Page:The Spirit of the Nation.djvu/36

24 TO THE LADIES OF IRELAND.

I.

Oh, Daughters of Erin! while liberty hovers,

Like the dove of the ark, o'er the flood of our tears,

'Tis yours to brace on the chainmail of your lovers,

And broider gay streamers to float from their spears.

II.

Unsullied and soft as the snow's infant winglets

Is the bosom of her who is muse of our song;

And her melting eyes shine through dark clouds of rich ringlets,

With a soul that to Emmett's first love might belong.

III.

And though scarcely the seraphs that smiling watch o'er her,

More fondly—more truly can love in the skies,

Yet not her's is the wish to behold her adorer

Forget his land's wrongs in the light of her eyes.

IV.

Yes! thine is the fire that, now sacredly glowing,

Impels my wrapt soul to bright liberty's shrine,

The wave was congeal'd till thy breath set it flowing—

God gave the lyre, but to tune it was thine.

V.

Oh, woman! our load-star, whose worship for ever,

Gives strength to the sword—inspiration to song—

The hour thou wilt aid thine own fetters to sever,

Not earth's banded tyrants our thrall can prolong.