Echoes From Erin.

ACROSS old Purple Mountain I hear a bugle call,

And down the rocks, like water, the echoes leap and fall.

One note alone can startle the voices of the peaks,

And waken songs of Erin, whene'er the bugle speaks.

They call and call and call,

Until the voices all

Ring down the dusky hollows and in the distance fall.

Methinks, like Purple Mountain, the past will sometimes rise,

And memory's call awaken its echoing replies.

Within the tower of Shandon again the bells will sway,

And follow, with their ringing, the Lee upon its way,

And chime and chime and chime,

Where ivy tendrils climb,

Till bells and river mingle to sound the silvery rhyme.

Again the daisied grasses beside the castle walls

Will stir with softest sighing, to hear the wind's footfalls;

And through the moss-grown abbey, along Killarney's shore,

The melodies of Erin will echo evermore,

And roll and roll and roll,

Till spirit hands shall toll

The music of the uplands unto the listening soul.