Specimens of the early native poetry of Ireland, in English metrical translations. With notices by H.R. Montgomery

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Henry Riddell Montgomery
1846

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Seite 67 - On a rock, whose haughty brow, Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the Poet stood ; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air) And with a Master's hand, and Prophet's fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.
Seite 198 - You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.
Seite 134 - 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.
Seite 205 - THE lions of the hill are gone, And I am left alone— alone — Dig the grave both wide and deep, For I am sick, and fain would sleep ! The falcons of the wood are flown, And I am left alone — alone — Dig the grave both deep and wide, And let us slumber side by side. The dragons of the rock are sleeping, Sleep that wakes not for our weeping — Dig the grave, and make it ready, Lay me on my true-love's body. Lay their spears and bucklers bright By the warriors' sides aright ; Many a day the...
Seite 134 - 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 through 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...
Seite 136 - Oh, cold, cold, miserably cold, is this bleak night for Hugh ; Its showery, arrowy, speary sleet pierceth one through and through — Pierceth one to the very bone ! Rolls real thunder? Or was that red, livid light Only a meteor? I scarce know ; but through the midnight dim The pitiless ice-wind streams. Except the hate that persecutes him, Nothing hath crueller venomy might.
Seite 130 - 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.
Seite 47 - When the world is dark with tempests, when thunder rolls and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou lookest in vain, for he beholds thy beams no more ; whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art perhaps like me for a season ; thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds careless of the voice of the morning.
Seite 133 - Fergus' banks, But slain our Chief ; When rose his camp in wild alarm, How would the triumph of his ranks Be dashed with grief ! How would the troops of Murbach mourn, If on the Curlew Mountains...
Seite 128 - 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 Tirconnell, one could find This loneliness; Near where Beann-Boirche's banners wave Such grief as thine could ne'er have pined Compassionless.

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