Обри Де Вер (Aubrey De Vere)

Kilmallock

WHAT ruined shapes of feudal pomp are there,
In the cold moonlight fading silently?
The castle, with its stern, baronial air,
Still frowning, as accustomed to defy;
The Gothic street, where Desmond’s chivalry
Dwelt in their pride; the cloistered house of prayer;
And gate-towers, mouldering where the stream moans by,
Now but the owl’s lone haunt and fox’s lair.
Here once the pride of princely Desmond flushed,
His courtiers knelt, his mailed squadrons rushed,
And saintly brethren poured the choral strain;
Here Beauty bowed her head, and smiled and blushed;—
Ah! of these glories what doth now remain?
The charnel of yon desecrated fane!

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