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ancient bear beneath brave breast breath bright brother chief cold cross dark dead dear death deep dream earth eyes face fair faith fall fame fathers fear field foes follow give grace grave green hand hath head hear heard heart heaven hills holy hope host hour Ireland Irish Italy King labor Lady land light live look Lord lost McGee morning mother mountain native never night o'er once Page peace poems praise pray prayer race rest rise river round Saint shining ship shore side sing sleep smile song sorrow soul spirit stand star sword tell thee thou thought tree true Twas voice wave West wild winds written young youth
Page 600 - We were now treading that illustrious island, which was once the luminary of the Caledonian regions, whence savage clans and roving barbarians derived the benefits of knowledge, and the blessings of religion. To abstract the mind from all local emotion would be impossible, if it were endeavoured, and would be foolish, if it were possible.
Page 180 - LONG, long ago beyond the misty space Of twice a thousand years, In Erin old there dwelt a mighty race, Taller than Roman spears ; Like oaks and towers they had a giant grace, Were fleet as deers, With winds and waves they made their 'biding place, These western shepherd seers.
Page 600 - That man is little to be envied, whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of lona.
Page 181 - The Druid's altar and the Druid's creed We scarce can trace, There is not left an undisputed deed Of all your race, Save your majestic song, which hath their speed. And strength and grace ; In that sole song, they live and love, and bleed — It bears them on through space.
Page 286 - Within her swelling bosom white. My Irish wife has golden hair, Apollo's harp had once such strings, Apollo's self might pause to hear Her bird-like carol when she sings. I would not give my Irish wife For all the dames of the Saxon land; I would not give my Irish wife For the Queen of France's hand...
Page 432 - I'd tarry none here, if will had wings. For she never was weary of blessing me. When morn rose dreary on thatch and tree; She evermore chanted her song of faith, When darkness daunted on hill and heath. If will had wings, how fast I'd flee To the home of my heart o'er the seething sea! If wishes were power — if words were spells, I'd be this hour where my own love dwell*.
Page 600 - We were now treading that illustrious island which was once the luminary of the Caledonian regions ; whence savage clans, and roving barbarians, derived the benefit of knowledge and the blessings of religion. To abstract the mind from all local emotion would be impossible if it were endeavoured, and would be foolish if it were possible. Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses ; whatever makes the past, the...
Page 286 - I'm near her To love till death my Irish wife. Oh, what would be this home of mine — A ruined, hermit-haunted place, But for the light that nightly shines, Upon its walls from Kathleen's face? What comfort in a mine of gold — What pleasure in a royal life, If the heart within lay dead and cold, If I could not wed my Irish wife? I knew the law forbade the banns — I knew my king abhorred her race — Who never bent before their clans, Must bow before their ladies
Page i - For, like strains of martial music. Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor; And to-night I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start ; Who, through long days of labor. And nights devoid of ease. Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies.
Page 134 - God of our persecuted race! What shall befall the ancient race? Is treason's stigma on their face? Be they cowards or traitors ? Go — Ask the shade of England's foe; See the gems her crown that grace ; They tell a tale of the ancient race. They tell a tale of the ancient race — Of matchless deeds in danger's face; They speak of Britain's glory fed With blood of Kelts, right bravely shed; On India's spoil and Frank's disgrace — Such tale they tell of the ancient race.