Nobody can doubt that it was a judgment upon the king for his shutting up the well in the court-yard from the poor people: and if there are any who do not credit my story, they may go and see the lough of Cork, for there it is to be seen to this day; the road to Kinsale passes at one side of it; and when its waters are low and clear, the tops of towers and stately buildings may be plainly viewed in the bottom by those who have good eyesight, without the help of spectacles.
CORMAC AND MARY.
XVIII.
“She is not dead—she has no grave—
She lives beneath Lough Corrib’s water;[16]
And in the murmur of each wave
Methinks I catch the songs I taught her.”
Thus many an evening on the shore
Sat Cormac raving wild and lowly;
Still idly muttering o’er and o’er,
“She lives, detain’d by spells unholy.
“Death claims her not, too fair for earth,
Her spirit lives—alien of heaven;
Nor will it know a second birth
When sinful mortals are forgiven!
“Cold is this rock—the wind comes chill,
And mists the gloomy waters cover;
But oh! her soul is colder still—
To lose her God—to leave her lover!”
The lake was in profound repose,
Yet one white wave came gently curling,
And as it reach’d the shore, arose
Dim figures—banners gay unfurling.
Onward they move, an airy crowd:
Through each thin form a moonlight ray shone;
While spear and helm, in pageant proud,
Appear in liquid undulation.