ROLL forth, my song, like the rushing river,
That sweeps along to the mighty sea;
God will inspire me while I deliver
My soul of thee!
IN Siberia's wastes
The ice-wind's breath
Woundeth like the toothed steel;
Lost Siberia doth reveal
I SEE black dragons mount the sky,
I see earth yawn beneath my feet -
I feel within the asp, the worm
That will not sleep and cannot die,
LONG they pine in weary woe - the nobles of our land -
Long they wander to and fro, proscribed, alas! and banned;
O MY Dark Rosaleen,
Do not sigh, do not weep!
The priests are on the ocean green,
They march along the deep.
O MY land! O my love!
What a woe, and how deep,
Is thy death to my long mourning soul!
God alone, God above,
Where is my chief, my master, this bleak night, mavrone?
O cold, cold, miserably cold is this bleak night for Hugh!
Its showery, arrowy, speary sleet pierceth one thro’ and thro’,
Pierceth one to the very bone.
I WALKED entranced
Through a land of Morn:
The sun, with wondrous excess of light,
Shone down and glanced
I SAW her once, one little while, and then no more:
’Twas Eden’s light on Earth a while, and then no more.