 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
IRISH AIRS
I
On darksome hills thy songs I hear:—Nor growths they seem of minstrel art
Nor wanderers from Urania's sphere,
But voices from thine own deep heart!
They seem thine own sad oracles
Not uttered by thy sons but thee,
Like waters forced through stony cells
Or winds from cave and hollow tree.
II
From thee what forced them? Futile quest!What draws to widowed eyes the tears?
The milk to Rachel's childless breast?
The blood to wounds unstaunched of years?
145
On cypress-spire and cedar's fan:
Long rust upon the guilty brake
The heart-drops of the murdered man.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |