Safe shalt thou pass through her hundred ships, With the Saint and a remnant of the Gaël, And the Lord will instruct thy lips To preach in Innisfail *.” The sun, now about to set, O'er the isles of Albyn's sea, And the phantom of many a Danish ship, And the shield of alarm was dumb, To tell that the ships of the Dane And the red-haired slayers were nigh. Our islemen arose from slumbers, Has filled the shores of the Gaël With many a floating corse, And with many a woman's wail. They have lighted the islands with ruin's torch, And the holy men of Iona's church In the temple of God lay slain; * Ireland. All but Aodh, the last Culdee, But bound with many an iron chain, Bound in that church was he. And where is Aodh's bride? Rocks of the ocean flood! Plunged she not from your heights in pride, In the temple lighted their banquet up, 'Twas then that the Norseman to Aodh said, "Tell where thy church's treasure's laid, Or I'll hew thee limb from limb." As he spoke the bell struck three, And every torch grew dim That lighted their revelry. But the torches again burnt bright, When an aged man of majestic height Entered the temple door. Hushed was the revellers' sound, They were struck as mute as the dead, And their hearts were appalled by the very sound Of his footsteps' measured tread. Nor word was spoken by one beholder, Whilst he flung his white robe back o'er his shoulder, And stretching his arms-as eath Unriveted Aodh's bands, As if the gyves had been a wreath Of willows in his hands. All saw the stranger's similitude Then uprose the Danes at last to deliver Their chief, and shouting with one accord, The archer's hand on the string was stopt, And down, like reeds laid flat by the wind, Their lifted weapons dropt. The Saint then gave a signal mute, And though Ulvfagre willed it not, Till hands invisible shook the wall, On Ulvfagre's helm it crashed- And the pauses amidst his speech 66 Go back, ye wolves, to your dens,” (he cried,) 66 And tell the nations abroad, How the fiercest of your herd has died That slaughtered the flock of God. Gather him bone by bone, And take with you o'er the flood The only spoils ye shall carry back; And I come in the name of the Lord A remnant was called together, A doleful remnant of the Gaël, And the Saint in the ship that had brought him hither Took the mourners to Innisfail. Unscathed they left Iona's strand, When the opal morn first flushed the sky, Safe from their hiding-places came But, alas! when the search for Reullura spread, For the sea had gone o'er her lovely head, And her spirit was in Heaven. THE TURKISH LADY. 'Twas the hour when rites unholy Called each Paynim voice to prayer, And the star that faded slowly Left to dews the freshened air. Day her sultry fires had wasted, Calm and sweet the moonlight rose; Ev'n a captive spirit tasted Half oblivion of his woes. Then 'twas from an Emir's palace She, in spite of tyrants jealous, Saw and loved an English knight. "Tell me, captive, why in anguish Foes have dragged thee here to dwell, Where poor Christians as they languish Hear no sound of Sabbath bell?”— ""Twas on Transylvania's Bannat, When the Crescent shone afar, Like a pale disastrous planet O'er the purple tide of war— |