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Show THE EN"G OF IRELAND'S CAIRN". Blow softly down the valley, Oh. wind, and stir the fern That waves its green fronds over The King of Ireland's Cairn. Here in his last wild foray He fell, and here he lies His armor makes no rattle, The clay is in his eyes. His spear, that once was lightning Hurled with unerring hand. Rusts by his fleshless fiingers Beside his battle-brand. His shield, that made a pillow Beneath his noble head. Hath mouldered, quite forgotten. With the half forgotten dead. Say, doth his ghost remember Old flints, old revelhngs. When the victor chant re-echoed In Tara of the Kings? Say, In those Halls of Silence Hath he sought his shadowy Queen, Or doth he step contented To dream of what has been? Nay, nay. he still is kingly-He kingly-He wanders in a glen Where Fionn goes by a-huntlng With misty Fenian men. He sees the Hounds of Wonder Bring down their fleeting prey He sees the swift blood flowing At dawning of the day. At night he holds his revets Juat as a King might do But all the guests are ghostly. And all the lights burn blue. And he who crowns the feasting, His pale Queen by his side. Is cold as when they stretched him That bitter eve he died. 'Tis well he seeks no tidings His heart would ache to know That all is changed in Ireland, And Tara lieth low. Ethna Carbery in Harper's Weekly. |