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THE BIRTHNIGHT.
For he is the breath of thy soul, the pulse of the heart of thy being,
He is the voice of thy voice which speaks from the leaf and sod,
Falling in healing and balm on spirit and eyes unseeing,
And changing their darkness to light, like touch of the chrism of God.
He is the voice of thy voice which speaks from the leaf and sod,
Falling in healing and balm on spirit and eyes unseeing,
And changing their darkness to light, like touch of the chrism of God.
O windswept harp of Innisfail
Wake from thy sleep to-night,
Not faint with sorrow's lingering wail,
But glad with life's delight!
For he who gave thy notes to fame
And love and joy of yore,
Brings the fair glory of his name
To wreathe thy strings once more.
Wake from thy sleep to-night,
Not faint with sorrow's lingering wail,
But glad with life's delight!
For he who gave thy notes to fame
And love and joy of yore,
Brings the fair glory of his name
To wreathe thy strings once more.
His glory! Aye! The statesman's hand
May fail with failing breath,
The thought which nerved the Patriot's brand
Go down with him to death;
But he whose song divine can thrill
A nation's depths, shall last
May fail with failing breath,
The thought which nerved the Patriot's brand
Go down with him to death;
But he whose song divine can thrill
A nation's depths, shall last
