# Records of Woman: with Other Poems/Carolan's Prophecy

CAROLAN'S PROPHECY.
Thy cheek too swiftly flushes; o'er thine eye The lights and shadows come and go too fast, Thy tears gush forth too soon, and in thy voice Are sounds of tenderness too passionate For peace on earth; oh! therefore, child of song! 'Tis well thou shouldst depart.
A sound of music, from amidst the hills, Came suddenly, and died; a fitful sound Of mirth, soon lost in wail.—Again it rose, And sank in mournfulness.—There sat a bard, By a blue stream of Erin, where it swept Flashing thro' rock and wood; the sunset's light Was on his wavy silver-gleaming hair, And the wind's whisper in the mountain-ash.
Whose clusters droop'd above. His head was bow'd, His hand was on his harp, yet thence its touch Had drawn but broken strains; and many stood, Waiting around, in silent earnestness, Th' unchaining of his soul, the gush of song; Many, and graceful forms! yet one alone, Seem'd present to his dream; and she indeed, With her pale virgin brow, and changeful cheek, And the clear starlight of her serious eyes, Lovely amidst the flowing of dark locks And pallid braiding flowers, was beautiful, Ev'n painfully!—a creature to behold With trembling midst our joy, lest aught unseen Should waft the vision from us, leaving earth Too dim without its brightness!—Did such fear O'ershadow, in that hour, the gifted one, By his own rushing stream?—Once more he gaz'd Upon the radiant girl, and yet once more From the deep chords his wandering hand brought out A few short festive notes, an opening strain
Of bridal melody, soon dashed with grief, As if some wailing spirit in the strings Met and o'ermaster'd him: but yielding then To the strong prophet-impulse, mournfully, Like moaning waters, o'er the harp he pour'd The trouble of his haunted soul, and sang—
Voice of the grave!  I hear thy thrilling call; It comes in the dash of the foaming wave,  In the sear leaf's trembling fall! In the shiver of the tree,  I hear thee, O thou voice! And I would thy warning were but for me,  That my spirit might rejoice.
But thou art sent  For the sad earth's young and fair, For the graceful heads that have not bent  To the wintry hand of care!
They hear the wind's low sigh,  And the river sweeping free, And the green reeds murmuring heavily,  And the woods—but they hear not thee!
Long have I striven  With my deep foreboding soul, But the full tide now its bounds hath riven,  And darkly on must roll. There's a young brow smiling near,  With a bridal white-rose wreath, Unto me it smiles from a flowery bier,  Touch'd solemnly by death!
Fair art thou Morna!  The sadness of thine eye Is beautiful as silvery clouds  On the dark-blue summer sky!
And thy voice comes like the sound  Of a sweet and hidden rill, That makes the dim woods tuneful round—  But soon it must be still!
Silence and dust  On thy sunny lips must lie, Make not the strength of love thy trust,  A stronger yet is nigh! No strain of festal flow  That my hand for thee hath tried, But into dirge-notes wild and low,  Its ringing tones have died.
Young art thou, Morna!  Yet on thy gentle head, Like heavy dew on the lily's leaves,  A spirit hath been shed!
And the glance is thine which sees  Thro' nature's awful heart— But bright things go with the summer-breeze,  And thou too, must depart!
Yet shall I weep?  I know that in thy breast There swells a fount of song too deep,  Too powerful for thy rest! And the bitterness I know,  And the chill of this world's breath— Go, all undimm'd, in thy glory go!  Young and crown'd bride of death!
Take hence to heaven  Thy holy thoughts and bright, And soaring hopes, that were not given  For the touch of mortal blight!
Might we follow in thy track,  This parting should not be! But the spring shall give us violets back,  And every flower but thee!
There was a burst of tears around the bard: All wept but one, and she serenely stood, With her clear brow and dark religious eye, Rais'd to the first faint star above the hills, And cloudless; though it might be that her cheek Was paler than before.—So Morna heard The minstrel's prophecy. And spring return'd, Bringing the earth her lovely things again, All, save the loveliest far! A voice, a smile, A young sweet spirit gone.