Lament for the Death of an Irish Chief

He 's no more on the green hill, he has left the wide forest,
Whom, sad by the lone rill, thou, loved dame, deplorest:
We saw in his dim eye the beam of life quiver,
Its bright orb to light again no more for ever.

Loud twang'd thy bow, mighty youth, in the foray,
Dread gleam'd thy brand in the proud field of glory;
And when heroes sat round in the Psalter of Tara,
His counsel was sage as was fatal his arrow.

When in war's loud commotion the hostile Dane landed,
Or seen on the ocean with white sail expanded,
Like thee, swoll'n stream, down our steep vale that roarest,
Fierce was the chieftain that harass'd them sorest.

Proud stem of our ancient line, nipt while in budding,
Like sweet flowers' too early gem spring-fields bestudding,
Our noble pine 's fall'n, that waved on our mountain,--
Our mighty rock dash'd from the brink of our fountain.

Our lady is lonely, our halls are deserted--
The mighty is fallen, our hope is departed--
Loud wail for the fate from our clan that did sever,
Whom we shall behold again no more for ever.