MANGAN

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J. E. C. Welldon

CLXXI
KINCORA
(From the Irish)

O, where, Kincora! is Brien the Great?
 And where is the beauty that once was thine?
 O, where are the princes and nobles that sate
 At the feast in thy halls, and drank the red wine?
 Where, O, Kincora?
O, where, Kincora! are thy valorous lords?
 O, whither, thou Hospitable! are they gone?
 O, where are the Dalcassians of the golden swords?
 And where are the warriors Brien led on?
 Where, O, Kincora?
And where is Donogh, King Brien’s son?
 And where is ConÀing, the beautiful chief?
 And KiÀn and Corc? Alas! they are gone;
 They have left me this night alone with my grief!
 Left me, Kincora!
O, where is Duvlann of the Swift-footed Steeds?
 And where is KiÀn, who was son of Molloy?
 And where is king Lonergan, fame of whose deeds
 In the red battle no time can destroy?
 Where, O, Kincora!
I am MacLaig, and my home is on the lake:
 Thither often, to that palace whose beauty is fled,
 Came Brien to ask me, and I went for his sake,
 O, my grief! that I should live and Brien be dead!
 Dead, O, Kincora!
James Clarence Mangan.

CLXXII
DARK ROSALEEN
(From the Irish)

O! my Dark Rosaleen,
 Do not sigh, do not weep!
 The priests are on the ocean green,
 They march along the deep.
 There’s wine from the royal Pope,
 Upon the ocean green;
 And Spanish ale shall give you hope,
 My Dark Rosaleen!
 My own Rosaleen!
 Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,
 Shall give you health, and help, and hope,
 My Dark Rosaleen!
Over hills, and through dales,
 Have I roamed for your sake;
 All yesterday I sailed with sails
 On river and on lake.
 The Erne at its highest flood
 I dashed across unseen,
 For there was lightning in my blood
 My Dark Rosaleen!
 My own Rosaleen!
 O! there was lightning in my blood,
 Red lightning lightened through my blood,
 My Dark Rosaleen!
All day long, in unrest,
 To and fro do I move,
 The very soul within my breast
 Is wasted for you, love!
 The heart in my bosom faints
 To think of you, my Queen,
 My life of life, my saint of saints,
 My Dark Rosaleen!
 My own Rosaleen!
 To hear your sweet and sad complaints,
 My life, my love, my saint of saints,
 My Dark Rosaleen!
Woe and pain, pain and woe,
 Are my lot, night and noon,
 To see your bright face clouded so,
 Like to the mournful moon.
 But yet will I rear your throne
 Again in golden sheen;
 ’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,
 My Dark Rosaleen!
 My own Rosaleen!
 ’Tis you shall have the golden throne,
 ’Tis you shall reign, and reign alone,
 My Dark Rosaleen!
Over dews, over sands,
 Will I fly for your weal;
 Your holy, delicate white hands
 Shall girdle me with steel.
 At home, in your emerald bowers,
 From morning’s dawn till e’en,
 You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers,
 My Dark Rosaleen!
 My own Rosaleen!
 You’ll think of me through daylight’s hours,
 My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,
 My Dark Rosaleen!
I could scale the blue air,
 I could plough the high hills,
 O! I could kneel all night in prayer,
 To heal your many ills!
 And one beamy smile from you
 Would float like light between
 My toils and me, my own, my true,
 My Dark Rosaleen!
 My own Rosaleen!
 Would give me life and soul anew,
 A second life, a soul anew,
 My Dark Rosaleen!
O! the Erne shall run red
 With redundance of blood,
 The earth shall rock beneath our tread,
 And flames wrap hill and wood,
 And gun-peal and slogan cry
 Wake many a glen serene,
 Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die,
 My Dark Rosaleen!
 My own Rosaleen!
 The Judgment Hour must first be nigh,
 Ere you can fade, ere you can die,
 My Dark Rosaleen!
James Clarence Mangan.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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