And lo! to-night he wanders frozen, rain-drenched, sad betrayed;
But the memory of the lime-white mansions his right hand hath laid
In ashes, warms the hero's heart!
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
A LAMENT FOR THE PRINCES OF TYRONE AND TYRCONNEL
_Buried in San Pietro Montorio at Rome_
Addressed to Nuala, the O'Donnell's sister, by Owen Roe mac an Bhaird
(or Ward), the family Bard, in 1608-9.
O woman of the piercing wail,
Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay
With sigh and groan,
Would God thou wert among the Gael!
Thou would'st not then from day to day
Weep thus alone.
'Twere long before around a grave
In green Tyrconnel, one could find
This loneliness;
Near where Beann-Boirche's banners wave,
Such grief as thine could ne'er have pined
Companionless.
Beside the wave in Donegal,
In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore,
Or Killilee,
Or where the sunny waters fall
At Assaroe, near Erna shore,
This could not be.
On Derry's plains, in rich Drumcliff,
Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned
In olden years,
No day could pass but woman's grief
Would rain upon the burial-ground
Fresh floods of tears!
O no!--From Shannon, Boyne, and Suir,
From high Dunluce's castle-walls,
From Lissadill,
Would flock alike both rich and poor:
One wail would rise from Cruachan's halls
To Tara hill;
And some would come from Barrow-side,
And many a maid would leave her home
On Leitrim's plains,
And by melodious Banna's tide,
And by the Mourne and Erne, to come
And swell thy strains!
Oh, horses' hoofs would trample down
The mount whereon the martyr-saint
Was crucified;
From glen and hill, from plain and town,
One loud lament, one thrilling plaint,
Would echo wide.
There would not soon be found, I ween,
One foot of ground among those bands
For museful thought,
So many shriekers of the keen
Would cry aloud, and clap their hands,
All woe-distraught!
Two princes of the line of Conn
Sleep in their cells of clay beside
O'Donnell Roe:
Three royal youths, alas! are gone,
Who lived for Erin's weal, but died
For Erin's woe.
Ah, could the men of Ireland read
The names those noteless burial-stones
Display to view,
Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed,
Their tears gush forth again, their groans
Resound anew!
The youths whose relics moulder here
Were sprung from Hugh, high prince and lord
Of Aileach's lands;
Thy noble brothers, justly dear,
Thy nephew, long to be deplored
By Ulster's bands.
Theirs were not souls wherein dull time
Could domicile decay, or house
Decrepitude!
They passed from earth ere manhood's prime,
Ere years had power to dim their brows,
Or chill their blood.
And who can marvel o'er thy grief,
Or who can blame thy flowing tears,
Who knows their source?
O'Donnell, Dunnasava's chief,
Cut off amid his vernal years,
Lies here a corse
Beside his brother Cathbar, whom
Tyrconnell of the Helmets mourns
In deep despair:
For valour, truth, and comely bloom,
For all that greatens and adorns,
A peerless pair.
Oh, had these twain, and he, the third,
The Lord of Mourne, O'Niall's son
(Their mate in death,
A prince in look, in deed, and word),
Had these three heroes yielded on
The field their breath,
Oh, had they fallen on Criffan's plain,
There would not be a town or clan
From shore to sea,
But would with shrieks bewail the slain,
Or chant aloud the exulting rann
Of jubilee!
* * * * *
What do I say? Ah, woe is me!
Already we bewail in vain
Their fatal fall!
And Erin, once the great and free,
Now vainly mourns her breakless chain,
And iron thrall.
Then, daughter of O'Donnell, dry
Thine overflowing eyes, and turn
Thy heart aside,
For Adam's race is born to die,
And sternly the sepulchral urn
Mocks human pride.
Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne,
Nor place thy trust in arm of clay,
But on thy knees
Uplift thy soul to God alone,
For all things go their destined way
As He decrees.
Embrace the faithful crucifix,
And seek the path of pain and prayer
Thy Saviour trod;
Nor let thy spirit intermix
With earthly hope, with worldly care,
Its groans to God![108]
And Thou, O mighty Lord! whose ways
Are far above our feeble minds
To understand,
Sustain us in these doleful days,
And render light the chain that binds
Our fallen land!
Look down upon our dreary state,
And thro' the ages that may still
Roll sadly on,
Watch Thou o'er hapless Erin's fate,
And shield at least from darker ill
The blood of Conn!
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
FOOTNOTES:
[108] The literal translation of this stanza runs as follows:--
"For God's sake, thy weighty sorrow banish away, O daughter of
O'Donnell! Short time till thou in self-same guise must tread the way;
the same path's weariness awaits thee. In hand of clay put not thy
trust.... Think on the cross that stands beside thee, and, in lieu
of thy vain sorrowing, from off the sepulchre lift up thine arm and
bid thy grief begone." O'Grady's Cat. of MSS. in the Brit. Mus., pp.
372-73.
THE COUNTY OF MAYO
_Or the "Lament of Thomas Flavell, or Lavell," c. 1660._
On the deck of Patrick Lynch's boat I sat in woeful plight,
Through my sighing all the weary day, and weeping all the night,
Were it not that full of sorrow from my people forth I go,
By the blessed sun! 'tis royally I'd sing thy praise, Mayo!
When I dwelt at home in plenty, and my gold did much abound,
In the company of fair young maids the Spanish ale went round--
'Tis a bitter change from those gay days that now I'm forced to go,
And must leave my bones in Santa Cruz, far from my own Mayo.
They are altered girls in Irrul now; 'tis proud they're grown and
high,
With their hair-bags and their top-knots--for I pass their buckles by;
But it's little now I heed their airs, for God will have it so,
That I must depart for foreign lands, and leave my sweet Mayo.
'Tis my grief that Patrick Loughlin is not Earl of Irrul still,
And that Brian Duff no longer rules as Lord upon the hill;
And that Colonel Hugh MacGrady should be lying dead and low,
And I sailing, sailing swiftly from the county of Mayo.
GEORGE FOX.[109]
FOOTNOTES:
[109] Lady Ferguson, in her Life of her husband, says that he
was the true author of this poem, but that as Fox had a hand in it, he
allowed it to be attributed to him. Sir Samuel dedicated his poems to
Fox in 1880.
THE OUTLAW OF LOCH LENE
Oh, many a day have I made good ale in the glen,
That came not of stream or malt--like the brewing of men.
My bed was the ground; my roof, the greenwood above,
And the wealth that I sought, one far kind glance from my love.
Alas! on that night when the horses I drove from the field,
That I was not near from terror my angel to shield.
She stretched forth her arms--her mantle she flung to the wind,
And swam o'er Loch Lene her outlawed lover to find.
Oh would that a freezing, sleet-winged tempest did sweep,
And I and my love were alone, far off on the deep!
I'd ask not a ship, or a bark, or pinnace, to save,--
With her hand round my waist I'd fear not the wind or the wave.
'Tis down by the lake where the wild-tree fringes its sides
The maid of my heart, my fair one of Heaven resides;
I think as at eve she wanders its mazes along,
The birds go to sleep by the sweet, wild twist of her song.
JEREMIAH JOSEPH CALLANAN.
THE FLOWER OF NUT-BROWN MAIDS
Seventeenth century.
If thou wilt come with me to the County of Leitrim,
Flower of Nut-brown Maids--
Honey of bees and mead to the beaker's brim
I'll offer thee, Nut-brown Maid.
Where the pure air floats o'er the swinging boats of the strand,
Under the white-topped wave that laves the edge of the sand,
There without fear we will wander together, hand clasped in hand,
Flower of Nut-brown Maids.
* * * * *
My heart never gave you liking or love,
Said the Flower of Nut-brown Maids;
Though sweet are your words, there's black famine above,
Said the Flower of Nut-brown Maids;
Will gentle words feed me when need and grim hunger come by?
Better be free than with thee to the woodlands to fly;
What gain to us both if together we famish and die?
Wept the Flower of Nut-brown Maids.
* * * * *
I saw her coming towards me o'er the face of the mountain
Like a star glimmering through the mist;
In the field of furze where the slow cows were browsing
In pledge of our love we kissed;
In the bend of the hedge where the tall trees play with the sun,
I wrote her the lines that should bind us for ever in one;
Had you a right to deny me the dues I had won,
O Flower of Nut-brown Maids?
My grief and my torment that thou art not here with me now,
Flower of Nut-brown Maids!
Alone, all alone, it matters not where or how,
O Flower of Nut-brown Maids;
On a slender bed, O little black head, strained close to thee,
Or a heap of hay, until break of day, it were one to me,
Laughing in gladness and glee together, with none to see,
My Flower of Nut-brown Maids.
ROISÍN DUBH
There's black grief on the plains, and a mist on the hills;
There is fury on the mountains, and that is no wonder;
I would empty the wild ocean with the shell of an egg,
If I could be at peace with thee, my Ros geal dubh.
Long is the course I travelled from yesterday to to-day,
Without, on the edge of the hill, lightly bounding, as I know,
I leapt Loch Erne to find her, though wide was the flood,
With no light of the sun to guide my path, but the Ros geal dubh.
If thou shouldst go to the Aonach to sell thy kine and stock,
If you go, see that you stay not out in the darkness of the night;
Put bolts upon your doors, and a heavy reliable lock,
Or, in faith, the priest will be down on you, on my Ros geal dubh!
O little Rose, sorrow not, nor be lamenting now,
There is pardon from the Pope for thee, sent straight home from Rome,
The friars are coming overseas, across the heaving wave,
And Spanish wine will then be thine, my Ros geal dubh.
There is true love in my heart for thee for the passing of a year,
Love tormenting, love lamenting, heavy love that wearies me,
Love that left me without health, without a path, gone all astray,
And for ever, ever, I did not get my Ros geal dubh!
I would walk Munster with thee and the winding ways of the hills,
In hope I would get your secret and a share of your love;
O fragrant Branch, I have known it, that thou hast love for me,
The flower-blossom of wise women is my Ros geal dubh.
The sea will be red floods, and the skies like blood,
Blood-red in war the world will show on the ridges of the hills;
The mountain glens through Erinn and the brown bogs will be quaking
Before the day she sinks in death, my Ros geal dubh![110]
FOOTNOTES:
[110] _Ros geal dubh_ means the "Fair-dark Rose," here used
as a love-title for Ireland; _Roisín Dubh_ means "Little black or dark
Rose." The above is a literal translation of the Irish poem upon which
Mangan's "Dark Rosaleen" was formed. The opening quatrain is found in
Petrie's _Ancient Music of Ireland_, but not in O'Daly's collection.
MY DARK ROSALEEN
O my dark Rosaleen,
Do not sigh, do not weep!
The priests are on the ocean green,
They march along the deep.
There's wine from the royal Pope
Upon the ocean green;
And Spanish ale shall give you hope,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,
Shall give you health, and help, and hope,
My Dark Rosaleen!
Over hills and thro' dales,
Have I roamed for your sake;
All yesterday I sailed with sails
On river and on lake.
The Erne at its highest flood
I dashed across unseen,
For there was lightning in my blood,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
O there was lightning in my blood,
Red lightning lightened thro' my blood,
My Dark Rosaleen!
All day long, in unrest,
To and fro, do I move.
The very soul within my breast
Is wasted for you, love!
The heart in my bosom faints
To think of you, my queen,
My life of life, my saint of saints,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
To hear your sweet and sad complaints,
My life, my love, my saint of saints,
My Dark Rosaleen!
Woe and pain, pain and woe,
Are my lot, night and noon,
To see your bright face clouded so,
Like to the mournful moon.
But yet will I rear your throne
Again in golden sheen;
'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
'Tis you shall have the golden throne,
'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone,
My Dark Rosaleen!
Over dews, over sands,
Will I fly for your weal:
Your holy delicate white hands
Shall girdle me with steel.
At home in your emerald bowers,
From morning's dawn till e'en,
You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My fond Rosaleen!
You'll think of me thro' daylight hours,
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,
My Dark Rosaleen!
I could scale the blue air,
I could plough the high hills,
O I could kneel all night in prayer,
To heal your many ills!
And one beamy smile from you
Would float like light between
My toils and me, my own, my true,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My fond Rosaleen!
Would give me life and soul anew,
A second life, a soul anew,
My Dark Rosaleen!
O the Erne shall run red
With redundance of blood,
The earth shall rock beneath our tread,
And flames wrap hill and wood,
And gun-peal and slogan-cry
Wake many a glen serene,
Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
The Judgment Hour must first be nigh,
Ere you can fade, ere you can die,
My Dark Rosaleen!
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
THE FAIR HILLS OF EIRE
Donnchad Ruadh MacNamara, about 1730.
Take my heart's blessing over to dear Éire's strand--
Fair Hills of Éire O!
To the Remnant that love her--our Forefathers' land!
Fair Hills of Éire O!
How sweet sing the birds, o'er mount there and vale,
Like soft sounding chords, that lament for the Gael,--
And I, o'er the surge, far, far away must wail
The Fair Hills of Éire O!
How fair are the flow'rs on the dear daring peaks,
Fair Hills of Éire O!
Far o'er foreign bowers I love her barest reeks,
Fair Hills of Éire O!
Triumphant her trees, that rise on ev'ry height,
Bloom-kissed, the breeze comes odorous and bright,
The love of my heart!--O my very soul's delight!
The Fair Hills of Éire O!
Still numerous and noble her sons who survive,
Fair Hills of Éire O!
The true hearts in trouble, the strong hands to strive--
Fair Hills of Éire O!
Ah, 'tis this makes my grief, my wounding and my woe,
To think that each chief is now a vassal low,
And my Country divided amongst the Foreign Foe--
The Fair Hills of Éire O!
In purple they gleam, like our High Kings of yore,
The Fair Hills of Éire O!
With honey and cream are her plains flowing o'er,
Fair Hills of Éire O!
Once more I will come, or my very life shall fail,
To the heart-haunted home of the ever-faithful Gael,
Than King's boon more welcome the swift swelling sail
For the Fair Hills of Éire O!
The dewdrops sparkle, like diamonds on the corn,
Fair Hills of Éire O!
Where green boughs darkle the bright apples burn
Fair Hills of Éire O!
Behold, in the valley, cress and berries bland,
Where streams love to dally, in that Wondrous Land,
Where the great River-voices roll in music grand
Round the Fair Hills of Éire O!
O, 'tis welcoming, wide-hearted, that dear land of love!
Fair Hills of Éire O!
New life unto the martyred is the pure breeze above
The Fair Hills of Éire O!
More sweet than tune flowing o'er the chords of gold
Comes the kine's soft lowing from the mountain fold,--
O, the Splendour of the Sunshine on them all, Young and Old,
'Mid the Fair Hills of Éire O!
GEORGE SIGERSON.
SHULE AROON
_A Brigade Ballad_
Sir Charles Gavan Duffy says that the date of this ballad is not
positively known, but it appears to be early in the eighteenth
century, when the flower of the Catholic youth of Ireland were
drawn away to recruit the ranks of the Irish Brigade abroad.
It is accompanied by an air of deep sentiment and touching
simplicity.--_Ballad Poetry of Ireland._
I would I were on yonder hill,
'Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill,
And every tear would turn a mill,
_Is go d-teidh tu, a mhurnin, slan!
Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a ruin!
Siubhail go socair, agus siubhail go ciuin,
Siubhail go d-ti an doras agus eulaigh liom,
Is go d-teidh tu, a mhurnin, slan!_[111]
I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,
I'll sell my only spinning-wheel,
To buy for my love a sword of steel,
_Is go d-teidh tu, a mhurnin, slan!
Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail a ruin!_ &c.
I'll dye my petticoats, I'll dye them red,
And round the world I'll beg my bread,
Until my parents shall wish me dead,
_Is go d-teidh tu, a mhurnin, slan!
Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a ruin!_ &c.
I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,
I wish I had my heart again,
And vainly think I'd not complain,
_Is go d-teidh tu, a mhurnin, slan!
Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a ruin!_ &c.
But now my love has gone to France,
To try his fortune to advance;
If he e'er come back, 'tis but a chance,
_Is go d-teidh tu, a mhurnin, slan!
Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a ruin!
Siubhail go socair, agus siubhail go ciuin,
Siubhail go d-ti an doras agus culaigh liom,
Is go d-teidh tu, a mhurnin, slan!_
FOOTNOTES:
[111] Dr. Sigerson renders the chorus in English verse, as
follows:--
"Come, come, come, O Love!
Quickly come to me, softly move;
Come to the door, and away we'll flee,
And safe for aye may my darling be!"
LOVE'S DESPAIR
Dermot O'Curnan, born 1740.
I am desolate,
Bereft by bitter fate;
No cure beneath the skies can save me,
No cure on sea or strand,
Nor in any human hand--
But hers, this paining wound who gave me.
I know not night from day,
Nor thrush from cuckoo gray,
Nor cloud from the sun that shines above thee--
Nor freezing cold from heat,
Nor friend--if friend I meet--
I but know--heart's love!--I love thee.
Love that my Life began,
Love, that will close life's span,
Love that grows ever by love-giving:
Love, from the first to last,
Love, till all life be passed,
Love that loves on after living!
This love I gave to thee,
For pain love has given me,
Love that can fail or falter never--
But, spite of earth above,
Guards thee, my Flower of love,
Thou marvel-maid of life for ever.
Bear all things evidence,
Thou art my very sense,
My past, my present, and my morrow!
All else on earth is crossed,
All in the world is lost--
Lost all--but the great love-gift of sorrow.
My life not life, but death;
My voice not voice--a breath;
No sleep, no quiet--thinking ever
On thy fair phantom face,
Queen eyes and royal grace,
Lost loveliness that leaves me never.
I pray thee grant but this--
From thy dear mouth one kiss,
That the pang of death-despair pass over:
Or bid make ready nigh
The place where I shall lie,
For aye, thy leal and silent lover.
GEORGE SIGERSON.
THE CRUISKEEN LAWN
O sons of noble Erinn,
I've tidings of high daring
To brighten now your faces pale and wan:
Then hearken, gather nearer,
In Gaelic ringing clearer,
We'll pledge them in a cruiskeen lán, lán, lán,
We'll pledge them in a cruiskeen lán!
Olfameed an cruiskeen,
Sláinte gal mo vuirneen![112]
In motion, over ocean, slán, slán, slán!
In exile dark and dreary,
Wandering far and weary,
With friends that never failed, I have gone,
The trusted and true-hearted,
Would God we'd never parted,
Our brothers, boys, a cruiskeen lán, lán, lán!
Our heroes in a cruiskeen lán.
Heav'n speed them over ocean,
With breeze of rapid motion,
The ships that King Charles sails upon;
With troops the frank and fearless,
To win our Freedom peerless,
Our Freedom, boys, a cruiskeen lán, lán, lán!
Our Freedom, in a cruiskeen lán!
Young men who now are sharing
The toast we raise to Erinn,
With hope that the King is coming on,
Grasp your guns and lances
For swift his host advances,
We'll toast them in a cruiskeen lán, lán, lán!
We'll toast them in a cruiskeen lán!
The tribe who would destroy all
Our rightful princes royal
Shall hence end their rule and begone;
The Gael shall live in gladness,
And banished be all sadness.
To that time, then, a cruiskeen lán, lán, lán!
That time, boys, a cruiskeen lán!
Olfameed an cruiskeen,
Sláinte gal mo vuirneen,
In motion, over ocean, slán, slán, slán!
GEORGE SIGERSON.
FOOTNOTES:
[112] _i.e._ "Let us drink the cruiskeen ('little jug'); fair
health to my darling!"
EAMONN AN CHNUIC, OR "NED OF THE HILL"
_The Outlaw's Song_
"Who is that without
With voice like a sword,
That batters my bolted door?"
"I am Eamonn an Chnuic,
Cold, weary, and wet
From long walking mountains and glens."
"O dear and bright love,
What would I do for you
But cover you with a skirt of my dress.
For shots full thick
Are raining on you,
And together we may be slaughtered!"
"Long am I out
Under snow, under frost,
Without comradeship with any;
My team unyoked,
My fallow unsown,
And they lost to me entirely;
Friend I have none
(I am heavy for that)
That would harbour me late or early;
And so I must go
East over the sea,
Since 'tis there I have no kindred!"
P. H. PEARSE.
O DRUIMIN DONN DILISH
"O Druimin donn dilish,[113]
True Flower of the Kine,
Say, where art thou hiding,
Sad Mother of mine?"
"I lurk in the wild wood,
No human ear hears
(Save my brave lads around me)
My fast-falling tears.
"Gone my broad lands and homesteads,
My music and wine,
No chieftains attend me
No hostings are mine.
Stale bread and cold water
The whole of my hoard,
While the warm wine flows freely
Round the enemy's board."
"Could we utter our minds
To those smart English rogues,
We would beat them as soundly
As we beat our old brogues!
We would whip them through thorns
On a damp, foggy day,
O'er the cliffs, my Donn dilish,
We would chase them away!"
FOOTNOTES:
[113] A poetic name for Ireland; _druimshionn donn dileas_,
lit. "the beloved white-backed dun cow."
DO YOU REMEMBER THAT NIGHT?
Do you remember that night
When you were at the window,
With neither hat nor gloves
Nor coat to shelter you?
I reached out my hand to you,
And you ardently grasped it,
I remained to converse with you
Until the lark began to sing.
Do you remember that night
That you and I were
At the foot of the rowan-tree,
And the night drifting snow?
Your head on my breast,
And your pipe sweetly playing?
Little thought I that night
That our love ties would loosen!
Beloved of my inmost heart,
Come some night, and soon,
When my people are at rest,
That we may talk together.
My arms shall encircle you
While I relate my sad tale,
That your soft, pleasant converse
Hath deprived me of heaven.
The fire is unraked,
The light unextinguished,
The key under the door,
Do you softly draw it.
My mother is asleep,
But I am wide awake;
My fortune in my hand,
I am ready to go with you.
_Written down by O'Curry for Dr. George Petrie._
THE EXILE'S SONG
Composed by an emigrant named MacAmbrois.
Oh! were I again on my native bay,
By the curving hills that are far away,
I scarcely would wander for half a day
From the Cuckoo's Glen of a Sunday!
For, och, och, Éire, O!
Lone is the exile from Éire, O!
'Tis my heart that is heavy and weary!
O many a Christmas in Ireland,
I would race with the boys on the pleasant strand,
With my hurling-stick in my baby hand,
And but little sense to guide me!
And, och, och, Éire, O!
Sad is the exile from Éire, O!
'Tis my heart that is heavy and weary!
Lonely and drear is this foreign plain,
Where I hear but my own voice back again,
No call of the corncrake, cuckoo, or crane,
Now awakens me on a Sunday!
Then, och, och, Éire, O!
Lost is the exile from Éire, O!
'Tis my heart that is heavy and weary!
O, had I a boat and a single oar,
With the help of God I'd reach Erin's shore,
Nay, the very tide might drift me o'er,
To die at home in Erin!
Now, och, och, Éire, O!
Would I were back in Éire, O!
'Tis my heart that is heavy and weary!
THE FISHERMAN'S KEEN
_Or the lamentation of O'Donoghue of Affadown ("Roaring Water"), in
the west of Co. Cork, for his three sons and his son-in-law, who were
drowned_.
O loudly wailed the winter wind, the driving sleet fell fast,
The ocean billow wildly heaved beneath the bitter blast;
My three fair sons, ere break of day, to fish had left the shore,
The tempest came forth in its wrath--they ne'er returned more.
Cormac, 'neath whose unerring aim the wild duck fell in flight,
The plover of the lonesome hills, the curlew swift as light!
My firstborn child! the flower of youth! the dearest and the best!
O would that thou wert spared to me, though I had lost the rest!
And thou, my handsome Felix! in whose eye so dark and bright
The soul of courage and of wit looked forth in laughing light!
And Daniel, too, my fair-haired boy, the gentle and the brave,
All, all my stately sons were 'whelmed beneath the foaming wave.
Upon the shore, in wild despair, your aged father stood,
And gazed upon his Daniel's corse, too late snatched from the flood!
I saw him pale and lifeless lie, no more to see the light--
And cold, and dumb, and motionless, my heart grew at the sight!