Page:National Lyrics.pdf/322



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 vowed to rove This desert place, a huntress bold; Nor would I change my buried love For any heart of living mould.

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 star's vigil, and the wind's wild moan.