Classic Poem

" The noise of war is on the breeze,
" And can H IDALLAN stay?
" My soul is in the strife of shields — "
He spoke, and burst away.

O! where shall M ORNA 's maid repose,
'Till heroes have their fame?
On M ORNA 's silent hill of hinds,
Or by its rushy stream?

But what if in the hour of blood
The lovely hero fall?
While some dark warrior hangs his shield
A trophy in his hall!

Leave, Slumber! leave the eye of tears,
Forsake my limbs, Repose!
Lean, love-lorn maidens! from your clouds,
And aid me with your woes.

Fair was H IDALLAN , as the flow'r
That dyes the dusky heath;
But raise not, bards! the mournful song
Around his stone of death.

How fell the hero? In his might,
Amid his growing fame!
Not feeble was H IDALLAN 's foe,
His sword a meteor's flame.

No more shall M ORNA 's hall rejoice,
The feast of shells be spread;
The sigh of R ONA 's secret soul,
In Death's dark house is laid.

Lour not on R ONA from your cloud,
The rolling of your rest!
Not weak, H IDALLAN ! was my sire,
No fear disturb'd his breast.

In aged C AIRBAR 's lonely hall,
The strife of heroes rose;
His was R IVINE 's stolen glance,
And many were his foes.

In strength he grasp'd his sword of fire,
The stoutest started back:
Not weak, H IDALLAN ! was my sire,
Nor is his daughter weak.

Ah! whether rolls thy airy hall?
The sky its blue resumes;
Her father's sword prepares the cloud,
On which thy R ONA comes,