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SIBYLLA IERNENSIS.

I

I dream'd. Great bells around me peal'd;
The world in that sad chime was drown'd;
Sharp cries as from a battle-field
Were strangled in that wondrous sound:
84

Had all the Kings of earth lain dead,
Had nations borne them lapp'd in lead
To torch-lit vaults with plume and pall,
Such bells had served for funeral.

II

'Twas work of phantasy! I slept
Where black Baltard o'erlooks the deep;
Plunging all night the billows kept
Their ghostly vigil round my sleep.
But I had fed on tragic lore
That day—your annals, ‘Masters Four!’
And every moan of wind and sea
Was as a funeral chime to me.

III

I woke. In vain the skylark sang
Above the breezy cliff; in vain
The golden iris flashed and swang
In hollows of the sea-pink plain.
As ocean shakes—no longer near—
The listening heart, and haunts the ear,
The Sibyl and that volume's spells
Pursued me with those funeral bells!

IV

The Irish Sibyl whispers slow
To one who pass'd her tardy Lent
In purple and fine linen, ‘Lo!
Thou would'st amend—but not repent!
Beware! Long prospers fearless crime;
Half courses bring the perilous time!
His way who changes, not his will,
Is strong no more, but guilty still.’
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