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IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 347 |
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Death, in the breast's consuming fires, To that high nature which aspires Forever, till thus check'd, —
These are thine enemies—thy worst;
They chain thee to thy lowly lot; Thy labor and thy life accurs'd. Oh, stand erect, and from them burst,
And longer suffer not!
Thou art thyself thine enemy !
The great!—what better they than thou ? As theirs, is not thy will as free ? Has God with equal favors thee
Neglected to endow ?
True; wealth thou hast not—'tis but dust!
Nor place,—uncertain as the wind ! But that thou hast, which, with thy crust And water, may despise the lust
Of both,—a noble mind !
With this, and passions under ban, True faith, and holy trust in God,
Thou art the peer of any man.
Ix)ok up, then ; that thy little span Of life may well be trod ! |
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