881. Ireland

‘TWAS the dream of a God,
And the mould of His hand,
That you shook ‘neath His stroke,
That you trembled and broke
To this beautiful land.	5

Here He loosed from His hold
A brown tumult of wings,
Till the wind on the sea
Bore the strange melody
Of an island that sings.	10

He made you all fair,
You in purple and gold,
You in silver and green,
Till no eye that has seen
Without love can behold.	15

I have left you behind
In the path of the past,
With the white breath of flowers,
With the best of God’s hours,
I have left you at last.	20