And generous hearts are Erin’s. Think not they
Who storm the loudest are the deepest felt.
Fair shines the Moon, though dogs unquiet bay,
And rusts the sword that rattled in the belt;
Ere crost, how would the clamorous phalanx melt?
In scurril threats, that wound not, most they shine.
Too base the altars where they’ve groveling knelt,
To feel—true Celts—the valourous glow divine
That led thy “hope forlorn” in many a battle line.
XLII.