And him, the sun of Thebes, whose warlike pride Mark where approaching to the sacred shrine, 'Twas his to pierce, with more than mortal sight, He wields the blood-stain'd sword and flaming brand. The depths of counsel, and the pride of arms; Whence bursts this flood of light, before whose ray As if some daring hand aside had thrown The mystic veil that shrouds the world unknown, And tempt the trackless deep, unbounded by a shore, His awful front majestic Plato rears. Such as of old, on Sunium's rocky side Or where Ilissus' sacred waters glide, From reason's light he taught the list'ning youth Or in mysterious symbols half conceal'd And pour their sweet accordant minstrelsy; Through Through boundless space the sacred hymn prolong, But cease, my Muse! for not to thee is giv'n "His horsemen hard behind us ride; Outspoke the hardy Highland wight "And by my word! the bonny bird "So, though the waves are raging white, By this the storm grew loud apace, But O'CONNOR'S CHILD, OR, THE FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING. [From the Same.] I. once the harp of Innisfail 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 Along the isles of Fion-Gall, When for O'Connor's child to mourn, And yet no wrongs, no fear she felt: II. Sweet lady! she no more inspires Gone from her hand and bosom, gone, Yet why, though fall'n her brother's kerne, III. And fix'd on empty space, why burn IV. Bright as the bow that spans the storm, A son of light-a lovely form, The morat in a golden cup. O'Connor's child, I was the bud Still as I clasp my burning brain, Their tribe, they said, their high degree, |