English poem
THE HILL OF MAEVE
by Clinton Scollard (1860–1932)
This is the hill of Maeve, the queen, A mighty bulwark of gray-green
Whereon was set, by hands unknown, A rugged monument of stone.
The great winds mourn, and sobs the wave Beneath the lichened cairn of Maeve.
From many a rocky Leitrim height O'er Lough Gill's waters, blue and bright,
From where Benbulbin fronts the foam, And sees the Sligo ships put home,
Maeve's hill is like a pharos flame, As is eternally her name!
'Neath azure tides of morning air Ripple the waves of Ballysadare
Under where frowning Knocknarea Looks o'er the Rosses far to sea,—
Looks far to sea, remembering Maeve's loveliness, a vanished thing.
The cromlechs, gray with eld, below, Recall the dreams of long ago,—
The dreams of kern and king, both slave To beauty, and the white Queen Maeve;
And though she slumbers, deep, so deep, Her golden memory may not sleep!