SWEET land of song, thy harp doth hang Upon the willow now, While famine's blight and fever's pang Stamps mis'ry on thy brow; Yet take thy harp and raise thy voice, Though weak and low it be, And let thy sinking heart rejoice In friends still left to thee. Look out! look out! across the sea That girds thy em'rald shore, A ship of war is bound to thee, But with no war-like store. Her thunders sleep; 't is mercy's breath That wafts her o'er the sea; She goes not forth to deal out death, But bears new life to thee. Thy wasted hands can scarcely strike The chords of grateful praise, Thy plaintive tone is now unlike The voice of prouder days; Yet, e'en in sorrow, tuneful still, Let Erin's voice proclaim In bardic praise on ev'ry hill Columbia's glorious name. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest... |