Through purest crystal gleaming.

Oh, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!
Chosen leaf

Of Bard and Chief,

Old Erin's native Shamrock!

Says Valour, 'See,

They spring for me,
Those leafy gems of morning!'

Says Love, 'No, no,

For me they grow,

My fragrant path adorning.'

But Wit perceives

The triple leaves,

And cries, 'Oh, do not sever
A type that blends

Three godlike friends,

Love, Valour, Wit, for ever!'

*

Oh, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock ! Chosen leaf

Of Bard and Chief,

Old Erin's native Shamrock !

So firmly fond

May last the bond

They wove that morn together,
And ne'er may fall

One drop of gall

On Wit's celestial feather!

May Love, as twine

His flowers divine,

Of thorny falsehood weed 'em!

May Valour ne'er

His standard rear

Against the cause of Freedom!

Oh, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock !

Chosen leaf

Of Bard and Chief,

Old Erin's native Shamrock !

THOMAS Moore.

THE MINSTREL-BOY.

THE Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you'll find him

His father's sword he has girded on,

;

And his wild harp slung behind him.
'Land of Song !' said the warrior-bard,
"Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee !'

OH FOR THE SWORDS OF FORMER TIME!

The Minstrel fell!-but the foeman's chain

Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,

For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, 'No chains shall sully thee,

Thou soul of love and bravery!

Thy songs were made for the brave and free,
They shall never sound in slavery!

213

THOMAS Moore.

OH FOR THE SWORDS OF FORMER TIME!

OH for the swords of former time!

Oh for the men who bore them,
When, armed for Right, they stood sublime,
And tyrants crouched before them!

When pure yet, ere courts began

him.

With honours to enslave him,
The best honours worn by man
Were those which Virtue gave
Oh for the swords of former time!
Oh for the men who bore them,
When, armed for Right, they stood sublime,
And tyrants crouched before them!

Oh for the kings who flourished then!

Oh for the pomp that crowned them,
When hearts and hands of freeborn men

Were all the ramparts round them!
When, safe built on bosoms true,

The throne was but the centre
Round which Love a circle drew,
That Treason durst not enter.

Oh for the kings who flourished then!
Oh for the pomp that crowned them,
When hearts and hands of freeborn men

Were all the ramparts round them!
THOMAS MOORE

THE BOYNE'S ILL-FATED RIVER.

As vanquished Erin wept beside

The Boyne's ill-fated river,

She saw where Discord, in the tide,
Had dropped his loaded quiver.
'Lie hid,' she cried, 'ye venomed darts,
Where mortal eye may shun

you;

Lie hid-for oh, the stain of hearts
That bled for me is on you!'

But vain her wish, her weeping vain-
As Time too well hath taught her:
Each year the fiend returns again,
And dives into that water;

And brings triumphant, from beneath,

His shafts of desolation,

And sends them, winged with worse than death,

Throughout her maddening nation.

Alas for her who sits and mourns

Even now beside that riverUnwearied still the fiend returns,

And stored is still his quiver.

'When will this end, ye Powers of Good ?'

She weeping asks for ever;

But only hears, from out that flood,

The demon answer, 'Never!'

THOMAS MOORE.

THE PRAYER OF EMAN OGE.

THE PRAYER OF EMAN OGE.

GOD of this Irish Isle,

Blessed and old,

Wrapt in the morning's smile,

In the sea's fold

Here where thy saints have trod,

Here where they prayed,

Hear me, O saving God,

May I be saved!
God of the circling sea,

Far-rolling and deep,

Its caves are unshut to Thee

Its bounds Thou dost keep--
Here, from this strand

Whence saints have gone forth,
Father! I own Thy hand

Humbled to earth.

God of this blessed light

Over me shining,
On the wide way of right
I go, unrepining.
No more despising

My lot or my race,

But toiling, uprising,

To Thee through thy grace.

215

T. D. M'GEE.

THE HEART'S RESTING-PLACE.

TWICE have I sailed the Atlantic o'er,
Twice dwelt an exile in the west;
Twice did kind nature's skill restore

The quiet of my troubled breast;