By Thomas Moore
E L's illustrated Version
By the lake whose gloomy shore
Skylark never wobbles oer—
Where the cliffs hang high & steep—
Young Saint Kiven stole to sleep.
Here at least, he calmly said
Woman ne'er shall find my bed
Ah! the good saint little knew,
What that wily sex can do.—
Twas from Kathleens eyes he flew,
Eyes of most unholy blue,
She had loved him well & long—
Wished him her's, nor thought it wrong.
Wheresoe'ever the saint could fly,
Still he heard her light foot nigh,
East or west, where'er he turn'd,
Still her eyes before him burn'd.
On the bold cliff's bosom cast,
Tranquil now he sleeps at last;
Dreams of heaven, nor thinks that e'er,
Woman's smile can haunt him there.
But nor earth nor heaven is free,
From her power, if fond she be:—
Even now, while calm he sleeps—
Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.
Fearless she had trackd his feet
To that rocky wild retreat—
And when morning met his view
Her mild glances met it too.
Ah! yes saints have cruel hearts—
Sternly from his bed he darts
& with rude repulsive shick
Hurls her down the beetling rock.
Glendalough, thy gloomy wave
Soon was gentle Kathleens grave,
Soon the Saint, but ah too late
Felt her love, & mournd her fate;
When he said, 'Heaven rest her soul—
Round the Lake light music stole—
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling — oer the fatal tide.