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502 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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But a wan and gory band All apart and silent stand, And they point th' accusing hand At that hell-hound's crest! |
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Red streamlets, trickling slow, O'er their clotted cuilins flow, And still and awful woe,
On each pale brow weeps — Rich bowls bestrew the ground, And broken harps around, Whose once enchanting sound
In the bard's blood sleeps.
False Sydney ! Knighthood's stain, The trusting brave in vain — Thy guest—ride o'er the plain
To thy dark cow'rd snare. Flow'r of Ofifaly and Lein, They have come thy board to graces— Fools ! to meet a faithless race
Save with true swords bare.
While cup and song abound
The triple lines surround
The closed and guarded mound,
In the night's dark noon. Alas ! to brave O'More, Ere the revelry was o'er They have spill'd thy young heart's gore,
Snatch'd from love too soon ! |
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