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 "Bear that boy to my aunt, the Abbess of Glanàa: tell her to cherish him for my sake. Sometimes speak to him of St. Clare.

"Now, see the flame of vengeance how it rises upon my view. Burn, fire; burn. Let the flames ascend, even to the Heavens. So fierce and bright are the last fires of love, now quenched, for ever and for ever. The seat of his ancestors shall fall to the lowest earth—dust to dust—earth to earth. What is the pride of man?—The dream of life is past; the song of the wild harper has ceased; famine, war, and slavery, shall encompass my country.

"But yet all its fond recollections suppressing, One last dying wish this sad bosom shall draw: O, Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing; Land of my forefathers, Erin go brah."

As she sung the last strain of the song, which the sons of freedom had learned, she tore the green mantle from her breast,