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THE INVOCATION.

Sweet Lyrist, wreath a song for me,
Such as my fathers loved of old—
Thy theme our cause, the melody
The sweetest on thy strings of gold.


Too long we've wept; though blood and tears
May rust, they break not slavery's chain,
And forty weary woe-worn years
We've wept (as we have bled) in vain.


Then strike as though thy fingers hold
Our heart-strings 'neath thy touch of fire;
Nor blush to wake those songs of old,
For Irish hearts on Erin's lyre.


In Egypt's storied land of yore,
Ere Pharoah reigned, ere Nile ran blood,
Majestic on her sandy shore,
Her Memnon's giant statue stood.


And countless wealth, by sages told,
Lay buried near that statue tall,
And theirs to seek for gems and gold
Where Memnon's head o'erthrown should fall.


But he who watched at noon-tide hour
The shadow pointing to his prize
May teach that even the gloom of power
Can show where Freedom's treasure lies.


And Memnon's lips sweet music sung
Whene'er the sun, with orient glow,
Awoke sweet morn, and gaily flung
Her blushes on that marble brow.


Now breaks for us bright Freedom's day,
Now broken falls our mouldering chain;
And, touched by Freedom's dawning ray,
The mystic Harp shall sound again.


Then, Lyrist, wreathe a song for me,
Such as my fathers loved of old—
Thy theme our cause, the melody
The sweetest on thy strings of gold.