The Elocutionist (1840-1850)/Flight of O'Connor's Child and Death of her Lover

by Thomas Campbell

For other versions of this work, see Flight of O'Connor's Child and Death of her Lover.

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FLIGHT OF O’CONNOR’S CHILD AND DEATH OF HER LOVER.

At bleeting of the wild watch fold
⟨Thus⟩ sang my love—Oh, come with me!
⟨Our⟩ bark is on the lake—behold
⟨Our⟩ steeds are fastened to the tree,
⟨Come⟩ far from Castle-Connor’s clans!
⟨Come⟩ with thy belted forstere,
⟨nd⟩ I, beside the lake of swans,
⟨Shall⟩ hunt for thee the fallow deer;
⟨And⟩ build thy hut, and bring thee home
⟨The⟩ wild fowl and the honey-comb;
⟨And⟩ berries from the wood provide,
⟨And⟩ play the clarshech by thy side—
⟨Then⟩ come my love!—How could I stay?
⟨Our⟩ nimble stag-hounds traced the way,
⟨And⟩ I pursued by moonless skies,
⟨The⟩ light of Connocht, Moran’s eyes

⟨And⟩ fast and far, before the star
⟨Of⟩ day-spring, rushed we through the glade,
⟨And⟩ saw at dawn the lofty bawn
⟨Of⟩ Castle-Connor fade.
⟨Sweet⟩ was to us the hermitage
⟨Of⟩ this unploughed, untrodden shore;
⟨Like⟩ birds all joyous from the cage,
⟨For⟩ man’s neglect we lov’d it more!
And well he knew, my huntsman dear,
To search the game with hawk and spear;
While I, his evening foot to dress,
Would sing to him in happiness!
But oh! that midnight of dispair,
When I was doomed to rend my hair
The night to me of shrieking sorrow!
The night to him---that had no morrow!

When all was hushed at even tide,
I heard the baying of their beagle;
Be hushed, my Connocht, Moran cried,
’Tis but the screaming of the eagle---
Alas; ’twas not eyrie’s sound
Their bloody hands had traced us out:
Up-listering starts our couchant hound---
And, hark; the nearer shout
Brings faster on the murderers.
Spare---spare him---Brazil---Desmond flee
In vain---no voice the adder charms:
Their weapons cross’d my sheltering arms;
Another’s sword has laid him low---
Another’s and another’s;
And every hand that dealt a blow---
Ah me, it was a brother’s:
Yes, when his meanings died away.
Their iron hands had dug the clay,
And o’er his burial turf they trod,
And I beheld---O God; O God;
His life-blood oozing from the sod.

FINIS.