It is my bitter grief--it cuts me to the heart-- That in the country of Clan Darry this should be his fate! O, woe is me, where is he? Wandering, houseless, desolate, Alone, without or guide or chart! Medreams I see just now his face, the strawberry-bright, Uplifted to the blackened heavens, while the tempestuous winds Blow fiercely over and round him, and the smiting sleet-shower blinds The hero of Galang to-night! Large, large affliction unto me and mine it is, That one of his majestic bearing, his fair, stately form, Should thus be tortured and o'erborne--that this unsparing storm Should wreak its wrath on head like his! That his great hand, so oft the avenger of the oppressed, Should this chill churlish night, perchance, be paralyzed by frost-- While through some icicle-hung thicket--as one lorn and lost-- He walks and wanders without rest. The tempest-driven torrent deluges the mead, It overflows the low banks of the rivulets and ponds-- The lawns and pasture-grounds lie locked in icy bonds So that the cattle cannot feed. The pale bright margins of the streams are seen by none, Rushes and sweeps along the untamable flood on every side-- It penetrates and fills the cottagers' dwellings far and wide-- Water and land are blent in one. Through some dark wood, 'mid bones of monsters, Hugh now strays, As he confronts the storm with anguished heart, but manly brow-- O, what a sword-wound to that tender heart of his were now A backward glance of peaceful days. But other thoughts are his--thoughts that can still inspire With joy and onward-bounding hope the bosom of Mac-Nee-- Thoughts of his warriors charging like bright billows the sea, Borne on the wind's wings, flashing fire! And though frost glaze to-night the clear dew of his eyes, And white ice-gauntlets glove his noble fine fair fingers o'er, A warm dress is to him that lightning garb he ever wore, The lightning of the soul, not skies. AVRAN Hugh marched forth to the fight--I grieved to see him so depart; And lo! to-night he wanders frozen, rain-drenched, sad, betrayed-- _But the memory of the limewhite mansions his right hand hath laid In ashes, warms the hero's heart_! _James Clarence Mangan_ THE NAMELESS ONE Roll forth, my song, like the rushing river, That sweeps along to the mighty sea; God will inspire me while I deliver My soul to thee! Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whitening Amid the last homes of youth and eld, That there was once one whose blood ran lightning No eye beheld. Tell how his boyhood was one drear night-hour, How shone for _him_, through its griefs and gloom, No star of all heaven sends to light our Path to the tomb.