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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Ireland: Vol. V. 1876–79.

Glashen-Glora, the River


By Anonymous

’T IS sweet in midnight solitude,

When the voice of man lies hushed, subdued,

To hear thy mountain voice so rude,

Break silence, Glashen-Glora!

I love to see thy foaming stream

Dashed sparkling in the bright moonbeam;

For then of happier days I dream,

Spent near thee, Glashen-Glora!

I see the holly and the yew

Still shading thee, as then they grew;

But there ’s a form meets not my view,

As once, near Glashen-Glora.

Thou gayly, brightly, sparklest on,

Wreathing thy dimples round each stone;

But the bright eye that on thee shone

Lies quenched, wild Glashen-Glora!

Still rush thee on, thou brawling brook;

Though on broad rivers I may look

In other lands, thy lonesome nook,—

I ’ll think on Glashen-Glora!

When I am low, laid in the grave,

Thou still wilt sparkle, dash, and rave

Seaward, till thou becom’st a wave

Of ocean, Glashen-Glora!

Thy course and mine alike have been

Both restless, rocky, seldom green,—

There rolls for me, beyond this scene,

An ocean, Glashen-Glora!

And when my span of life ’s gone by,

O, if past spirits back can fly,

I ’ll often ride the night-wind’s sigh,

That ’s breathed o’er Glashen-Glora!