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228 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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Like Joseph went they forth, or Benjamin,
In all their touching beauty to redeem ?
And did their soft lips kiss the Sepulchre?
Alas ! the lovely pageant as a dream
Faded ! They sank not through ignoble fear,
They felt not Moslem steel. By mountain, stream,
In sands, in fens, they died—no mother near ! |
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THE SHANNON
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IVER of billows, to whose mighty heart The tide-wave rushes of the Atlantic Sea; River of quiet depths, by cultured lea, Romantic wood or city's crowded mart; River of old poetic founts, which start
From their lone mountain-cradles, wild and free, Nursed with the fawns, lulled by the woodlark's glee, And cushat's hymeneal song apart; River of chieftains, whose baronial halls,
Like veteran warders, watch each wave-worn steep, Portumna's towers, Bunratty's royal walls,
Carrick's stern rock, the Geraldine's gray keep — River of dark mementoes ! must I close My lips with Limerick's wrong, with Aughrim's woes? |
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