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James Clarence Mangan (Джеймс Кларенс Манган) King Cahal Mór of the Wine-Red Hand I WALKED entranced Through a land of Morn: The sun, with wondrous excess of light, Shone down and glanced Over seas of corn And lustrous gardens aleft and right. Even in the clime Of resplendent Spain, Beams no such sun upon such a land; But it was the time, ’T was in the reign, Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand. Anon stood nigh By my side a man Of princely aspect and port sublime Him queried I— “Oh, my Lord and Khan, What clime is this, and what golden time?” When he—“The clime Is a clime to praise, The clime is Erin’s, the green and bland; And it is the time, These be the days, Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.” Then saw I thrones And circling fires, And a Dome rose near me, as by a spell, Whence flowed the tones Of silver lyres, And many voices in wreathèd swell; And their thrilling chime Fell on mine ears As the heavenly hymn of an angel-band— “It is now the time These be the years, Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.” I sought the hall, And behold!—a change From light to darkness, from joy to woe! Kings, nobles, all, Looked aghast and strange; The minstrel group sate in dumbest show! Had some great crime Wrought this dread amaze, This terror? None seemed to understand ’Twas then the time, We were in the days, Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand. I again walked forth; But lo! the sky Showed flecked with blood, and an alien sun Glared from the north, And there stood on high, Amid his shorn beams, a skeleton! It was by the stream Of the castled Maine, One Autumn eve, in the Teuton’s land, That I dreamed this dream Of the time and reign Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand. James Clarence Mangan's other poems:
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