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230 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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'Tvvas no dream, Mother Land ! 'Tvvas no dream,
Innisfail! Hope dreams, but grief dreams not—the grief of the
Gael ! From Leix and Ikerrin to Donegal's shore Rolls the dirge of thy last and thy bravest—O'More ! |
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FLOWERS I WOULD BRING
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LOWERS I would bring if flowers could make thee fairer, And music, if the Muse were dear to thee; (For loving these would make thee love the bearer) But the sweetest songs forget their melody, And loveliest flowers would but conceal the wearer:— A rose I marked, and might have plucked; but she Blushed as she bent; imploring me to spare her, Nor spoil her beauty by such rivalry. Alas ! and with what gifts shall I pursue thee, What offerings bring, what treasures lay before thee; When earth with all her floral train doth woo thee, And all old poets and old songs adore thee j And love to thee is naught; from passionate mood Secured by joy's complacent plenitude ! |
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SAD IS OUR YOUTH, FOR IT IS EVER GOING
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AD is our youth, for it is ever going, Crumbling away, beneath our very feet; Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing In current unperceived, because so fleet; Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing,— But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat; |
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