Checked on her lip the flow of song, which fain Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone, Even to the spring's glad voice. Her own was low A haughty brow, and age has done with tears; That love was not for her, though hearts would melt One sunny morn With alms before her castle-gate she stood, Midst peasant groups; when, breathless and o'erworn, A stranger through them broke. The orphan maid, THE LADY OF THE CASTLE By some strong passion in its gushing mood, Knelt at her feet, and bathed them with such tears 107 From the heart's urn; and with her white lips pressed Isaure had prayed for that lost mother; wept But never breathed in human ear the name She sank, while o'er her castle's threshold stone And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold. Her child bent o'er her-called her: 'twas too lateDead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate! The joy of courts, the star of knight and bard— How didst thou fall, O bright-haired Ermengarde ! CAROLAN'S PROPHECY ["IT is somewhat remarkable that Carolan, the Irish bard, even in his gayest mood, never could compose a planxty for a Miss Brett in the county of Sligo, whose father's house he frequented, and where he always met with a reception due to his exquisite taste and mental endowments. One day, after an unsuccessful attempt to compose something in a sprightly strain for this lady, he threw aside his harp with a mixture of rage and grief; and addressing himself in Irish to her mother, 'Madam,' said he, I have often, from my great respect to your family, attempted a planxty in order to celebrate your daughter's perfections, but to no purpose. Some evil genius hovers over me; there is, not a string in my harp that does not vibrate a melancholy sound when I set about this task. I fear she is not doomed to remain long among us; nay,' said he emphatically, she will not survive twelve months.' The event verified the prediction, and the young lady died within the period limited by the unconsciously prophetic bard. "-Percy Anecdotes.] "Thy cheek too swiftly flushes, o'er thine eye A SOUND of music from amidst the hills There sat a bard By a blue stream of Erin, where it swept Flashing through rock and wood: the sunset's light Was on his wavy, silver gleaming hair, And the wind's whisper in the mountain-ash, CAROLAN'S PROPHECY 109 Whose clusters drooped above. His head was bowed, The unchaining of his soul, the gush of song- With trembling midst our joy, lest aught unseen By his own rushing stream? Once more he gazed From the deep chords his wandering hand brought out "Voice of the Grave! I hear thy thrilling call; It comes in the dash of the foaming wave, In the shiver of the tree, I hear thee, O thou Voice! And I would thy warning were but for me, That my spirit might rejoice. "But thou art sent For the sad earth's young and fair, For the graceful heads that have not bent To the wintry hand of care! They hear the wind's low sigh, And the river sweeping free, And the green reeds murmuring heavily, And the woods-but they hear not thee! "Long have I striven With my deep-foreboding soul, But the full tide now its bounds hath riven, And darkly on must roll. There's a young brow smiling near, With a bridal white-rose wreathUnto me it smiles from a flowery bier, Touched solemnly by death! "Fair art thou, Morna! The sadness of thine eye Is beautiful as silvery clouds On the dark-blue summer sky! And thy voice comes like the sound Of a sweet and hidden rill, That makes the dim woods tuneful round But soon it must be still! "Silence and dust On thy sunny lips must lie: Make not the strength of Love thy trust, |