White-wreathe we infant tombs!
Where breathes no chilling blast, Where skies ne'er over cast, Hope's full fruition blooms.
Be-crown the aged heads
With sprays of evergreen! Earth waneth, heaven serene Undying lustre sheds.
Bright-fringe, Oh fragrant flowers!
Life's ever-changeful day; Till shadow's flit for aye, In amaranthine bowers.
ST. PATRICK'S DAY.
The standard of Erin! unfurl it on high!
To greet the bright day which her children hold dear; Gay joy-bells of gladness ring out to the sky!
Ring out for the Patron, the Saint, and the Seer.
Whose blessed advent woke from the dole of the grave
The nation long shrouded in paganish gloom; As with tidings of Him who suffered to save,
He pointed to life beyond death and the tomb.
This day the exile retraceth wide ocean,
To rest for a space in his far native land; Whilst minstrel-soul, tunèd to deepest devotion,
Doth chime in the music which beats on that strand.
Though tuneless the harp that rich melody poured
On the whispering zephyrs which fan thy clear streams, And voiceless the halls where thy orators soared,
In fancy full flushed with ne'er realized dreams.
Though silence reigns drear o'er Killarney's sweet lakes,
And dark cloudlets brood over loved Arranmore; Though wave of Loch Neagh in murmuring breaks
And dashes in foam on a desolate shore,