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7o THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
And barriers strong — Of care, and circumstance, and cost — Yet count not all your absent lost,
Oh, Land of Song !
Above your roofs no star can rise That does not lighten in our eyes;
Nor any set, That ever shed a cheering beam On Irish hillside, street or stream,
That we forget.
And thus it comes that even I, Though weakly and unworthily,
Am moved by grief To join the melancholy throng And chant the sad entombing song
Above the Chief.
I would not do the dead a wrong: If graves could yield a growth of song
Like flowers of May, Then Mangan from the tomb might raise One of his old resurgent lays —
But, well-a-day!
He, close beside his early friend, By the stark shepherd safely penned,
Sleeps out the night; So his weird numbers never more The sorrow of the isle shall pour,
In tones of might. |
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