Irish Poets and Novelists

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P. J. Thomas, 1892 - English literature - 424 pages
 

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Page 405 - 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 406 - I've heard bells tolling Old Adrian's mole in, Their thunder rolling From the Vatican, And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets Of Notre Dame; But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, Pealing solemnly.
Page 172 - Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
Page 177 - We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow...
Page 176 - Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
Page 408 - There is a stone there, that whoever kisses, Oh! he never misses to grow eloquent. 'Tis he may clamber to a lady's chamber, Or become a member of parliament: A clever spouter he'll sure turn out, or An out-and-outer, "to be let alone," Don't hope to hinder him, or to bewilder him; Sure he's a pilgrim from the Blarney stone!
Page 336 - And I have heard songs in the Silence That never shall float into speech ; And I have had dreams in the Valley Too lofty for language to reach. And I have seen Thoughts in the Valley — Ah ! me, how my spirit was stirred ! And they wear holy veils on their faces, Their footsteps can scarcely be heard : They pass through the Valley like Virgins, Too pure for the touch of a word...
Page 176 - By the struggling moonbeam's misty light And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.
Page 177 - Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring : And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.

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