And him, the sun of Thebes, whose warlike pride
Rose with his arm, and perish'd when he died!
And great Timoleon, freedom's dearest son!
And the unconquer'd soul of Phocion!

Mark where approaching to the sacred shrine,
Around whose base eternal laurels twine,
Th' historic ministers of truth unfold
The mighty deeds in glory's page enroll'd.
The Carian sage, with energy sublime,
Unveils the sculptur'd obelisk of time:

'Twas his to pierce, with more than mortal sight,
Through ancient darkness and oblivious night,
Of deeds long past to trace the secret springs,
The rise of empires and the fate of kings.
Nor less illustrious, by the altar's side,
The boast of Athens, and of Greece the pride,
Thucydides appears; in either hand

He wields the blood-stain'd sword and flaming brand.
In awful beauty, o'er his laurell'd brows
The martial maid her sable ægis throws!
To him alike reveal'd in all her charms,

The depths of counsel, and the pride of arms;
With glowing eloquence she stamps the page
That consecrates his name to ev'ry age.

Whence bursts this flood of light, before whose ray
Heaven's azure concave seems to shrink away?

As if some daring hand aside had thrown

The mystic veil that shrouds the world unknown,
Bid mortal sense the vast abyss explore,

And tempt the trackless deep, unbounded by a shore,
Lo! where, enthron'd amidst the rolling spheres,

His awful front majestic Plato rears.

Such as of old, on Sunium's rocky side

Or where Ilissus' sacred waters glide,

From reason's light he taught the list'ning youth
Of moral beauty, or eternal truth;

Or in mysterious symbols half conceal'd
The secret lore which Memphis had reveal'd.
Now, clear'd from mortal mists, his eagle sight
Expatiates freely through the realms of light:
Inspir'd by truth he sings in bolder strain
What pow'r combines creation's golden chain;
How worlds obey the geometric laws
Establish'd by the great eternal Cause;
And whence in human breasts immortal glows
Th' etherial flame, which heav'n itself bestows:
Till, rising with its theme, the lofty ode
Ascends from nature to the throne of God.
Unseen celestial beings hover nigh

And pour their sweet accordant minstrelsy;

Through

Through boundless space the sacred hymn prolong,
And worlds unnumber'd join the choral song.

But cease, my Muse! for not to thee is giv'n
On earth to emulate the songs of heav'n;
No sister thou, but handmaid, of the Nine;
And least of all their train, as I of thine.
Immortal themes a master's hand require-
In silence I adore, and trembling drop the lyre.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride;
"Should they our steps discover,
"Then who will cheer my bonny bride
"When they have slain her lover?"—

Outspoke the hardy Highland wight
"I'll go, my chief- I'm ready :-
"It is not for your silver bright;
"But for your winsome lady :

"And by my word! the bonny bird
"In danger shall not tarry;

"So, though the waves are raging white,
"I'll row you o'er the ferry."-

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heav'n each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But

O'CONNOR'S CHILD, OR, THE FLOWER OF LOVE LIES

BLEEDING.

[From the Same.]

I.

once the harp of Innisfail

Was strung full high to notes of gladness;

But yet it often told a tale

Of more prevailing sadness.

Sad was the note, and wild its fall,

As winds that moan at night forlorn

Along

Along the isles of Fion-Gall,

When for O'Connor's child to mourn,
The harper told, how lone, how far
From any mansion's twinkling star,
From any path of social men,
Or voice, but from the fox's den,
The Lady in the desert dwelt,

And yet no wrongs, no fear she felt:
Say, why should dwell in place so wild
The lovely pale O'Connor's child?

II.

Sweet lady! she no more inspires
Green Erin's hearts with beauty's pow'r,
As in the palace of her sires
Shee bloom'd a peerless flow'r.

Gone from her hand and bosom, gone,
The royal broche, the jewell'd ring,
That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone
Like dews on lilies of the spring.

Yet why, though fall'n her brother's kerne,
Beneath De Bourgo's battle stern,
While yet in Leinster unexplor'd,
Her friends survive the English sword:
Why lingers she from Erin's host,
So far on Galway's shipwreck'd coast;
Why wanders she a huntress wild-
The lovely pale O'Connor's child?

III.

And fix'd on empty space, why burn
Her eyes with momentary wildness;
And wherefore do they then return
To more than woman's mildness?
Dishevell'd are her raven locks,
On Conocht Moran's name she calls;
And oft amidst the lonely rocks
She sings sweet madrigals.
Plac'd in the foxglove and the moss,
Behold a parted warrior's cross!
That is the spot where, evermore,
The lady, at her shielding door,
Enjoys that in communion sweet,
The living and the dead can meet:
For lo to love-lorn fantasy,
The hero of her heart is nigh.

IV.

Bright as the bow that spans the storm,
In Erin's yellow vesture clad,

A son of light-a lovely form,
He comes and makes her glad:
Now on the grass-green turf he sits,
His tassell'd horn beside him laid;
Now o'er the hills in chace he flits,
The hunter and the deer a shade!
Sweet mourner! those are shadows vain,
That cross the twilight of her brain;
Yet she will tell you, she is blest,
Of Connocht Moran's tomb possess'd,
More richly than in Aghrim's bow'r,
When bards high prais'd her beauty's pow'r,
And kneeling pages offer'd up,

The morat in a golden cup.

O'Connor's child, I was the bud
Of Erin's royal tree of glory;
But woe to them that wrapt in blood.
The tissue of my story!

Still as I clasp my burning brain,
A death-scene rushes on my sight;
It rises o'er and o'er again,
The bloody feud,-the fatal night,
When chasing Connocht Moran's scorn,
They call'd my hero basely born;
And bade him choose a meaner bride
Than from O'Connor's house of pride.

Their tribe, they said, their high degree,
Was sung in Tara's psaltery;
Witness their Eath's victorious brand,
And Cathal of the bloody hand,—