mountain over the lake. |
2 Cape Clear. |
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