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CELTIC POETRY. |
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When mingling with the wreckful wail From low Clontarf's wave-trampled floor,
Comes booming up the burthened gale The angry Sand Bull's roar ;
Or, angrier than the sea, the shout Of Erin's hosts in wrath combined
When Terror heads Oppression's rout And Freedom cheers behind : —
Then o'er our lady's placid dream,
When safe from storms she sleeps, may steal Such joy as may not misbeseem
A queen of men to feel.
Such thrill of free, defiant pride,
As rapt her in her battle car At Gavra, when by Oscar's side
She rode the ridge of war.
Exulting, down the shouting troops,
And through the thick confronting kings,
With hands on all their javelin loops And shafts on all their strings ;
E'er closed the inseparable crowds No more to part for me, and show,
As bursts the sun through scattering clouds My Oscar issuing so.
No more, dispelling battle's gloom, Shall son to me from fight return ;
The great green rath's ten-acred tomb Lies heavy on his urn. |
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