Brochure of Irish achievements in government, art, architecture, literature and poetry

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Printed by Rollman & Achloss, 1913 - Ireland - 155 pages
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Page 110 - And terror on my aching sight ; the tombs And monumental caves of death look cold, And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart. Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice; Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear Thy voice — my own affrights me with its echoes.
Page 109 - FAR in a wild, unknown to public view, From youth to age a reverend hermit grew ; The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well : Remote from man, with God he pass'd the days, Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.
Page 114 - THE BELLS OF SHANDON. With deep affection and recollection I often think of those Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, in the days of childhood, Fling round my cradle their magic spells. On this I ponder, where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee ; With thy bells of Shandon that sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the River Lee.
Page 125 - OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME OH! breathe not his name, — let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid; Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed, As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head.
Page 115 - Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; A breath can make them, as a breath has made ;w But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroyed, can never be supplied.
Page 105 - When You and I behind the Veil are past, Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last, Which of our Coming and Departure heeds As the Sea's self should heed a pebble-cast.
Page 105 - Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside, And naked on the Air of Heaven ride, Were't not a Shame - were't not a Shame for him In this clay carcase crippled to abide?
Page 105 - Yon rising Moon that looks for us again — How oft hereafter will she wax and wane; How oft hereafter rising look for us Through this same Garden — and for one in vain!
Page 113 - Lord." • How sweetly she bends o'er each plague-tainted face With looks that are lighted with holiest grace ! How kindly she dresses each suffering limb, For she sees in the wounded the image of Him!
Page 111 - OH ! native music ! beyond comparing The sweetest far on the ear that falls, Thy gentle numbers the heart remembers, Thy strains enchain us in tender thralls. Thy tones endearing, Or sad or cheering, The absent soothe on a foreign strand...

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