The mid-day is dark with unnatural gloom—
And a spectral lament wildly shrieked in the air,
Tells all hearts that our princess lies cold in the
tomb—
Bids the old and the young bend in agony there!
Faint the lowing of kine o'er the seared yellow lawn!
And tuneless the warbler that droops on the spray!
The bright tenants that flashed through the current are
gone!
For the princess we honoured is laid in the clay.—
Darkly brooding alone o'er his bondage and shame,
By the shore, in mute agony, wander the Gael—
And sad is my spirit—and clouded my dream,
For my king—for the star my devotion would hail—
What woe, beyond this, hath dark fortune to wreak?
What wrath o'er the land yet remains to be hurled?
They turn them to Rome! but despairing they shriek,
For Spain's flag, in defeat, and defection is furled—
