THE OLD MAN'S BLESSING.
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V.The Russian breathed on Poland, and she changed to a Zahara;The jewels of her ancient crown adorn the Czar's tiara.Her princes, and her nobles, tread the land with footsteps weary,And her people cry to Heaven with ceaseless Miserere.On her pale brow, thorn crownéd, ye may read her shame and loss;See, foreign rule has branded there the fatal Thanatos.But her agony and bloody sweat the Lord from Heaven will see,And a resurrection morn heal the wounds of Calvary.
VI.By our prophets God is speaking, in Sinai's awful thunders,By pestilence and famine, in fearful signs and wonders;By our great poet-priesthood, the sacred race immortal,Whose words go forth triumphant, as through a golden portal;By our patriots and martyrs, who, for Freedom's holy law,Have hearts to dare, a hand to burn, like Mutius Scævola.Then, courage, Brothers! lock your shields, like the old Spartan band,Advance! and be your watchword ever—God for Ireland!
THE OLD MAN'S BLESSING.
INE eye is dull, my hair is white,This arm is powerless for the fight,Alas! alas! the battle's vanSuits not a weak and aged man.Thine eye is bright, thine arm is strong—Tis Youth must right our country's wrong.Arise, my son, and proudly bearThis sword that I was wont to wear;Firm grasp the hilt, fling down the sheath—A thousand years their wrongs bequeath