The Harp, or Ireland's Resurrection.
Magic harp of Erin, what stills thy sweet cadence?
Why art thou silent when all else is glad?
The sun shines most glorious, the stars burn divinely,
Say, harp of Erin, oh, why art thou sad?
Thou'rt the hope of the race that adorns the story,
The gentlest in loves, the most fearless in wars;
The sons of Hibernia to beauty pay tribute,
And their falchions flash tierce on the red field of Mars.
Thou'rt the emblem of Ireland, the gem of old ocean,
Wilt thou gloriously ascend from vile slavery's thrall?
Will the God of high heaven break the spell which benumbs thee,
And gladden the souls of the sons of Fingal?
Tes! thou chosen emblem, great celestial glory!
For the harp in the heavens is Jehovah's own lyre;
Thou yet shall ring wildly to Tara resounding,
Delivered from bondage by heavenly fire.
Yes! God in his wisdom and judgments, remembering
The wrongs of the race of the kinsmen of Mars,
Will raise up a Joshua his tribe to deliver,
And plant thee, dear harp, at His throne 'mid the stars.