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OH, YE DEAD!
light you give
men who live,
To haunt this spot, where all
Those eyes that wept your fall,
like dead ?
part forei like hom disa
+ his lar yea be
But, oh! thus even in death,
Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wander'd
That, ere condemn'd we go
To freeze ʼmid Hecla's* snow,
* Paul Zeland mentions that there is a mountain in some part of Ireland, where the ghosts of persons who have died in foreign lands walk about and converse with those they meet, like living people. If asked why they do not return to their homes, they say they are obliged to go to Mount Hecla, and disappear immediately.
+ The particulars of the tradition respecting O'Donohue and his White Horse, may be found in Mr. Weld's Account of Killarney, or, more fully detailed, in Derrick's Letters, For many years after his death, the spirit of this hero is supposed to have been seen, on the morning of May-day, gliding over the lake on his favourite white horse, to the sound of sweet, unearthly music, and preceded by groups of youths and maidens, who flung wreaths of delicate spring-flowers in his path.
Among other stories, connected with this Legend of the
old 2011 Loreta
Sweet May, sweet May, shine thou for me; For still, when thy earliest beams arise, That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies,
Sweet May, sweet May, returns to me.
Fair And sp Glide
Fair Lake, fair Lake, thou’rt dear to me;
White Steed, white Steed, most joy to thee,
Proud Steed, proud Steed, my love to me.
Lakes, it is said that there was a young and beautiful girl, visionary chieftain, that she fancied herself in love with him, and at last, in a fit of insanity, on a May-morning, threw herself into the Lake.
IV. While, white as the sail some bark unfurls, When newly launch’d, thy long mane* curls,
Fair Steed, fair Steed, as white and free ; And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers, Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers,
Fair Steed, around my love and thee.
Most sweet, most sweet, that death will be, Which under the next May-evening's light, When thou and thy steed are lost to sight,
Dear love, dear love, I'll die for thee.
* The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come on a windy day, crested with foam, “O'Donohue's white horses."
To Music at night,
Goes answering light.
And far more sweet,
The songs repeat.
'Tis when the sigh in youth sincere,
And only then,
Breathed back again!