 | The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves |  |
A LAMENT
Dark, dark drives the tempest o'er Erin to-day,
And rends the green leaf from the writhing oak spray;
Thus struggling forlorn under Heaven's blackest cope,
Heart tortured we mourn the crushed crown of our hope.
And rends the green leaf from the writhing oak spray;
Thus struggling forlorn under Heaven's blackest cope,
Heart tortured we mourn the crushed crown of our hope.
Through foemen unnumber'd, in proud undismay,
To Freedom's pure heights he still won us the way;
Till planting elate on the proud peak our flag,
The fierce bolt of fate dashed him dead from the crag.
To Freedom's pure heights he still won us the way;
Till planting elate on the proud peak our flag,
The fierce bolt of fate dashed him dead from the crag.
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Moan, hollow wind, moan! weep, weep, heavy cloud,
Sob for sob, tear for tear, for the chief in his shroud!
Ochone! and ochoro! our Heart, Hand and Head,
To our black, bitter sorrow on the bier you lie dead!
Sob for sob, tear for tear, for the chief in his shroud!
Ochone! and ochoro! our Heart, Hand and Head,
To our black, bitter sorrow on the bier you lie dead!
| The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves | |