But as the rays of rosy dawn
Gilded the mountains in the morn,
Silence fell on Tamára’s halls,
And Terek’s madly rushing wave
A mangled corpse bore to its grave.
Ulster’s Prayer.
O God, who once in ages past
Savedst from the fierce Red Sea
And Ramses’ chariots following fast
Thy sons who sang to Thee:
Turn Thee again, Lord of the Saints,
Unto our suppliant side,
Who humbly beg Thy help against
Those who Thy faith deride.
’Gainst those who that pure faith can turn
To dogma harsh and strict,
From which all who its errors spurn
Are cast off derelict;
We, as our fathers prayed before,
Fighting for faith and home,
Beseech Thee for Thy help once more
Against the wiles of Rome.
Dark Donegal.
The ocean is dashing
Its waves o’er the strand
That shelters Sheep Haven
With hillocks of sand.
M‘Swyne’s Gun is winding
His horn o’er the lea,
Atlantic is grinding
The dust of the sea.
It cuts from the fields,
Lough, haven, and bay,
And dark Donegal yields
To its constant sword-play.[D]
Through infinite inlets
It pours willy-nilly,
Into Ness and Mulroy,
Sheep Haven and Swilly.
Atlantic was born
Bluff, boisterous, coy;
It may storm at the Horn
When it coos at Mulroy.
The ocean is silent,
Or noisy or sullen;
It may sleep at Melmore,
Or rage at Rathmullan.
The ghosts of Saldanha[E]
Still walk at Port Salon;
The bones of the Spaniards
Lie deep off the Aran.
In spite of these mem’ries,
Or because of them all,
The breeze carries gladness
Over dark Donegal.
Dunfanaghy, September 2, 1913.