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484 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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We wait the hero heart to lead, The hero, who can guide at need, And strike with bolder, stronger hand, Though towering hosts his path withstand,
Thy golden harp,
Loved Ireland !
For I can breathe no trumpet call,
To make the slumbering soul arise; I only lift the funeral-pall,
That so God's light might touch thine eyes, And ring the silver prayer-bell clear, To rouse thee from thy trance of fear; Yet, if thy mighty heart has stirred, Even with one pulse-throb at my word, Then not in vain my woman's hand Has struck the gold harp while I stand, Waiting thy rise, Loved Ireland! |
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