MacCaura, the pride of thy house is gone by,
But its name cannot fade, and its fame cannot die,
Though the Arigideen, with its silver waves, shine
Around no green forests or castles of thine—
Though the shrines that you founded no incense doth hallow,
Nor hymns float in peace down the echoing Allo,
One treasure thou keepest, one hope for the morrow—
True hearts yet beat of the clan of MacCaura!
21. MacCarthaig, or MacCarthy.
22. The eldest son of Milesius, King of Spain, in the legendary history of Ireland.
23. The Round Towers.
24. The Tuatha Dedannans, so called, says Keating, from their skill in necromancy, for which some were so famous as to be called gods.
25. See Keating’s “History of Ireland” and Petrie’s “Tara.”
26. In the palace of Emania, in Ulster.
27. Diarmid MacCaura, King of Desmond, and Daniel O’Brien, King of Thomond, were the first of the Irish princes to swear fealty to Henry ii.
At my window, late and early,
In the sunshine and the rain,
When the jocund beams of morning
Come to wake me from my napping,
With their golden fingers tapping
At my window pane:
From my troubled slumbers flitting,
From the dreamings fond and vain,
From the fever intermitting,
Up I start, and take my sitting
At my window pane:—
Through the morning, through the noontide,
Fettered by a diamond chain,
Through the early hours of evening,
When the stars begin to tremble,
As their shining ranks assemble
O’er the azure plain:
When the thousand lamps are blazing
Through the street and lane—
Mimic stars of man’s upraising—
Still I linger, fondly gazing
From my window pane!
For, amid the crowds slow passing,
Surging like the main,
Like a sunbeam among shadows,
Through the storm-swept cloudy masses,
Sometimes one bright being passes
’Neath my window pane:
Thus a moment’s joy I borrow
From a day of pain.
See, she comes! but—bitter sorrow!
Not until the slow to-morrow,
Will she come again.
The weary, dreary, dripping rain,
From morn till night, from night till morn,
Along the hills and o’er the plain,
Strikes down the green and yellow corn;
The flood lies deep upon the ground,
No ripening heat the cold sun yields,
And rank and rotting lies around
The glory of the summer fields!
How full of fears, how racked with pain,
How torn with care the heart must be,
Of him who sees his golden grain
Laid prostrate thus o’er lawn and lea;
For all that nature doth desire,
All that the shivering mortal shields,
The Christmas fare, the winter’s fire,
All comes from out the summer fields.