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 Sing not that violet-veined skin, That cheek's pale roses, The lily of that form wherein Her soul reposes! Forth to the fight, true man! true knight! The clash of arms Shall more prevail than whisper'd tale, To win her charms.

The Warrior for the True, the Right, Fights in Love's name; The love that lures thee from that flight Lures thee to shame: That love which lifts the heart, yet leaves The spirit free,— That love, or none, is fit for one Man-shap'd like thee.

THE SONS OF PATRICK

Into the mists of the Pagan island Bearing God's message great Patrick came; The Druid altars on plain and highland Fell at the sound of his mighty name!

Swift was the conquest—with hearts upswelling The Faith they took, and to God they swore: That precious spark from their bosoms' dwelling, Man's guile or torture should snatch no more.