Yet, Erin! thy glory, long prisoned in night,
Will rise to shine forth in effulgence again; And Hope's rich fruition will bask in the light
Of splendor illuming each mountain and plain.
Thy shamrock may droop by thy clear sparkling fountains,
It bloometh anew o'er this far western wave; The spirit which rose[Note] 'mid the wild Kerry mountains
Yet lives in the soul of thy loyal and brave.
Not by untoward plots, or feats of the sword,
Shall thy stainless honor and truth be maintained; By purpose of right, and with help of the Lord
Shall the fondest wish of thy leal hearts be gained.
Then mourn not the ages of sorrow and wrong,
But aye keep thy future of blessing in view; Sad weeping shall merge into triumph's glad song;—
To God, to thy sires, and to Erin prove true.
TO THE POET.
I.
Ho, poet of the soul refined!
The muse within that soul enshrined,
Think'st thou to mould unto thy mind
Base, common clay?
Within the church—most holy place—
Endowed of Heaven's especial grace,
The weeds of evil grow apace,
Why not without?