But, O! for the maiden who mourns for that chief,
      With heart overladen and rending with grief! 
      She sinks on the meadow—­in one morning-tide,
      A wife and a widow, a maid and a bride!

      Ye maidens attending, forbear to condole! 
      Your comfort is rending the depths of her soul: 
      True—­true, ’twas a story for ages of pride;
      He died in his glory—­but, oh, he has died!

      The war-cloak she raises all mournfully now,
      And steadfastly gazes upon the cold brow;
      That glance may for ever unaltered remain,
      But the bridegroom will never return it again.

      The dead-bells are tolling in sad Malahide,
      The death-wail is rolling along the seaside;
      The crowds, heavy-hearted, withdraw from the green,
      For the sun has departed that brightened the scene!

      How scant was the warning, how briefly revealed,
      Before on that morning, death’s chalice was filled! 
      Thus passes each pleasure that earth can supply—­
      Thus joy has its measure—­we live but to die!

THE DAUGHTER OF MEATH.

BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY.

     Turgesius, the chief of a turbulent band,
     Came over from Norway and conquer’d the land: 
     Rebellion had smooth’d the invader’s career,
     The natives shrank from him, in hate, or in fear;
     While Erin’s proud spirit seem’d slumb’ring in peace,
     In secret it panted for death—­or release.

     The tumult of battle was hush’d for awhile,—­
     Turgesius was monarch of Erin’s fair isle,
     The sword of the conqueror slept in its sheath,
     His triumphs were honour’d with trophy and wreath;
     The princes of Erin despair’d of relief,
     And knelt to the lawless Norwegian chief.

     His heart knew the charm of a woman’s sweet smile;
     But ne’er, till he came to this beautiful isle,
     Did he know with what mild, yet resistless control,
     That sweet smile can conquer a conqueror’s soul: 
     And oh! ’mid the sweet smiles most sure to enthral,
     He soon met with one—­he thought sweetest of all.

     The brave Prince of Meath had a daughter as fair
     As the pearls of Loch Neagh which encircled her hair;
     The tyrant beheld her, and cried, “She shall come
     To reign as the queen of my gay mountain home;
     Ere sunset to-morrow hath crimson’d the sea,
     Melachlin, send forth thy young daughter to me!”

     Awhile paused the Prince—­too indignant to speak,
     There burn’d a reply in his glance—­on his cheek: 
     But quickly that hurried expression was gone,
     And calm was his manner, and mild was his tone. 
     He answered—­“Ere sunset hath crimson’d the sea,
     To-morrow—­I’ll send my young daughter to thee.