“Awake, ye West Winds, through the lonely dale,And Fancy, to thy fairy bower betake;Even now, with balmy freshness breathes the gale,Dimpling with downy wing the stilly lake;Through the pale willows faltering whispers wake,And Evening comes with locks bodropp'd with dew;On Desmond's mouldering turrets slowly shakeThe trembling rye-grass and the harehell blue,And ever and anon fair Mulla's plaints renew.”William Julius Mickle Sir MartynSir Martyn (1777), Canto I, stanza 1
