Clinton Scollard

The Hill of Maeve


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!

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