And this is thy grave, Macaura,
Here by the pathway lone,
Where the thorn-blossoms are bending
Over thy mouldered stone.
Alas! for the sons of glory;
Oh! thou of the darkened brow,
And the eagle plume, and the belted clans,
Is it here thou art sleeping now?
Oh wild is the spot, Macaura,
In which they have laid thee low—
The field where thy people triumphed
Over a slaughtered foe;
And loud was the Banshee’s wailing,
And deep was the clansmen’s sorrow,
When, with bloody hands and burning tears,
They buried thee here, Macaura!
And now thy dwelling is lonely,
King of the rushing horde;
And now thy battles are over.
Chief of the shining sword;
And the rolling thunder echoes
O’er torrent and mointain free,
But alas! and alas! Macaura,
It will not awaken thee.
Farewell to thy grave, Macaura,
Where the slanting sunbeams shine,
And the briar and waving fern
Over thy slumbers twine;
Thou, whose gathering sunmions
Could waken the sleeping glen;
Macaura, alas for thee and thine,
’Twill never be heard again!