In the temple of God lay slain; All but Aodh, the last culdee, And where is Aodh's bride? Plunged she not from your heights in pride, In the temple lighten their banquet up, "Twas then that the Norseman to Aodh said, As he spoke the bell struck three, And every torch grew dim That lighted their revelry. But the torches again burnt bright, When an aged man of majestic height Entered the temple door. Hushed was the reveller's sound, They were struck as mute as the dead, And their hearts were appalled by the very sound Of his footstep's measured tread. Nor word was spoken by one beholder, [der. While he flung his white robe back on his shoul And stretching his arms-as eath Unriveted Aodh's bands, As if the gyves had been a wreath All saw the stranger's similitude The Saint before his own image stood, Then uprose the Danes at last to deliver Their chief, and shouting with one accord, The archer's hand on the string was stopt, The Saint then gave a signal mute, Till hands invisible shook the wall, On Ulvfagre's helm it crashed- And the pauses amidst his speech Were as awful as the sound: "Go back, ye wolves, to your dens," (he cried,) "And tell the nations abroad, How the fiercest of your herd has died That slaughtered the flock of God. Gather him bone by bone, And take with you o'er the flood The fragments of that avenging stone These are the spoils from Iona's sack, And I come in the name of the Lord A remnant was called together, A doleful remnant of the Gael, [hither And the Saint in the ship that had brought him Took the mourners to Innisfail. Unscathed they left Iona's strand, When the opal morn first flushed the sky, For the Norse dropt spear, and bow and brand, And looked on them silently; Safe from their hiding-places came Orphans and mothers, child and dame : But, alas! when the search of Reullura spread, No answering voice was given, For the sea had gone o'er her lovely head, NOTES ON THE PLEASURES OF HOPE. PART I. Note (a) And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore The hardy Byron to his native shore. The following picture of his own distress, given by Byron in his simple and interesting narrative, justifies the description in page 10. After relating the barbarity of the Indian cacique to his child, he proceeds thus:-" A day or two. after, we put to sea again, and crossed the great bay I mentioned we had been at the bottom of when we first hauled away to the westward. The land here was very low and sandy, and something like the mouth of a river which discharged itself into the sea, and which had been taken no notice of by us before, as it was so shallow that the Indians were obliged to take every thing out of their canoes, and carry it over land. We rowed up the river four or five leagues, and then took into a branch of it that ran first to the eastward, and then to the northward; here it became much narrower, and the stream excessively rapid, so that we gained but little way, though we wrought very hard. At night we landed upon its banks, and had a most uncomfortable lodging, it being a perfect swamp; and we had nothing to cover us, though it rain. ed excessively. The Indians were little better off than we, as there was no wood here to make their wigwams; so that all they could do was to prop up the bark, which they carry in the bottom of their canoes, and shelter themselves as well as they could to the leeward of it, Knowing the difficulties they had to encounter here, they had provided themselves with some seal; but we had not a morsel to eat, after the heavy fatigues of the day, excepting a sort of root we saw the Indians make use of, |