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136 IRISH MELODIES. |
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Ah dream too full of sadd'ning truth!
Those mansions o'er the main Are like the hopes I built in youth, —
As sunny and as vain! |
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LAY HIS SWORD BY HIS SIDE.
Lay his sword by his side, *—it hath serv'd him too well,
Not to rest near his pillow below; To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell,
Its point was still turn'd to a flying foe. Fellow-labourers in life, let them slumber in death,
Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave, — That sword which he lov'd still unbroke in its sheath,
And himself unsubdued in his grave.
Yet pause—for, in fancy, a still voice I hear,
As if breath'd from his brave heart's remains; — Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear,
Once sounded the war-word, " Burst your chains I" And it cries, from the grave where the hero lies deep,
" Tho' the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set, " Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep, —
" It hath victory's life in it yet!
* It was the custom of the ancient Irish, in the manner of the Scythians, to bury the favourite swords of their heroes along with them. |
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