Clinton Scollard (Клинтон Сколлард)
The Hill of Maeve
I 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. II 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! III '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. IV 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!
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