He sings the heroic tales of old
  When Ireland yet was free,
Of many a fight and foray bold,
  And raid beyond the sea.

Of all the famous deeds of Fin,
  And all the wiles of Mave,
Now thunders ’mid the battle’s din,
  Now sobs beside the wave.

That wave empurpled by the sword
  The hero used too well,
When great Cuchullin held the ford,
  And fair Ferdiah fell.

And now his prophet eye is cast
  As o’er a boundless plain;
He sees the future as the past,
  And blends them in his strain.

The Red-Branch Knights their flags unfold
  When danger’s front appears,
The sunburst breaks through clouds of gold
  To glorify their spears.

But, ah! a darker hour drew nigh,
  The hour of Erin’s woe,
When she, though destined not to die,
  Lay prostrate ’neath the foe.

When broke were all the arms she bore,
  And bravely bore in vain,
Till even her harp could sound no more
  Beneath the victor’s chain.

Ah! dire constraint, ah! cruel wrong,
  To fetter thus its chord,
But well they knew that Ireland’s song
  Was keener than her sword.

That song would pierce where swords would fail,
  And o’er the battle’s din,
The sweet, sad music of the Gael
  A peaceful victory win.

Long was the trance, but sweet and low
  The harp breathed out again
Its speechless wail, its wordless woe,
  In Carolan’s witching strain.

Until at last the gift of words
  Denied to it so long,
Poured o’er the now enfranchised chords
  The articulate light of song.

Poured the bright light from genius won,
  That woke the harp’s wild lays;
Even as that statue which the sun
  Made vocal with his rays.

Thus Ossian in disparted dream
  Outpoured the varied lay,
But now in one united stream
  His rapture finds its way:—­

“Yes, in thy hands, illustrious son,
  The harp shall speak once more,
Its sweet lament shall rippling run
  From listening shore to shore.

Till mighty lands that lie unknown
  Far in the fabled west,
And giant isles of verdure thrown
  Upon the South Sea’s breast.

And plains where rushing rivers flow—­
  Fit emblems of the free—­
Shall learn to know of Ireland’s woe,
  And Ireland’s weal through thee.”

’Twas thus he sang,
And while tumultuous plaudits rang
  From the immortal throng,
In the younger minstrel’s hand
He placed the emblem of the land—­
  The harp of Irish song.

Oh! what dulcet notes are heard. 
Never bird
Soaring through the sunny air
Like a prayer
Borne by angel’s hands on high
So entranced the listening sky
As his song—­
Soft, pathetic, joyous, strong,
Rising now in rapid flight
Out of sight
Like a lark in its own light,