SONNET.
Reading edition
THE RUINS OF EMANIA (NEAR ARMAGH).
BY AUBREY DE VERE.
Why seek we thus the living ‘mid the dead? Beneath yon mound—within yon circle wide— Emania’s palace, festive as a bride For centuries six, had found its wormy bed When Patrick lifted here his royal head, And round him gazed. Perhaps the Apostle sighed Even then, to note the fall of mortal pride— Full fourteen hundred years since then have fled! Then, too, old Ulster’s hundred kings were clay; Then, too, the Red Branch warriors slept forlorn; Autumn, perhaps, as now, a pilgrim gray, Her red beads counted on the berried thorn, Making her rounds; while from the daisied sod The undiscountenanced lark upsoared, and praised her God.