LXXXIX.—THE DYING GIRL.WILLIAMS.
WILLIAMS.
1. From a Munster vale they brought her,From the pure and balmy air,An Ormond peasants daughter,With blue eyes and golden hair.They brought her to the city,And she faded slowly there;Consumption has no pityFor blue eyes and golden hair.2. When I saw her first reclining,Her lips were moved in prayer,And the setting sun was shiningOn her loosened golden hair.When our kindly glances met her,Deadly brilliant was her eye;And she said that she was betterWhile we knew that she must die.3. She speaks of Munster valleys,The patron,[601]dance, and fair.And her thin hand feebly dalliesWith her scattered golden hair.When silently we listenedTo her breath, with quiet care,Her eyes with wonder glistened,And she asked us what was there.4. The poor thing smiled to ask it,And her pretty mouth laid bare,Like gems within a casketA string of pearlets rare.We said that we were tryingBy the gushing of her blood,And the time she took in sighing,To know if she were good.5. Well, she smiled and chatted gayly,Though we saw, in mute despair,The hectic brighter daily,And the death-dew on her hair.And oft her wasted fingers,Beating time upon the bed,O’er some old tune she lingers,And she bows her golden head.6. At length the harp is broken,And the spirit in its strings,As the last decree is spoken,To its source, exulting, springs.Descending swiftly from the skies,Her guardian angel came,He struck God’s lightning from her eyes,And bore Him back the flame.7. Before the sun had risenThrough the lark-loved morning air,Her young soul left its prison,Undefiled by sin or care.I stood beside the couch in tears,Where, pale and calm, she slept,And though I’ve gazed on death for years,I blush not that I wept.I checked with effort pity’s sighs,And left the matron there,To close the curtain of her eyes,And bind her golden hair.
1. From a Munster vale they brought her,From the pure and balmy air,An Ormond peasants daughter,With blue eyes and golden hair.They brought her to the city,And she faded slowly there;Consumption has no pityFor blue eyes and golden hair.2. When I saw her first reclining,Her lips were moved in prayer,And the setting sun was shiningOn her loosened golden hair.When our kindly glances met her,Deadly brilliant was her eye;And she said that she was betterWhile we knew that she must die.3. She speaks of Munster valleys,The patron,[601]dance, and fair.And her thin hand feebly dalliesWith her scattered golden hair.When silently we listenedTo her breath, with quiet care,Her eyes with wonder glistened,And she asked us what was there.4. The poor thing smiled to ask it,And her pretty mouth laid bare,Like gems within a casketA string of pearlets rare.We said that we were tryingBy the gushing of her blood,And the time she took in sighing,To know if she were good.5. Well, she smiled and chatted gayly,Though we saw, in mute despair,The hectic brighter daily,And the death-dew on her hair.And oft her wasted fingers,Beating time upon the bed,O’er some old tune she lingers,And she bows her golden head.6. At length the harp is broken,And the spirit in its strings,As the last decree is spoken,To its source, exulting, springs.Descending swiftly from the skies,Her guardian angel came,He struck God’s lightning from her eyes,And bore Him back the flame.7. Before the sun had risenThrough the lark-loved morning air,Her young soul left its prison,Undefiled by sin or care.I stood beside the couch in tears,Where, pale and calm, she slept,And though I’ve gazed on death for years,I blush not that I wept.I checked with effort pity’s sighs,And left the matron there,To close the curtain of her eyes,And bind her golden hair.
1. From a Munster vale they brought her,From the pure and balmy air,An Ormond peasants daughter,With blue eyes and golden hair.They brought her to the city,And she faded slowly there;Consumption has no pityFor blue eyes and golden hair.
1. From a Munster vale they brought her,
From the pure and balmy air,
An Ormond peasants daughter,
With blue eyes and golden hair.
They brought her to the city,
And she faded slowly there;
Consumption has no pity
For blue eyes and golden hair.
2. When I saw her first reclining,Her lips were moved in prayer,And the setting sun was shiningOn her loosened golden hair.When our kindly glances met her,Deadly brilliant was her eye;And she said that she was betterWhile we knew that she must die.
2. When I saw her first reclining,
Her lips were moved in prayer,
And the setting sun was shining
On her loosened golden hair.
When our kindly glances met her,
Deadly brilliant was her eye;
And she said that she was better
While we knew that she must die.
3. She speaks of Munster valleys,The patron,[601]dance, and fair.And her thin hand feebly dalliesWith her scattered golden hair.When silently we listenedTo her breath, with quiet care,Her eyes with wonder glistened,And she asked us what was there.
3. She speaks of Munster valleys,
The patron,[601]dance, and fair.
And her thin hand feebly dallies
With her scattered golden hair.
When silently we listened
To her breath, with quiet care,
Her eyes with wonder glistened,
And she asked us what was there.
4. The poor thing smiled to ask it,And her pretty mouth laid bare,Like gems within a casketA string of pearlets rare.We said that we were tryingBy the gushing of her blood,And the time she took in sighing,To know if she were good.
4. The poor thing smiled to ask it,
And her pretty mouth laid bare,
Like gems within a casket
A string of pearlets rare.
We said that we were trying
By the gushing of her blood,
And the time she took in sighing,
To know if she were good.
5. Well, she smiled and chatted gayly,Though we saw, in mute despair,The hectic brighter daily,And the death-dew on her hair.And oft her wasted fingers,Beating time upon the bed,O’er some old tune she lingers,And she bows her golden head.
5. Well, she smiled and chatted gayly,
Though we saw, in mute despair,
The hectic brighter daily,
And the death-dew on her hair.
And oft her wasted fingers,
Beating time upon the bed,
O’er some old tune she lingers,
And she bows her golden head.
6. At length the harp is broken,And the spirit in its strings,As the last decree is spoken,To its source, exulting, springs.Descending swiftly from the skies,Her guardian angel came,He struck God’s lightning from her eyes,And bore Him back the flame.
6. At length the harp is broken,
And the spirit in its strings,
As the last decree is spoken,
To its source, exulting, springs.
Descending swiftly from the skies,
Her guardian angel came,
He struck God’s lightning from her eyes,
And bore Him back the flame.
7. Before the sun had risenThrough the lark-loved morning air,Her young soul left its prison,Undefiled by sin or care.I stood beside the couch in tears,Where, pale and calm, she slept,And though I’ve gazed on death for years,I blush not that I wept.I checked with effort pity’s sighs,And left the matron there,To close the curtain of her eyes,And bind her golden hair.
7. Before the sun had risen
Through the lark-loved morning air,
Her young soul left its prison,
Undefiled by sin or care.
I stood beside the couch in tears,
Where, pale and calm, she slept,
And though I’ve gazed on death for years,
I blush not that I wept.
I checked with effort pity’s sighs,
And left the matron there,
To close the curtain of her eyes,
And bind her golden hair.
[601]Pa-tronˊ, (pronounced pattern,) assemblage of persons on the anniversary of the local patron saint of a parish or town in Ireland.
[601]Pa-tronˊ, (pronounced pattern,) assemblage of persons on the anniversary of the local patron saint of a parish or town in Ireland.
[601]Pa-tronˊ, (pronounced pattern,) assemblage of persons on the anniversary of the local patron saint of a parish or town in Ireland.