The brave Prince of Meath had a daughter as fair
As the pearls of Loch Neagh which encircled her hair;
The tyrant beheld her, and cried, "She shall come
To reign as the queen of my gay mountain home;
Ere sunset to-morrow hath crimson'd the sea,
Melachlin, send forth thy young daughter to me!"
Awhile paused the Prince--too indignant to speak,
There burn'd a reply in his glance--on his cheek:
But quickly that hurried expression was gone,
And calm was his manner, and mild was his tone.
He answered--"Ere sunset hath crimson'd the sea,
To-morrow--I'll send my young daughter to thee.
"At sunset to-morrow your palace forsake,
With twenty young chiefs seek the isle on yon lake;
And there, in its coolest and pleasantest shades,
My child shall await you with twenty fair maids:
Yes--bright as my armour the damsels shall be
I send with my daughter, Turgesius, to thee."
Turgesius return'd to his palace; to him
The sports of that evening seem'd languid and dim;
And tediously long was the darkness of night,
And slowly the morning unfolded its light;
The sun seem'd to linger--as if it would be
An age ere his setting would crimson the sea.
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