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!