If bolts forged in hell by man's might can be broken,
If not we can perish—'The grave has no chains.'"
XIII.
And sweet for green Erin to fall crush'd and gory,
In some vale shamrock-spangled that honour illumes,
That valour has hallow'd to freedom and glory,
And sleep, like the brave, in the proud "Pass of Plumes."
ON VISITING THE BOTANIC GARDENS, CORK.
(VERY REV. T. MATHEW'S CEMETERY.)
By W. M. Downes, Author of "Poetic Sketches" &c.
In this sweet spot the lov'd are sleeping;
The sculptur'd angel, pure as snow,
Is, like the living mourner, weeping
For those who rest in death below;
On the white marble fond affection,
Above the buried and the cold,
Hath traced—ah, mournful retrospection!—
Their praise in characters of gold.
From sacred lore is here recorded
The mortal's hope—the mortal's doom—
It tells how virtue is rewarded,
It speaks of bliss beyond the tomb.
That glorious meed shall heaven be giving,
A crown to deck the sainted head,
Of him whose worth hath bless'd the living—
Who gave this shelter to the dead.
When here enshrin'd his dust reposes,
(Oh, distant be that gloomy day
Of grief to Erin's isle, when closes
