In Merrion, by Eblana’s bay,
They sleep beneath a spreading tree;
No voices from the public way
Shall break their deep tranquillity.
Clontarf may bloom, and gloomy Howth
Behold the white sail passing by,
But never shall the spring-time growth
Or stately bark delight their eye.
Clontarf may live, a magic name,
To call up recollections dear--
But never shall great Brian’s fame
Delight the sleeper’s heedless ear.
They fell, ere reason’s dawn arose--
They, sinless, felt affliction’s rod;
Oh, who can tell their wordless woes
Before they reached the throne of God?
What being o’er the cradle leans,
Where innocence in anguish lies;
Writhing in its untold pains--
That feels not awful thoughts arise!
’Tis dreadful eloquence to all
Whose hearts are not of marble stone--
Such eloquence as could not fall
E’en from the tongue of Massillon.
Their ills are o’er--a father’s cares--
A mother’s throes--a mother’s fears--
A wily world with all its snares,
Shall ne’er begloom their joyless years.
They sleep in Merrion by the bay,
From passions, care, and sorrow free;
No voices from the public way
Shall break their deep tranquillity.