The Complaint of Ninathoma
How long will ye round me be swelling,
O ye blue-tumbling waves of the sea?
Not always in caves was my dwelling,
Nor beneath the cold blast of the tree.
Thro’ the high-sounding halls of Cathlóma
In the steps of my beauty I stray’d;
The warriors beheld Ninathóma,
And they blessèd the white-bosomed maid!
A ghost! by my cavern it darted!
In moon-beams the spirit was drest—
For lovely appear the departed
When they visit the dreams of my rest!
But disturbed by the tempest’s commotion
Fleet the shadowy forms of delight—
Ah, cease, thou shrill blast of the ocean!
To howl through my cavern by night.
