And in a trusting loyalty of thought,
So let it be received!—a soldier’s hand
Bears to the breast of no ungenerous land
A seed of foreign shores. O’er this fair clime,
Since Tara heard the harp of ancient time,
Hath song held empire; then, if not with fame,
Let the green isle with kindness bless his aim,
The joy, the power, of kindred song to spread,
Where once that harp “the soul of music shed!”