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IRISH MELODIES. |
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Oh, who that loves Erin, or who that can see, Through the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime —
Like a pyramid rais'd in the desert — where he And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time ;
That one lucid interval, snatch'd from the gloom And the madness of ages, when fill'd with his soul,
A nation o'erleap'd the dark bounds of her doom, And for one sacred instant, touch'd Liberty's goal —
Who, that ever hath heard him—hath drank at the source
Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own, In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force,
And the yet untam'd spring of her spirit are shown;
An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave
Wander'd free and triumphant, with thoughts that shone through, As clear as the brook's " stone of lustre," that gave,
With the flash of the gem, its solidity too —
Who, that ever approach'd him, when free from the crowd, In a home full of love, he delighted to tread 'Mong the trees which a nation had giv'n, and which bow'd, As if each brought a new civic crown for his head—• |
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