A LAMENT FOR THE PRINCES OF TYRONE AND TYRCONNEL

woman of the piercing wail, Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay With sigh and groan, Would God thou wert among the Gael! Thou would'st not then from day to day Weep thus alone. 'Twere long before around a grave In green Tyrconnel, one could find This loneliness; Near where Beann-Boirche's banners wave, Such grief as thine could ne'er have pined Companionless. Beside the wave in Donegal, In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore, Or Killilee, Or where the sunny waters fall At Assaroe, near Erna shore, This could not be. On Derry's plains, in rich Drumcliff, Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned In olden years, No day could pass but woman's grief Would rain upon the burial-ground Fresh floods of tears! O no!—From Shannon, Boyne, and Suir, From high Dunluce's castle-walls, From Lissadill, Would flock alike both rich and poor: One wail would rise from Cruachan's halls To Tara hill; And some would come from Barrow-side, And many a maid would leave her home On Leitrim's plains, And by melodious Banna's tide, And by the Mourne and Erne, to come And swell thy strains! Oh, horses' hoofs would trample down The mount whereon the martyr-saint Was crucified; From glen and hill, from plain and town, One loud lament, one thrilling plaint, Would echo wide. There would not soon be found, I ween, One foot of ground among those bands For museful thought, So many shriekers of the keen Would cry aloud, and clap their hands, All woe-distraught! Two princes of the line of Conn Sleep in their cells of clay beside O'Donnell Roe: Three royal youths, alas! are gone, Who lived for Erin's weal, but died For Erin's woe. Ah, could the men of Ireland read The names those noteless burial-stones Display to view, Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed, Their tears gush forth again, their groans Resound anew! The youths whose relics moulder here Were sprung from Hugh, high prince and lord Of Aileach's lands; Thy noble brothers, justly dear, Thy nephew, long to be deplored By Ulster's bands. Theirs were not souls wherein dull time Could domicile decay, or house Decrepitude! They passed from earth ere manhood's prime, Ere years had power to dim their brows, Or chill their blood. And who can marvel o'er thy grief, Or who can blame thy flowing tears, Who knows their source? O'Donnell, Dunnasava's chief, Cut off amid his vernal years, Lies here a corse Beside his brother Cathbar, whom Tyrconnell of the Helmets mourns In deep despair: For valour, truth, and comely bloom, For all that greatens and adorns, A peerless pair. Oh, had these twain, and he, the third, The Lord of Mourne, O'Niall's son (Their mate in death, A prince in look, in deed, and word), Had these three heroes yielded on The field their breath, Oh, had they fallen on Criffan's plain, There would not be a town or clan From shore to sea, But would with shrieks bewail the slain, Or chant aloud the exulting rann Of jubilee!

What do I say? Ah, woe is me! Already we bewail in vain Their fatal fall! And Erin, once the great and free, Now vainly mourns her breakless chain, And iron thrall. Then, daughter of O'Donnell, dry Thine overflowing eyes, and turn Thy heart aside, For Adam's race is born to die, And sternly the sepulchral urn Mocks human pride. Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne, Nor place thy trust in arm of clay, But on thy knees Uplift thy soul to God alone, For all things go their destined way As He decrees. Embrace the faithful crucifix, And seek the path of pain and prayer Thy Saviour trod; Nor let thy spirit intermix With earthly hope, with worldly care, Its groans to God![108] And Thou, O mighty Lord! whose ways Are far above our feeble minds To understand, Sustain us in these doleful days, And render light the chain that binds Our fallen land! Look down upon our dreary state, And thro' the ages that may still Roll sadly on, Watch Thou o'er hapless Erin's fate, And shield at least from darker ill The blood of Conn! James Clarence Mangan.