“Ah, brothers! what did it avail, That fiercely and triumphantly Ye fought the English of the pale, And stemmed De Bourgo’s chivalry?[58] And what was it to love and me, That barons by your standard rode; Or beal-fires[59] for your jubilee, Upon a hundred mountains glowed? What though the lords of tower and dome From Shannon to the North Sea foam,— Thought ye your iron hands of pride Could break the knot that love had tied? No:—let the eagle change his plume, The leaf its hue, the flower its bloom; But ties around this heart were spun, That could not, would not, be undone! VIII. “At bleating of the wild watch-fold Thus sang my love—‘Oh, come with me: Our bark is on the lake, behold Our steeds are fastened to the tree, Come far from Castle Connor’s clans— Come with thy belted forestere, And I, beside the lake of swans, Shall hunt for thee the fallow-deer; And build thy hut, and bring thee home The wild-fowl and the honey-comb; And berries from the wood provide, And play my clarshech[60] by thy side. Then come, my love!’—How could I stay? Our nimble stag-hounds tracked the way, And I pursued, by moonless skies, The light of Connocht Moran’s eyes. IX. “And fast and far, before the star Of day-spring, rushed we through the glade, And saw at dawn the lofty bawn[61] Of Castle Connor fade. Sweet was to us the hermitage Of this unploughed, untrodden shore; Like birds all joyous from the cage, For man’s neglect we loved it more. And well he knew, my huntsman dear, To search the game with hawk and spear; While I, his evening food to dress, Would sing to him in happiness. But, oh, that midnight of despair! When I was doomed to rend my hair: The night, to me, of shrieking sorrow! The night, to him, that had no morrow! X. “When all was hushed, at eventide, I heard the baying of their beagle: ‘Be hushed!’ my Connocht Moran cried, ‘’Tis but the screaming of the eagle.’ Alas! t’was not the eyrie’s sound; Their bloody bands had tracked us out; Up-listening starts our couchant hound, And, hark! again, that nearer shout Brings faster on the murderers. Spare—spare him—Brazil—Desmond fierce! In vain—no voice the adder charms; Their weapons crossed my sheltering arms: Another’s sword has laid him low. Another’s and another’s; And every hand that dealt the blow— Ah me! it was a brother’s! Yes, when his moanings died away, Their iron hands had dug the clay, And o’er his burial turf they trod, And I beheld—Oh God! Oh God! His life-blood oozing from the sod! XI.