The dead-bells are tolling in sad Malahide,
The death-wail is rolling along the seaside;
The crowds, heavy-hearted, withdraw from the green,
For the sun has departed that brightened the scene!
How scant was the warning, how briefly revealed,
Before on that morning, death's chalice was filled!
Thus passes each pleasure that earth can supply--
Thus joy has its measure--we live but to die!
THE DAUGHTER OF MEATH.
BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY.
Turgesius, the chief of a turbulent band,
Came over from Norway and conquer'd the land:
Rebellion had smooth'd the invader's career,
The natives shrank from him, in hate, or in fear;
While Erin's proud spirit seem'd slumb'ring in peace,
In secret it panted for death--or release.
The tumult of battle was hush'd for awhile,--
Turgesius was monarch of Erin's fair isle,
The sword of the conqueror slept in its sheath,
His triumphs were honour'd with trophy and wreath;
The princes of Erin despair'd of relief,
And knelt to the lawless Norwegian chief.
His heart knew the charm of a woman's sweet smile;
But ne'er, till he came to this beautiful isle,
Did he know with what mild, yet resistless control,
That sweet smile can conquer a conqueror's soul:
And oh! 'mid the sweet smiles most sure to enthral,
He soon met with one--he thought sweetest of all.
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