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MACCABE, Charles

Elegy on the death of Carolan

Woe is my portion! unremitting woe!

Idly and wildly in my grief I rave;

Thy song, my Turlogh, shall be sung no more -

Thro' festive halls no more thy strains shall flow:

The thrilling music of thy harp is o'er -

Te hand that wak'd it moulders in the grave.

I start at dawn - I mark the country's gloom –

Ver the green hills a heavy cloud appears; -

Aid me, kind Heaven, to bear my bitter doom,

To check my murmurs, and restrain my tears.

Oh! gracious God! how lonely are my day,

At night sleep comes not to these wearied eyes,

Nor beams one hope my sinking heart to raise –

In Turlogh’s grave each hope that cheer'd me lies.

Oh! ye Gest spirits, dwelling your God,

Hymning his praise as ages along,

Receive my Turlogh in your bright abode,

And bid him aid you in your sacred song.

Translation: Thomas Furlong