I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses,
All day, the commotion of sinewy mane-tossing horses;
All night from their cells the importunate tramping and neighing,
Cowards and laggards fall back but alert to the saddle,
Straight, grim, and abreast, vault our weather-worn galloping legion,
With a stirrup cup each to the one gracious woman that loves him.
The road is thro’ dolour and dread, over crags and morasses!
There are shapes by the way, there are things that appall or entice us!
What odds! We are knights, and our souls are but bent on the riding!
I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses,
All day, the commotion of sinewy, mane-tossing horses;
All night from their cells the importunate tramping and neighing,
We spur to a land of no name, outracing the storm wind;
We leap to the infinite dark, like the sparks from the anvil,
Thou leadest! O God! All’s well with thy troopers that follow.
It was only natural that the daughter of an Irish patriot should
sing of her father’s land, and that in a style racy of that land.
It was a hazardous experiment, as many an Irish American singer has
learned in sorrow. That Miss Guiney has come out of the trying ordeal
successfully, may be seen in the following little snatch, full of the
aroma of green Erin: