I'll sing my children's death-song, tho' My voice is faint and low; Mine is the heart that's desolate-- 'Tis I will mourn their fate. I'll sing their death-song, tho' the dart Is rankling in my heart: No friend is here my pangs to soothe, In this deep solitude. Weep not the widow's grief to see, When wild with agony! Nor mourn to hear the bridegroom rave, Above his partner's grave. But weep for one whose bitter wail, Is poured upon the gale, Like the shrill bird that flutters nigh The nest, where its crushed offspring lie. Yes! I will sing this song of woe, Till life's last spark shall glow, Like the swan floating on the surge, That murmurs its unwilling dirge. Thou Callaghan, devoid of sin-- And Charles of the silken skin, Mary and Anne, my peerless flower, Entombed within an hour. My four sweet children fair and brave, Laid in one grave-- Wound of my soul, that I should say Your death-song in one day! Vain was the blood of Eiver's race, And every opening grace, And youth undarkened by a cloud-- Against an early shroud! Mute are the tongues that sung for me, In joyful harmony:-- Cold are the lips whose welcome kiss To me was heavenly bliss. Oh! but for him whose head was bow'd 'Mid Calvary's mocking crowd-- Soon would I fly the painful day, And follow in their way. Yet mourned not He in voiceless gloom, O'er Lazarus in the tomb-- Rushed not the flood from his dimm'd eyes? Heav'd not his breast with sighs? Yes, for his kindred from the day, That earthward darkling lay,-- Then do not chide that I should mourn For them that won't return. And mourned not the pure Virgin, when Her Son, transfixed by men, Writh'd in the throes of his dark agony? Then blame not me. At midnight's hour of silence deep, Seal'd in their balmy sleep, Oh! crushing grief--oh! scathing blow, My lov'd ones were laid low. Methought, when bow'd this head with time, Around me they would twine, Nor reck'd that I should mourn their lot, A thing of nought. 'Twas met to him, affection they should prove Who gave them all his love, And to old age the right concede, Their path to lead. Beauty and strength have left my brow, Nor care nor wisdom have I now; Little the blow of death I dread Since all my hopes have fled. No more--no more shall music's voice My heart rejoice-- Like a brain-stricken fool, whose ear Is clos'd 'gainst earthly cheer. When wailing at the dead of night, They cross my aching sight-- They come, and beck'ning me away, They chide my long delay. At midnight hour--at morn--at eve, My sight they do not leave; Within-abroad--their looks of love, Around me move. Oh! in their visits no affection's lost! I love the pathways by their shadows cross'd Soon, by the will of heaven's King, To their embrace I'll spring. I pity her who never more will know Contentment here below: Who fed them at the fountain of her breast, And hush'd their infant rest. Her faded eyes, her anguish speak-- And her clasp'd hands, so weak! 'Tis she, alas! of Erin's daughters Hath seen [1] the ruin of slaughters. [2]
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Published in 1999 by Dennis McCarthy
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