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50 And so with the grains of our Irish sand, that flash clear-eyed to the sun, Till a noble Purpose smites them and melts them into one.

While the sands are free, O Tyrants! like the wind are your steel and speech; Your brute-force crushes a legion, but a soul it can never reach.

Island of Destiny! Innisfail! for thy faith is the payment near: The mine of the future is opened, and the golden veins appear.

Thy hands are white and thy page unstained. Reach out for the glorious years, And take them from God as His recompense for thy fortitude and tears.

Thou canst stand by the way ascending, as thy tyrant goes to the base: The seeds of her death are in her and the signs in her cruel face.