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There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing. To wander along by the wind-beaten hill. But the day star attracted his eyes' sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh.

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing. To wander along by the wind-beaten hill. But the day star attracted his eyes' sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh.

To live in hearts we leave behind, Is not to die.

Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky.

'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue.

And hears thy stormy music in the drum!

Who hath not own'd, with rapture-smitten frame, The power of grace, the magic of a name.

Again to the battle, Achaians! Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance! Our land, the first garden of liberty's tree-- It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free.

Our land, the first garden of liberty's tree-- It has been, and shall be, the land of the free.

He scorn'd his own, who felt another's woe.

Britannia needs no bulwarks No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain wave, Her home is on the deep.

The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, Dropt on the world--a sacred gift to man.

Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art.

When love came first to earth, the Spring Spread rose-beds to receive him.

O star-eyed Science, hast thou wander'd there, To waft us home the message of despair?

What we might call, by way of Eminence, the Dismal Science.

There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath, For a time.

But, said as angels for the good man's sin, Weep to record, and blush to give it in.

A stoic of the woods,--a man without a tear.

For Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile.