MY land, my Erin, can we sing of thee Save in that music ringing through thy vales, And through thy people's hearts, -- how bold and free, How sadly like a Rachel's piteous wails, Dying in anguish, faintly, brokenly, With more of woe than all a poet's tales? Thy music is thy speech: so half in fear I link this story now in rhythmic law, And miss in words that plaintive warble, clear And dreamful, which first woke my soul with awe, And thrilled it into motion, as a mere Is rippled weirdly by the mountain flaw. |