rounded her, could console, or render the new-made wife contented with her lot. She envied the peasant maidens who milked the kine beyond her window, free to love where the heart prompted and to wed where they loved—and her daily prayer to Dhia, the great Creator of all things, was that her spirit might be permitted to enter the flowery fields, and dwell in the airy halls of Flathinnis, the Druidical heaven, with those beloved who had gone before.
The winter was ended, and the festival of Beil Tinne was at hand. All nature seemed to rejoice in the season of the returning sun, and Brehilda, to whom the brightness of spring brought no joy, wandered alone on the banks of the Fionglasse. The birds sang upward to the highest heaven, and the over-hanging trees waved their fresh green leaves to the rippling water. Brehilda seated herself listlessly beside the stream, and anon the following song from her lips, in a subdued voice, sounded tunefully over the waters.
They have parted for ever
Our hearts rosy chain,
And bound me, all helpless,
To a love I disdain.
They have ruthless bereft us
Of the fond hope of years,
And given my young life
To sorrow and tears.
Yet my heart, Oh Beloved,
To thy memory clings,
As the bird o’er her nestling
Folds closely her wings.
The dark clouds may gather
Aloft in the sky,
And the tempest toss wildly
The branches on high;
But faithful and fond,
With her young neath her breast,
Still fearlessly cleaveth
The bird to her nest.
And thus, though in peril,
And secret it be,
Oh! Bird of my breast!
Clings my true heart to thee.
