The song itself, which refers to the golden age of Ireland, cannot, at this era of refinement, be rendered by any one more fair or more accomplished than her to whom we are indebted for the following version;—but we name her not,—
Bound by the magic in the spell
Of three sweet letters, L. E. L.
The Golden Grave.
He sleeps within his lonely grave
Upon the lonely hill,
There sweeps the wind—there swells the wave—
All other sounds are still.
And strange and mournfully sound they;
Each seems a funeral cry,
O'er life that long has past away,
O'er ages long gone by.
One winged minstrel's left to sing
O'er him who lies beneath—
The humming bee, that seeks in spring
Its honey from the heath.
It is the sole familiar sound
That ever rises there;
For silent is the haunted ground,
And silent is the air.
There never comes the merry bird—
There never bounds the deer;
But during night strange sounds are heard,
The day may never hear:
For there the shrouded Banshee stands,
Scarce seen amid the gloom,
And wrings her dim and shadowy hands,
And chants her song of doom.
Seven pillars, grey with time and moss,
On dark Sleive Monard meet;
They stand to tell a nation's loss—
A king is at their feet.
