“Warm in his death-wounds sepulchred, Alas! my warrior’s spirit brave. Nor mass nor ulla-lulla[62] heard, Lamenting, soothe his grave. Dragged to their hated mansion back, How long in thraldom’s grasp I lay, I knew not, for my soul was black, And knew no change of night or day. One night of horror round me grew; Or if I saw, or felt, or knew, ’Twas but when those grim visages, The angry brothers of my race, Glared on each eye-ball’s aching throb, And checked my bosom’s power to sob, Or when my heart with pulses drear, Beat like a death-watch to my ear. XII. “But Heaven, at last, my soul’s eclipse Did with a vision bright inspire: I woke and felt upon my lips A prophetess’s fire. Thrice in the east a war-drum beat, I heard the Saxon’s trumpet sound, And ranged, as to the judgment-seat, My guilty, trembling brothers round. Clad in the helm and shield they came; For now De Bourgo’s sword and flame Had ravaged Ulster’s boundaries, And lighted up the midnight skies. The standard of O’Connor’s sway Was in the turret where I lay; That standard with so dire a look, As ghastly shone the moon and pale, I gave, that every bosom shook Beneath its iron mail. XIII. “‘And go!’ I cried, ‘the combat seek, Ye hearts that unappallèd bore The anguish of a sister’s shriek, Go!—and return no more! For sooner guilt the ordeal brand Shall gasp unhurt, than ye shall hold The banner with victorious hand, Beneath a sister’s curse unrolled.’ O stranger! by my country’s loss! And by my love! and by the cross! I swear I never could have spoke The curse that severed nature’s yoke, But that a spirit o’er me stood, And fired me with the wrathful mood; And frenzy to my heart was given, To speak the malison of heaven.[63] XIV. “They would have crossed themselves, all mute; They would have prayed to burst the spell; But at the stamping of my foot, Each hand down powerless fell! ‘And go to Athunree!’[64] I cried, ‘High lift the banner of your pride! But know that where its sheet unrolls, The weight of blood is on your souls! Go where the havoc of your kerne Shall float as high as mountain fern! Men shall no more your mansion know; The nettles on your hearth shall grow! Dead, as the green oblivious flood That mantles by your walls, shall be The glory of O’Connor’s blood: Away! away to Athunree! Where, downward when the sun shall fall, The raven’s wing shall be your pall! And not a vassal shall unlace The vizor from your dying face!’ XV.