Peace grieves o'er her temples on mountain and shore,

Sad History's witnesses, vocal no more. Shall no sabbath arise on our week-day of care?

Is no waking reserved for our sleep of despair?

Ha, see! - there's a shooting of light in the gloom,

And the spirit of Nagle replies from the tomb.

Hail, star of the lowly! apostle of light! In the glow of whose fervor the cottage grew bright,

Sweet violet of sanctity,lurking conceal'd, Till the wind lifts the leaf and the bloom is reveal'd;

By the light of that glory which burst on thy youth

In its day-dream of pleasure, and woke it to truth,

By the tears thou hast shed, by the toils thou hast borne,

Oh, say, shall our night know a breaking of morn?

"As the dawn on the lingering night of the north,

To the hills of the west has the mandate gone forth;

In the desolate aisles there's a murmur of praise,

And the lost lamp of science rekindles its rays.

The voice of lament in our island shall

cease,

And her cities rejoice in the sunlight of peace;

From her sleep of enchantment young

Erin shall rise,

And again be the home of the holy and wise.”