And dark air of the dawn-unlighted peak
To Thee how long he strains the weak, worn eye
If haply he might see Thy vesture's hem
On farthest winds receding! Yea, how oft
Against the blind and tremulous wall of cliff
Tormented by sea surge, he leans his ear
If haply o'er it name of Thine might creep;
Or bends above the torrent-cloven abyss,
If falling flood might lisp it! Power unknown!
He hears it not: Thou hear'st his beating heart
That cries to Thee for ever! From the veil
That shrouds Thee, from the wood, the cloud, the void,
O, by the anguish of all lands evoked,
Look forth! Though, seeing Thee, man's race should die,
One moment let him see Thee! Let him lay
At least his forehead on Thy foot in death!"

So sang the maidens: but the warriors frowned;
And thus the blind king muttered, "Bootless weed
Is plaint where help is none!" But wives and maids
And the thick-crowding poor, that many a time
Had wailed on war-fields o'er their brethren slain,
Went down before that strain as river reeds
Before strong wind, went down when o'er them passed
Its last word, "Death;" and grief's infection spread
From least to first; and weeping filled the hall.
Then on Saint Patrick fell compassion great;
He rose amid that concourse, and with voice
And words now lost, alas, or all but lost,
Such that the chief of sight amerced, beheld