And oh! how princely were the art
Could mould his mien, or tell his heart
When sitting sole on Tara's hill,
While hung a million on his will!
Yet, not in gaiety, nor grief,
Chisel the image of our Chief,
Nor even in that haughty hour
When a nation owned his power.
But would you by your art unroll
His own, and Ireland's secret soul,