Dirge of Oliver Grace

Dark the cloud our mountains o'er,
A cloud that never came before;
Stern the noon-hush, broken lowly
By the Voice of Sorrow solely.

Floats the death knell on the wind,
Grief, alas! cpmes close behind;
Harshly hoarse the raven's croaking,
Warning that man's life is broken.

For thee, O noble youth! for thee
Wails the banshee mournfullie;
In the midnight, still and lone,
Sadly swells her Caeine's moan.

The Rock's Son answers to her wail,
Grieving from gray rock and vale;
The cock no longer hails the pearly
Morn, nor cheers us late or early.

Ah, my Oliver og, mo chree!
'Tis thy death wakes the weird banshee;
'Tis it that brings — both night and morrow-
'Tis it that brings the bitter sorrow!

What fills thy place to us, our chief?
Naught but Tears and sobbing Grief!
There's naught for us since he is taken
But weeping tears and sore heart-breaking.

Death! thou'st smote for ever, now,
Fairest flower from highest bough;
Mo nuar! could nothing stay thy doom,
And save our dear one from the tomb?

Sword of brightness, strong and sure,
Shield of justice and the poor,
'Neath thy noble father's banner
High thou'st won, in Ormond, honour.

Ne'er till came this darkest day
Thy home in sorrow hopeless lay;
Good thou wast, O heir! and noble, —
Thee they mourn in bitter trouble.

Rightful heir, in truth, still bearing
High their name and love for Erinn,

An oak-tree, thou wast fair to see,
And like to spread thy branches free.

Such was not thy fate's designing,
Low in earth thou'rt now reclining,
Ruin of joy, each day for all —
For thy love a black heart-pall!

She, a mother, ever weepeth
For the long, lone sleep he sleepeth, —
Her children's sire, her first love, dearest,
Ah, 'tis she has anguish drearest.

Never again the chase he'll follow;
O'er misty mount or dewy hollow;
Never be heard his clear horn ringing,
Never his dog's cry, gaily springing.

Never he'll urge his swift young steed
Over the mount and over the mead;
Change is o'er his beauty bowed,
O'er his glory falls a cloud.

O gen'rous hand, thou'rt weak for aye!
Magnanimous heart, thou art but clay!
Seed of knighthood, friend of the bard,
O'er thee the Spirit of Song keeps ward.

Bright beam of song! not quencht thy fame,
My lay shall live with thy radiant name,
And win a tear, in the after morrows,
For thee, perchance, and thy bard of sorrows.