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But nothing can cloud its native ray; Each fragment will cast

A light to the last,—

And thus, Erin, my country, tho' broken thou art, There's a lustre within thee, that ne'er will decay; A spirit, which beams through each suffering part, And now smiles at all pain on the Prince's Day.

WEEP ON, WEEP ON.

WEEP on, weep on, your hour is past;
Your dreams of pride are o'er;
The fatal chain is round you cast,
And you are men no more.
In vain the hero's heart hath bled;

The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain;
Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled,
It never lights again.

Weep on-perhaps in after days,

They'll learn to love your name; When many a deed may wake in praise

That long hath slept in blame. And when they tread the ruin'd Isle,

Where rest, at length, the lord and slave, They'll wond'ring ask, how hands so vile Could conquer hearts so brave?

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