"Oh! Shrive me, father - haste, haste, and shrive me,
Ere sets yon dread and flaring sun;
It's beams of peace, - nay of sense, deprive me,
Since yet the holy work's undone."
The sage, the wand'rer's anguish balming,
Soothed her heart to rest once more;
And pardon's promise torture calming,
The Pilgrim told her sorrows o'er.
The charms that caus'd in life's young morning,
The woes the sad one had deplor'd,
Were now, alas! No more adorning
The lips that pardon sweet implor'd:
But oh! Those eyes, so mildly beaming,
Once seen, not Saints could e'er forget! -
And soon the Father's eyes were streaming,
When Devorgilla's gaze he met!
Gone, gone, was all the pride of beauty,
That scorn'd and broke the bridal vow,
And gave to passion all the duty
So bold a heart would e'er allow;
Yet all so humbly, all so mildly,
The weeping fair her fault confess'd,
Tho' youth had viewed her wand'ring wildly,
That age could ne'er deny her rest.
The tale of woe full sadly ended,
The word of peace the Father said,
While balmy tear-drops fast descended,
And droop'd the suppliant sinner's head.
The rose in gloom long drear and mourning,
Not welcomes more the sun's mild ray,
The Breffni's Princess hail'd returning
The gleam of rest that shriving-day.