The Dear White Youth

The golden gleaming of dawn shone streaming
O'er leafy oaks by the lonely shore,
Where to me came, in my visioned dreaming,
A Maid celestial the south sea o'er.
Her brow was brighter than stars that light our
Dim dewy earth ere the summer dawn;
But she sighed, deploring, "My heart of sorrow!
Ne'er brings a morrow, Mo Buachaill Ban.

Her teeth were pearlets, her curling tresses
All golden flowed to the shining sea,
Soft hands and spray white, such brows as traces
The artist's pen with most grace, had she.
Lo, all the splendour of sunshine dancing
Thro' snowy lilies her cheeks upon!
But the royal light of her clear eyes' glancing
With tears was darkened for Buachaill Ban!

I lowly bowed to this Maid of glory,
The bright, the beauteous, the faultless flow'r! —
And sought the lay of her sorrow's story,
The race that owned such a peerless dow'r.
"Art child of gods of the olden sky? is't
An earthly King who thy love has won?
O name this Highest, whose fate thou sighest,
For whom thou diest, thy Buachaill Ban.

"Art thou that Star of all maids for beauty,
Though clouded now in a night of grief,
Since false King Connor broke faith and duty
And Naisi slew — thy heroic chief?
Or wailing Spirit who, on Moyle's water,
Lir's lovely daughter, wert once a swan, —
A Red Branch Knight who lies low in slaughter,
Was he thy darling, thy Buachaill Ban?"

"O none of these," said the wondrous Maiden,
"I am Fola, Queen of the Gael!
With foreign fetters my clans are laden,
My chiefs are bondsmen in Innisfail!
In wasting woe I've been long a griever
For one — true heir to victorious Conn,
The exiled offspring of royal Eiver,
My love for ever, my Buachaill Ban."

"O, noble Lady! weep now no longer,
Take comfort, heart, all so worn with grief!
He comes, thy champion, from exile stronger
With arms and armies to thy relief;
Their hosts are nearing the shores of Erinn,
In tall barks steering the seas upon,
Soon thou shall crown with thy hand victorious
Thy lover glorious, thy Buachaill Ban!"

Her sorrow fleeted, she struck the golden
High ringing harp with her snowy hand,
And poured in music the regal, olden,
The lofty lays of a free-made land.
The birds, the brooks, and the breeze seemed springing
From grief to gladness that sunny dawn,
And all the woods with delight were ringing —
So sweet her singing for Buachaill Ban!