O'CONNELL.

Harp of my native land

That lived anew‘ neath Carolan's master hand;

Harp on whose electric chords,

The minstrel Moore's melodious words,

Each word a bird that sings,

Borne as if on Ariel's wings,

Touched every tender soul

From listening pole to pole.

Sweet harp, awake once more:

What, though a ruder hand disturbs thy rest,

A theme so high

Will its own worth supply.

As finest gold is ever moulded best:

Or as a cannon on some festive day,

When sea and sky, when winds and waves rejoice,

Out-booms with thunderous voice,

Bids echo speak, and all the hills obey —

So let the verse in echoing accents ring,

So proudly sing,

With intermittent wail,

The nation's dead, but sceptred King,

The glory of the Gael.