And thou, O gentle sleep! Whose course is with the stars of night; Be near with thy dreams of song To bring back my days of joy.
My soul beholds the maid! In the shade of the mighty oak, Her white hand beneath her golden hair, Her soft eye on her beloved.
He is near--but she is silent, His beating heart is lost in song, Their souls beam from their eyes-- Deer stand on the hill!
The song has ceased!-- Their bosoms meet;-- Like the young and stainless rose Her lips are pressed to his!--
Blessed be that commune sweet! Recalling the joy which returns no more-- Blessed be thy soul, my love! Thou maid with the bright flowing locks.
Hast thou forsaken me, O dream! Once more return again! Alas! thou art gone, and I am sad-- Bless thee, my love--farewell!
Friends of my youth, farewell! Farewell, ye maids of love! I see you now no more--with you is summer still, With me--the winter night!
O lay me by the roaring fall, By the sound of the murmuring craig, Let the cruit and the shell be near, And the shield of my father’s wars.
O breeze of Ocean come, With the sound of thy gentle course, Raise me on thy wings, O wind, And bear me to the isle of rest;
Where the heroes of old are gone, To the sleep which shall wake no more Open the hall of Ossian and Daol-- The night is come--the bard departs!
Behold my dim grey mist!-- I go to the dwelling of bards on the hill! Give me the airy cruit and shell for the way-- And now--my own loved cruit and shell--farewell!
Sweet is the voice in the land of gold, And sweeter the music of birds that soar, When the cry of the heron is heard on the wold, And the waves break softly on Bundatrore.
Down floats on the murmuring of the breeze The call of the cuckoo from Cossahun, The blackbird is warbling among the trees, And soft is the kiss of the warming sun.
The cry of the eagle of Assaroe O’er the court of Mac Morne to me is sweet, And sweet is the cry of the bird below Where the wave and the wind and the tall cliff meet.
Finn mac Cool is the father of me, Whom seven battalions of Fenians fear: When he launches his hounds on the open lea Grand is their cry as they rouse the deer.
By night, came a dream to Ros-crana! I feel my beating soul. No vision of the forms of the dead came to the blue eyes of Erin. But, rising from the wave of the north, I beheld him bright in his locks. I beheld the son of the king. My beating soul is high. I laid my head down in night: again ascended the form. Why delayest thou thy coming, young rider of stormy waves!