The swallow, swiftly passing
Flies low to kiss the wave
When rippling gently over
Some pure saint's holy grave:
The hunter's eyes discover
Beneath those waters still
The walls of that proud convent,
Where God hath worked His will.


_THE LADY'S ROCK_

A brother's eye had seen the grief
That Duart's lady bore;
His boat with sail half-raised flies down
The sound by green Lismore.
Ahaladah, Ahaladah!
Why speeds your boat so fast?
No scene of joy shall light your track
Adown the spray-strewn blast.

The very trees upon the isle
Rock to and fro, and wail;
The very birds cry sad and shrill,
Storm driven, where you sail;
O when for yon dim mainland shore
You launched your keel to start
You knew not of the load 'twill bear,
The heavier load your heart.