Why art thou gone from us, White Dove of the Irish
woods?
This is a translation of the wild lament that arose in the twilight air and stirred up the echoes of the rocks. Then the fitful melody of the harp made an interlude:—
Why art thou gone from us, sweet Linnet of the Irish
woods?
Why art thou gone from us whose song brought the Spring
to our land?
Yea, flowers to thy singing arose from the earth in bountiful
bloom,
And scents of the violet, scents of the hawthorn—all scents