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IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 135 |
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Where rivers go from source to sea unshaded,
Where shine in desolate moors the scattered lakes,
And sedges only, where once were willows,
And curlews where were deer in woodland brakes. |
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The spades of peasants oft the peat uplifting
Strike bog-black roots of oak or red of fir, And then 'tis known, here the primeval forest
Was murmurous to all winds with leaves astir, Where to the sky's blue rim the heath unending
Lies bare, before the honey-searching bees. O'er camping hosts, once spread the giant branches
Of oaks in autumn sounding like the seas.
There was no mountain of our many mountains,
There was no voiceful-watered purple glen, Without its share of scarlet-berried ashes,
Without its nut-trees by the river then; Round every dun of every royal chieftain
White apple-boughs shook down their blossomy showers, And up to craggy heights like armies climbing
Went pine trees, straight as spears and tall as towers.
Fallen in Erin are all those leafy forests,
The oaks lie buried under bogland mold ; Only in legends dim are they remembered,
Only in ancient books their fame is told. But seers who know of things to come have promised
Forests shall rise again where perished these, And of this desolate land it shall be spoken :
" In Tir-Conal of the territories, there are trees." |
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