The sea-wave talks, Athwart the frozen earth grim winter stalks; Young Fermod, son of Mugh, ne'er said me nay, Yet he comes not to-day.
How still they row, Oar dipped by oar the wavering reeds among, To Alma's shore they press, a ghostly throng, Deeply they sleep and long.
No lightsome laugh Disturbs my fireside's stillness; shadows fall, And quiet forms are gathering round my hearth, Yet lies the hand of silence on them all.
I do not deem it ill That a nun's veil should rest upon my head; But finer far my feast-robe's various hue To me, when all is said.
My very cloak grows old; Grey is its tint, its woof is frayed and thin; I seem to feel grey hairs within its fold, Or are they on my skin?
O happy Isle of Ocean, Thy flood-tide leaps to meet the eddying wave Lifting it up and onward. Till the grave The sea-wave comes not after ebb for me.
I find them not Those sunny sands I knew so well of yore; Only the surf's sad roar sounds up to me, My tide will turn no more.
"A.D. 946. Gormliath, daughter of Fiann, Queen of Nial Glundubh, or "Black-knee," died after intense penance for her sins and transgressions."--_Annals of the Four Masters_.
Move, O Monk, thy foot away! Lift it from the grave of Nial! All too high thou heap'st the pile; All too deep thou diggest the clay.
Brown-haired Monk, most gentle friend, Press not with thy foot the soil Nial to cover, heavy toil, Of thy labours make an end.
Mournful priest, thy prayers delay, Close not yet the prince's tomb, Make an opening, for I come; Move, O Monk, thy foot away!
Not my will that brought thee bound, Black-kneed Nial, with heart of gold! When mine arms his form enfold, Raise his stone, and smooth his mound.
Gormliath I, a Queen commands, Daughter of King Flann the brave; Press not then upon his grave; Move, O Monk, thy foot away!
THE MOTHER'S LAMENT AT THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS
Then, as the executioner plucked her son from her breast, one of the women said:
"Why are you tearing Away to his doom, The child of my caring, The fruit of my womb. Till nine months were o'er His burden I bore, Then his pretty lips pressed The glad milk from my breast, And my whole heart he filled, And my whole life he thrilled.
All my strength dies, My tongue speechless lies, Darkened are my eyes! His breath was the breath of me; His death is the death of me."