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'Mid stars so bright,
On a lovely night,
Over the wave,
Where the moonbeams lave,
it will sail, as to some bright star,
This is a tale to make one's blood run chill,
And curdle even at the fountain's head;
But there are fiends more foul and fearful still,
By Anarchy in murd’rous phalanx led.
Art thou too sad, Hibernia?-do we see
ye both as images of death?
The daughter of Erin is bitterly weeping,
in days of yore, But mingling in sad concert with a sigh; And the hill tells the lough, “ I look on nought but
misery,” And verdant valleys plunged in sorrow sore. She seeth her sons depart to shun calamity,
Forsaking the green hills which gave them birth,
Forsaking the much-loved turf-lighted hearth,
Had Poland seen her errors ere too late,
Erin and Poland had been free and great!
THERE is a fear, a fear of pain,
A fear of mortal woe,-
Which fetters man below,
There is a fear, a deadly fear,
Of Death's approaching tread; But it may not in those appear
For whom Christ's blood was shed; To such his sting is snatched away, He leads them to eternal day.
There is a fear, an awful fear,
The fear of a guilty heart; 'Tis far more sick’ning than the fear
Of Death's destroying dart;
Its victim shudders if he sees
But a leaf quivering in the breeze,
There is a fear, a filial fear,
The fear of God on high, Which makes the pardoned soul draw near,
And “ Abba, Father,” cry; The sinner sings redeeming love, And soars to sinless seats above.
Joy comes of heavenly birth,
Sent from above,
But sprung from love. 'Twill sweeten care,
'Mid social scenes delighted rove, And leave its choicest fragrance there.
'Round childhood's silken locks
'Twill blessings shed, Nor hoary hairs it mocks,
Nor manly head, Nor passes by
The fair, but follows in her tread, And revels in her bright blue eye.
Joy lies in sunny flowers;
The cowslip's bell,