IV.
Then the clan rose up from the ground, and gave
ear,
And they fell'd great oak-trees and built a Bier;
Its plumes from the eagle's wing were shed,
And the wine-black samite above it spread
Inwov'n with sad emblems and texts divine,
And the braided bud of Tirconnell's pine,
And all that is meet for the great and brave
When past are the measured years God gave,
And a voice cries "Come" from the waiting
grave.