Ireland Its Humour and Pathos
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Excerpt from Ireland Its Humour and Pathos: A Study
Green, in the wizard arms
Of the foam-bearded Atlantic,
A melancholy isle,
Enchanted and dreaming lies:
And there, by Shannon's flowing,
In the moonlight, spectre-thin,
The spectre Erin sits.
She keenes, and the strings of her wild harp shiver
On the gusts of night:
O'er the four waters she keenes - over Moyle she keenes,
O'er the Sea of Milith, and the Strait of Strongbow,
And the Ocean of Columbus.
And the Fianna hear, and the ghost of her cloudy hovering heroes,
And the swan, Fianoula, wails o'er the waters of Inisfall,
Chanting her song of destiny,
The rune of the weaving Fates.
Wail no more, lonely one, mother of exiles wail no more,
Thy sorrows are the world's, thou art no more alone,
Thy wrongs, the world's.
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