SONNET.THE RUINS OF EMANIA (NEAR ARMAGH).BY AUBREY DE VERE.Why seek we thus the living ‘mid the dead?Beneath yon mound—within yon circle wide—Emania’s palace, festive as a brideFor centuries six, had found its wormy bedWhen Patrick lifted here his royal head,And round him gazed. Perhaps the Apostle sighedEven then, to note the fall of mortal pride—Full fourteen hundred years since then have fled!Then, too, old Ulster’s hundred kings were clay;Then, too, the Red Branch warriors slept forlorn;Autumn, perhaps, as now, a pilgrim gray,Her red beads counted on the berried thorn,Making her rounds; while from the daisied sodThe undiscountenanced lark upsoared, and praised her God.
SONNET.THE RUINS OF EMANIA (NEAR ARMAGH).BY AUBREY DE VERE.Why seek we thus the living ‘mid the dead?Beneath yon mound—within yon circle wide—Emania’s palace, festive as a brideFor centuries six, had found its wormy bedWhen Patrick lifted here his royal head,And round him gazed. Perhaps the Apostle sighedEven then, to note the fall of mortal pride—Full fourteen hundred years since then have fled!Then, too, old Ulster’s hundred kings were clay;Then, too, the Red Branch warriors slept forlorn;Autumn, perhaps, as now, a pilgrim gray,Her red beads counted on the berried thorn,Making her rounds; while from the daisied sodThe undiscountenanced lark upsoared, and praised her God.
THE RUINS OF EMANIA (NEAR ARMAGH).
BY AUBREY DE VERE.
Why seek we thus the living ‘mid the dead?Beneath yon mound—within yon circle wide—Emania’s palace, festive as a brideFor centuries six, had found its wormy bedWhen Patrick lifted here his royal head,And round him gazed. Perhaps the Apostle sighedEven then, to note the fall of mortal pride—Full fourteen hundred years since then have fled!Then, too, old Ulster’s hundred kings were clay;Then, too, the Red Branch warriors slept forlorn;Autumn, perhaps, as now, a pilgrim gray,Her red beads counted on the berried thorn,Making her rounds; while from the daisied sodThe undiscountenanced lark upsoared, and praised her God.
Why seek we thus the living ‘mid the dead?Beneath yon mound—within yon circle wide—Emania’s palace, festive as a brideFor centuries six, had found its wormy bedWhen Patrick lifted here his royal head,And round him gazed. Perhaps the Apostle sighedEven then, to note the fall of mortal pride—Full fourteen hundred years since then have fled!Then, too, old Ulster’s hundred kings were clay;Then, too, the Red Branch warriors slept forlorn;Autumn, perhaps, as now, a pilgrim gray,Her red beads counted on the berried thorn,Making her rounds; while from the daisied sodThe undiscountenanced lark upsoared, and praised her God.