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IRISH MELODIES. 47 |
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Fearless she had track'd his feet To this rocky, wild retreat; And, when morning met his view, Her mild glances met it too. Ah ! your Saints have cruel hearts! Sternly from his bed he starts, And, with rude, repulsive shock, Hurls her from the beetling rock.
Glendalough! thy gloomy wave Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave ! Soon the Saint (yet ah ! too late,) Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate. When he said, " Heav'n rest her soul!" Round the Lake light music stole; And her ghost was seen to glide, Smiling, o'er the fatal tide! |
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SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. |
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SriE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers are round her sighing; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.
She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, Every note which he lov'd awaking ; —
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking. |
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