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The keen is loud, it comes again,
And rises sad from the funeral train,
As in sorrow it winds along the plain.

And oh, but the plumes of white were fair,
When they fluttered all mournful in the air,
As rose the hymn of the requiem prayer.

There is a voice that but one can hear,
And it softly pours, from behind the bier,
Its note of death on Sir Turlough's ear.

The keen is loud, but that voice is low,
And it sings its song of sorrow slow,
And names young Turlough's name with woe.

Now the grave is closed, and the mass is said,
And the bride she sleeps in her lonely bed,
The fairest corpse among the dead.

The wreaths of virgin-white are laid,

By virgin hands, o'er the spotless maid;
And the flowers are strewn, but they soon will fade.

"Oh! go not yet-not yet away,

Let us feel that life is near our clay,"
The long departed seem to say.

But the tramp and the voices of life are gone,
And beneath each cold forgotten stone
The mouldering dead sleep all alone.

But who is he that lingereth yet?
The fresh green sod with his tears is wet,
And his heart in the bridal grave is set.

Oh, who but Sir Turlough, the young and brave, Should bend him o'er that bridal grave,

And to his death-bound Eva rave?

"Weep not-weep not," said a lady fair: "Should youth and valour thus despair, And pour their vows to the empty air?"

There's charmèd music upon her tongue,
Such beauty-bright, and warm, and young—
Was never seen the maids among.

A laughing light, a tender grace,
Sparkled in beauty around her face,
That grief from mortal heart might chase.

"The maid for whom thy salt tears fall,
Thy grief or love can ne'er recall;
She rests beneath that grassy pall.

"My heart it strangely cleaves to thee, And now that thy plighted love is free, Give its unbroken pledge to me."

The charm is strong upon Turlough's eye,
His faithless tears are already dry,
And his yielding heart has ceased to sigh.

"To thee," the charmèd chief replied,
"I pledge that love o'er my buried bride;
Oh! come, and in Turlough's hall abide."

Again the funeral voice came o'er
The passing breeze, as it wailed before,
And streams of mournful music bore.

"If I to thy youthful heart am dear, One month from hence thou wilt meet me here, Where lay thy bridal Eva's bier."

He pressed her lips as the words were spoken, And his banshee's wail-now far and brokenMurmured "Death," as he gave the token.

"Adieu! adieu!" said this lady bright, And she slowly passed like a thing of light, Or a morning cloud, from Sir Turlough's sight.

Now Sir Turlough has death in every vein, And there's fear and grief o'er his wide domain, And gold for those who will calm his brain.

"Come, haste thee, leech, right swiftly ride, Sir Turlough the brave, Green Truagha's pride, Has pledged his love to the churchyard bride."

The leech groaned loud, "Come tell me this,
By all thy hopes of weal and bliss,
Has Sir Turlough given the fatal kiss?"

"The banshee's cry is loud and long,
At eve she weeps her funeral song,
And it floats on the twilight breeze along."

"Then the fatal kiss is given;-the last Of Turlough's race and name is past, His doom is sealed, his die is cast."

"Leech, say not that thy skill is vain; Oh, calm the power of his frenzied brain, And half his lands thou shalt retain."

The leech has failed, and the hoary priest
With pious shrift his soul released,
And the smoke is high of his funeral feast.

The minstrels now are assembled all;
And the songs of praise, in Sir Turlough's hall,
To the sorrowing harp's dark music fall.

And there are trophy, banner, and plume;
And the pomp of death, with its darkest gloom,
O'ershadows the Irish chieftain's tomb.

The month is closed, and Green Truagha's pride,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!

Is married to Death-and, side by side,
He slumbers now with his churchyard bride,
By the bonny green woods of Killeevy.



[Otway's career was one of those that are constantly pointed out as a warning to others, and instanced among the many records of the improvidence of men of genius. He was born at Trotting, Sussex, in 1651, and was educated at Winchester and Oxford. He made some ineffectual attempts to become an actor, and then commenced as a writer for the stage. In 1675 his first tragedy, "Alcibiades," was produced, followed in the next year by his "Don Carlos," which was very successful. He then served for a short time in a cavalry regiment in Flanders, but returned to resume his favourite occupation. His tragedy of "Venice Preserved" is a model for force and feeling, combined with the deep pathos that is always associated with scenes of domestic distress when touched by a master hand. He died at a public house in Towerhill, where he had secreted himself from his creditors, and in a literally starving condition, in 1685, being then only in his 34th year.]





PRIULI-a Senator.


SCENE II.-The DUKE OF VENICE, PRIULI, and other Senators, sitting.

Duke. Anthony, Priuli, senators of Venice,
Speak, why are we assembled here this night?
What have you to inform us of, concerns
The state of Venice' honour, or its safety?

Fathers, these tears were useless, these sad tears
That fall from my old eyes; but there is cause
We all should weep, tear off these purple robes,
And wrap ourselves in sackcloth, sitting down
On the sad earth, and cry aloud to heav'n :
Heav'n knows, if yet there be an hour to come
Ere Venice be no more.

Duke. How!

Pri. Nay, we stand

Upon the very brink of gaping ruin.
Within this city's form'd a dark conspiracy,
To massacre us all, our wives and children,
Kindred and friends; our palaces and temples
To lay in ashes: nay, the hour too fix'd;
The swords, for aught I know, drawn e'en this moment,
And the wild waste begun. From unknown hands
I had this warning; but, if we are men,
Let's not be tamely butcher'd, but do something
That may inform the world, in after ages,
Our virtue was not ruin'd, though we were.

[A noise without. Capt. Room, room, make room for some prisoners. [Without.

Duke. Give 'em entrance.


Well, who are you?
Jaf. A villain!

Would every man, that hears me,
Would deal so honestly, and own his title.

Duke. 'Tis rumour'd, that a plot has been contriv'd
Against this state, and you've a share in't, too.
If you are a villain, to redeem your honour,
Unfold the truth, and be restor❜d with mercy.

Jaf. Think not that I to save my life came hither; I know its value better; but in pity

To all those wretches whose unhappy dooms
Are fix'd and seal'd. You see me here before you,
The sworn and covenanted foe of Venice:

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