Silent, oh Moyle, be the roar of thy water,
Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose,
While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter
Tells to the night-star her tale of woes.
When shall the swan, her death-note singing,
Sleep, with wings in darkness furled?
When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,
Call my spirit from this stormy world?
Sadly, oh Moyle, to thy winter wave weeping,
Fate bids me languish long ages away;
Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping,
Still doth the pure light its dawning delay.
When will that day-star, mildly springing,
Warm our isle with peace and love?
When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,
Call my spirit to the fields above?
[1] To make this story intelligible in a song would require a much greater
number of verses than any one is authorized to inflict upon an audience at
once; the reader must therefore be content to learn, in a note, that
Fionnuala, the daughter of Lir, was, by some supernatural power,
transformed into a swan, and condemned to wander, for many hundred years,
over certain lakes and rivers in Ireland, till the coming of Christianity,
when the first sound of the mass-bell was to be the signal of her
release,--I found this fanciful fiction among some manuscript translations
from the Irish, which were begun under the direction of that enlightened
friend of Ireland, the late Countess of Moira.