Whatever of purity, glory, bath ever
Been linked with the name, lovely Mary was thine;
Woe! woe, that the tomb, ruthless tyrant, should sever,
The ties which our spirits half broken resign.
Than Cæsar of hosts3—the true darling of Rome,
Far prouder was James—where pure spirits are met;
The virgin, the saint—though heaven's radiance illume
Their brows—Erin's wrongs can o'ershadow them yet.
And rank be the poison—the plagues that distil,
Through the heart of the spoiler that laid them in dust;
The rapt bard with their glory the nations shall fill.
With the fame of his patrons, the generous, the just.
Wherever the beam of the morning is shed.
With its light the full fame of our loved ones hath shone;
The deep curse of our sorrow shall burst on his head
That hath hurled them—the pride of our hearts! from
their throne—
C 2
