Was it the sound of his bells, as they swung in the
That drove from the bosom of Paolo the dark-wing`ed demons of care?
Was it their magical tone that for many a shadowless day
(So faith once believed) swept the clouds and the black-boding tempests
Ah! never may Fate with their music a harsh-grating dissonance blend!
Sure an evening so calm and so bright will glide peacefully on to the
Sure the course of his life, to its close, like his own native river
Flowing on through the valley of flowers to its home in the bright
O Erin! thou broad-spreading valley—thou
well-watered land of fresh
When I gaze on thy hills greenly sloping, where the light of such
When I rest by the rim of thy fountains, or stray where thy streams
Then I think that the fairies have brought me to dwell in the bright
But when on the face of thy children I look, and behold the big tears
Still stream down their grief-eaten channels, which widen and deepen
I fear that some dark blight for ever will fall on thy harvests of
And that, like thy lakes and thy rivers, thy sorrows must ever
O land! which the heavens made for joy, but where
O prodigal spendthrift of sorrow! and hast thou not heirs of thine own?
Thus to lavish thy sons’ only portion, and bring one sad claimant the
From the sweet sunny lands of the south, to thy crowded and sorrowful
For this proud bark that cleaveth thy waters, she is not a corrach of
And the broad purple sails that spread o’er her seem dyed in the juice
of the vine.
Not thine is that flag, backward floating, nor the olive-cheek’d seamen
Nor that heart-broken old man who gazes so listlessly over the tide.
Accurs’d be the monster, who selfishly draweth
his sword from its
Let his garland be twined by the furies, and the upas tree furnish the
Let the blood he has shed steam around him, through the length of
And the anguish-wrung screams of his victims for ever resound in his
For all that makes life worth possessing must yield to his self-seeking
He trampleth on home and on love, as his war-horses trample the dust;
He loosens the red streams of ruin, which wildly, though partially,
They but chafe round the rock-bastion’d castle, while they sweep the
frail cottage away.