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Archiver > IRELAND > 2002-07 > 1027639118


From: "john flinn" <>
Subject: Re: [IRELAND] "The Dying Girl" -- Richard D'Alton WILLIAMS (1822-1862)
Date: Thu, 25 Jul 2002 16:18:46 -0700
References: <001f01c2342c$46dba3c0$8d403fce@hppav>


Jean, Thank you for a beautiful story.
John Flinn

----- Original Message -----
From: "Jean Rice" <>
To: <>
Sent: Thursday, July 25, 2002 3:40 PM
Subject: [IRELAND] "The Dying Girl" -- Richard D'Alton WILLIAMS (1822-1862)


> THE DYING GIRL
>
> >From a Munster vale they brought her,
> >From the pure and balmy air;
> An Ormond peasant's daughter,
> With blue eyes and golden hair.
> They brought her to the city
> And she faded slowly there --
> Consumption has no pity
> For blue eyes and golden hair.
>
> When I saw her first reclining
> Her lips were mov'd in prayer,
> And the setting sun was shining
> On her loosen'd golden hair.
> When our kindly glances met her,
> Deadly brilliant was her eye;
> And she said that she was better,
> While we knew that she must die.
>
> She speaks of Munster valleys,
> The pattern, dance, and fair,
> And her thin hand feebly dallies
> With her scattered golden hair.
> When silently we listen'd
> To her breath with quiet care,
> Her eyes with wonder glisten'd,
> And she asked us, "What was there?"
>
> The poor thing smiled to ask it,
> And her pretty mouth laid bare,
> Like gems within a casket,
> A string of pearlets rare,
>
> We said that we were trying
> By the gushing of her blood
> And the time she took in sighing
> To know if she were good.
>
> Well, she smil'd and chatted gaily,
> Though we saw in mute despair
> The hectic brighter daily,
> And the death-dew on her hair.
> And oft her wasted fingers
> Beating time upon the bed:
> O'er some old tune she lingers,
> And she bows her golden head.
>
> At length the harp is broken;
> And the spirit in its strings,
> As the last decree is spoken,
> To its source exulting springs.
> Descending swiftly from the skies
> Her guardian angel came,
> He struck God's lightning from her eyes,
> And bore Him back the flame.
>
> Before the sun had risen
> Through the lark-loved morning air,
> Her young soul left its prison,
> Undefiled by sin or care.
> I stood beside the couch in tears
> Where pale and calm she slept,
> And though I've gazed on death for years,
> I blush not that I wept.
>
> I check'd with effort pity's sighs
> And left the matron there,
> To close the curtains of her eyes
> And bind her golden hair.
>
> -- Richard D'Alton Williams (1822-1862)
>


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