Page:The Spirit of the Nation.djvu/142

46 Too long we've wept; though blood and tears May rust, they break not slavery's chain, And forty weary woe-worn years We've wept (as we have bled) in vain.

Then strike as though thy fingers hold Our heart-strings 'neath thy touch of fire; Nor blush to wake those songs of old, For Irish hearts on Erin's lyre.

In Egypt's storied land of yore, Ere Pharoah reigned, ere Nile ran blood, Majestic on her sandy shore, Her Memnon's giant statue stood.

And countless wealth, by sages told, Lay buried near that statue tall, And theirs to seek for gems and gold Where Memnon's head o'erthrown should fall.

But he who watched at noon-tide hour The shadow pointing to his prize May teach that even the gloom of power Can show where Freedom's treasure lies.

And Memnon's lips sweet music sung Whene'er the sun, with orient glow, Awoke sweet morn, and gaily flung Her blushes on that marble brow.

Now breaks for us bright Freedom's day, Now broken falls our mouldering chain; And, touched by Freedom's dawning ray, The mystic Harp shall sound again.

Then, Lyrist, wreathe a song for me, Such as my fathers loved of old— Thy theme our cause, the melody The sweetest on thy strings of gold.