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196 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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The gallant, graceful, young Chevalier, Whose look is bonny as his heart is gay;
His sword in battle flashes death and fear, While he hews through falling foes his way.
O'er his blushing cheeks his blue eyes shine Like dewdrops glitt'ring on the rose's leaf;
Mars and Cupid all in him combine,
The blooming lover and the godlike chief.
His curling locks in wavy grace,
Like beams on youthful Phoebus' brow,
Flit wild and golden o'er his speaking face, And down his ivory shoulders flow.
Like Engus is he in his youthful days,
Or Mac Cein, whose deeds all Erin knows,
Mac Dary's chiefs, of deathless praise, Who hung like fate on their routed foes.
Like Connall the besieger, pride of his race,
Or Fergus, son of a glorious sire, Or blameless Connor, son of courteous Nais,
The chief of the Red Branch—Lord of the Lyre.
The cuckoo's voice is not heard on the gale, Nor the cry of the hounds in the nutty grove,
Nor the hunter's cheering through the dewy vale, Since far—far away is the youth of our love.
The name of my darling none must declare/
Though his fame be like sunshine from shore to shore;
But, oh, may Heaven—Heaven hear my prayer ! And waft the hero to my arms once more. |
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