O'Connor's Child.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
"I fled the home of grief,
At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall;
I found the helmet of my chief,
His bow still hanging on our wall,
And took it down, and vow'd to rove
This desert place, a huntress bold:
Nor would I change my buried love
For any heart of living mould."
Campbell.
The sleep of storms is dark upon the skies;
The weight of omens heavy in the cloud:—
Bid the lorn huntress of the desert rise,
And gird the form whose beauty grief hath bowed,
And leave the tomb, as tombs are left—alone,
To the stars' vigil and the wind's wild moan.
Tell her of revelries in bower and hall,
Where gems are glittering, and bright wine is pour'd—
Where to glad measures chiming footsteps fall,
And soul seems gushing from the harp's full chord;
And richer flowers amid fair tresses wave,
Than the sad "Love lies bleeding" of the grave.
