IRELAND’S WEALTH.
Oh do not call our country poor,
Though Commerce shuns her coast;
For still the isle hath treasures more
Than other lands can boast.
She hath glorious hills and mighty streams,
With wealth of wave and mine,
And fields that pour their riches forth
Like Plenty’s chosen shrine.
She hath hands that never shrink from toil,
And hearts that never yield,
Who reap the harvests of the world
In corn or battle field.
She hath blessings from her far dispersed
O’er all the earth and seas,
Whose love can never leave her—yet
Our land hath more than these.
Her’s is the light of genius bright,
Among her children still;
It shines on all her darkest homes,
Or wildest heath and hill.
For there the Isle’s immortal lyre
Sent forth its mightiest tone;
And starry names arose that far
On distant ages shone.
And want among her huts hath been;
But never from them past
The stranger’s welcome, or the hearts
That freely gave their last.
She hath mountains of eternal green,
And vales for love and health,
And the beautiful and true of heart—
Oh these are Ireland’s wealth!
And she is rich in hope, which blest
Her gifted ones and brave,
Who loved her well, for she had nought
To give them but a grave.
Through all her clouds and blasted years,
That star hath never set;
Will not our land arise and shine
Among the nations yet?
F. B.