EARL DESMOND AND THE BANSHEE.

- Proofing in Progress -

Now cheer thee on, my gallant steed,
  There's a weary way before us--
Across the mountain swiftly speed,
  For the storm is gathering o'er us.

Away, away, the horseman rides;
  His bounding steed's dark form
Seem'd o'er the soft black moss to glide--
  A spirit of the storm!

Now, rolling in the troubled sky,
  The thunder's loudly crashing;
And through the dark clouds driving by,
  The moon's pale light is flashing.

In sheets of foam the mountain flood
  Comes roaring down the glen;
On the steep bank one moment stood
  The horse and rider then.

One desperate bound the courser gave,
  And plunged into the stream;
And snorting, stemm'd the boiling wave,
  By the lightning's quivering gleam.

The flood is pass'd--the bank is gain'd--
  Away with headlong speed;
A fleeter horse than Desmond rein'd
  Ne'er served at lover's need.

His scatter'd train, in eager haste,
  Far, far behind him ride;
Alone he's crossed the mountain waste,
  To meet his promised bride.

The clouds across the moon's dim form
  Are fast and faster sailing,
And sounds are heard on the sweeping storm
  Of wild unearthly wailing.

At first low moanings seem'd to die
  Away, and faintly languish;
Then swell into the piercing cry
  Of deep, heart-bursting anguish.

Beneath an oak, whose branches bare
  Were crashing in the storm,
With wringing hands and streaming hair,
  There sat a female form.

To pass that oak in vain he tried;
  His steed refus'd to stir,
Though furious 'gainst his panting side
  Was struck the bloody spur.

The moon, by driving clouds o'ercast,
  Withheld its fitful gleam;
And louder than the tempest blast
  Was heard the banshee's scream.

And when the moon unveiled once more,
  And show'd her paly light,
Then nought was seen save the branches hoar
  Of the oak-tree's blasted might.

That shrieking form had vanishéd
  From out that lonely place;
And, like a dreamy vision, fled,
  Nor left one single trace.

Earl Desmond gazed--his bosom swell'd
  With grief and sad foreboding;
Then on his fiery way he held,
  His courser madly goading.

For well that wailing voice he knew,
  And onward hurrying fast,
O'er hills and dales impetuous flew,
  And reach'd his home at last.

Beneath his wearied courser's hoof
  The trembling drawbridge clangs,
And Desmond sees his own good roof,
  But darkness o'er it hangs.

He pass'd beneath the gloomy gate,
  No guiding tapers burn;
No vassals in the court-yard wait,
  To welcome his return.

The hearth is cold in the lonely hall,
  No banquet decks the board;
No page stands ready at the call,
  To 'tend his wearied lord.

But all within is dark and drear,
  No sights or sounds of gladness--
Nought broke the stillness on the ear,
  Save a sudden burst of sadness.

Then slowly swell'd the kenner's strain
  With load lament and weeping,
For round a corse a mournful train
  The sad death-watch were keeping.

Aghast he stood, bereft of power,
  Hope's fairy visions fled;
His fears confirmed; his beauteous flower--
  His fair-hair'd bride was dead!

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