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Then to the phantom be thou but kind,
And round you so fondly he'll hover, You'll hardly my dear any difference find
'Twixt him and a true living lover.
Down at your feet, in the pale moon-light,
He'll kneel with a warmth of emotionAn ardour, of which such an innocent sprite
You'd scarcely believe had a notion.
What other thoughts and events may arise,
As in Destiny's book I've not seen them, Must only be left to the stars and your eyes
To settle, ere morning, between them.
Oh, ye Dead! Oh, ye Dead! whom we know by
the light you give From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move
like men who live,
In far off fields and waves,
Those eyes that wept your fall,
It is true--it is true-we are shadows cold and
wan; It is true—it is true—all the friends we loved
But, oh! thus ev’n in death,
So sweet is still the breath
To freeze mid 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 retum to their homes, they say, they are obliged to go to Mount Hecla, and disappear immediately.
OF ALL THE FAIR MONTHS THAT ROUND
AIR-The Little and Great Mountain,
Of all the fair months that round the sun
Sweet May, sweet May, shine thou for me;
Sweet May, sweet May, returns to me.
1 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 borse, to the sound of sweet, unearthly music, and preceded by groups of youths
Of all the smooth lakes, where day-light leaves His ling’ring smile on golden eves,
Fair lake, fair lake, thou’rt dear to me, For when the last April sun grows dim, Thy Naiads prepare his steed for him
Who dwells, who dwells, bright lake, in thee.
Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore
White steed, white steed, most joy to thee, Who still with the first young glance of spring From under that glorious lake dost bring,
Proud steed, proud steed, my love to me.
While, white as the sails some bark unfurls, When newly launch'd, thy long mane? curls, and maidens, who fung wreaths of delicate spring-flowers in his path.
Among other stories, connected with this Legend of the Lakes, it is said that there was a young and beautiful girl, whose imagination was so impressed with the idea of this 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.
2 The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come on a windy day, crested with foam, * O'Donohue's white horsés."