“To-morrow let us do or die! But when the bolt of death is hurled, Ah! whither then with thee to fly, Shall Outalissi roam the world? Seek we thy once-loved home? The hand is gone that cropt its flowers: Unheard their clock repeats its hours! Cold is the hearth within their bowers! And should we thither roam, Its echoes, and its empty tread, Would sound like voices from the dead! XXXVIII. “Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed? And by my side, in battle true, A thousand warriors drew the shaft? Ah! there in desolation cold The desert serpent dwells alone, Where grass o’ergrows each mouldering bone, And stones themselves to ruin grown, Like me, are death-like old. Then seek we not their camp,—for there— The silence dwells of my despair! XXXIX. “But hark, the trump!—to-morrow thou In glory’s fires shalt dry thy tears: E’en from the land of shadows now My father’s awful ghost appears, Amidst the clouds that round us roll; He bids my soul for battle thirst— He bids me dry the last—the first— The only tears that ever burst From Outalissi’s soul; Because I may not stain with grief The death-song of an Indian chief!” [47] Alluding to the miseries that attended the American civil war. [48] Cougar, the American tiger. [49] Imaginary leader of those Mohawks, and other savages, who laid waste this part of Pennsylvania.—See Notes. [50] See Notes. O’CONNOR’S CHILD; OR, THE “FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING.” O’CONNOR’S CHILD; OR, THE “FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING.” I. Oh! once the harp of Innisfail[51] Was strung full high to notes of gladness; But yet it often told a tale Of more prevailing sadness. Sad was the note, and wild its fall, As winds that moan at night forlorn Along the isles of Fion-Gall, When, for O’Connor’s child to mourn, The harper told, how lone, how far From any mansion’s twinkling star, From any path of social men, Or voice, but from the fox’s den, The lady in the desert dwelt; And yet no wrongs, no fear she felt: Say, why should dwell in place so wild, O’Connor’s pale and lovely child? II. Sweet lady! she no more inspires Green Erin’s hearts with beauty’s power, As, in the palace of her sires, She bloomed a peerless flower. Gone from her hand and bosom, gone, The royal brooch, the jewelled ring, That o’er her dazzling whiteness shone, Like dews on lilies of the spring. Yet why, though fallen her brother’s kerne,[52] Beneath De Bourgo’s battle stern, While yet in Leinster unexplored, Her friends survive the English sword; Why lingers she from Erin’s host, So far on Galway’s shipwrecked coast; Why wanders she a huntress wild— O’Connor’s pale and lovely child? III.