Hour of my torture, ochone, how the pain,
Sore, and sharp, as at first, smites again and again,
Sightless dear eyes, voiceless lips, and the breath
Sweet as honey, now lost in the chambers of death!
Sister's son of a king, a monarch high-placed,
Victor and friend, once with courtesy graced!
Ah what a generous heart to have nursed
Vengeance so causeless, a plot so accursed!
Diarmid, O Love, the best sword of them all,
Victory flew to the field at thy call;
Strongest arm in the games, thou wast ever the best,
Whether called to the fight, or to aid the distressed.
Bluer your eye than the blaeberry kissed
On the high mountain's shoulder by sun and by mist;
Gentler your eyelids' soft motion, than where
The upland grass waves to the breezes of air.
Whiter your teeth than the blossoming spray
Danced in the winds 'mid the brightness of day;
Never harp was so sweet, never bird-song above,
As the voice that is hushed on the lips of my love.
Like to the sun-nurtured sparkles of air
Were the fair yellow waves of the locks of thy hair,
Pure as foam the soft skin of the one of our race,
Who was mighty in mind as majestic in grace.
Sad is my heart, to no joy-shout replying,
Restless, lamenting in grief never-dying;
Oh, the mavis calls sweetly in drear deserts lone,
But in vain I must yearn for the notes I have known.
Now shall my soul find its calm nevermore
In the depths—the blue depths—of your eyes as of yore,
Overborne by a perilous flood I shall know
Surcease of no sorrow, no lightening of woe!
Dark is your dwelling-place under the mould,
Narrow your frozen bed, songless and cold;
Never morn shalt thou see, till the day of God's doom,
When awakened, O hero, thou'lt rise from the tomb.
Dead in the earth, and there hidden away,
Who shall not yearn for thee, fairer than day?
Be my blessing now thine, be it thine evermore,
Let it rest on the beauty 'twas mine to adore.