Sleep as Dega, who in triumph, ‘ere the sun sank o’er the land,
Stole the maiden he had craved for, plucked her from fierce Decell’s hand.
Fold of Valour, sleep a little, Glory of the Western World,
I am wondering at thy beauty, marvelling how thy locks are curled.
Like the parting of two children, bred together in one home,
Like the breaking of two spirits, if I did not see you come.
Swirl the leaves before the tempest, moans the night-wind o’er the lea,
Down its stoney bed the streamlet hurries onward to the sea.
In the swaying boughs the linnet twitters in the darkling light,
On the upland wastes of heather wings the grouse its heavy flight.