A Legend of Ireland

They have parted for everOur hearts rosy chain,And bound me, all helpless,To a love I disdain.They have ruthless bereft usOf the fond hope of years,And given my young lifeTo sorrow and tears.

Yet my heart, Oh Beloved,To thy memory clings,As the bird o’er her nestlingFolds closely her wings.The dark clouds may gatherAloft in the sky,And the tempest toss wildlyThe branches on high;

But faithful and fond,With her young neath her breast,Still fearlessly cleavethThe bird to her nest.And thus, though in peril,And secret it be,Oh! Bird of my breast!Clings my true heart to thee.

The dove was the falcon’s love,The dove with her tender breast;Ah! weary the fate that gaveThe dove to the kite’s vile nest!The moon from yon cloud to-nightLooks down on the feast of shells;Oh, marked she the falcon’s flightFor the home where his own dove dwells?

There’s a veil o’er my harp’s true strings,There’s a cloud o’er the fair moon’s breast;And the falcon, with outspread wings,Hangs o’er the kite’s vile nest.The famishing birds of prey,Are hurrying through the night,But the dove with her falcon loveWill have flown ere the morning light!