  I’ll seek a four-leaved Shamrock in all the fairy dells, And if I find the charmed leaves, oh, how I’ll weave my spells! I would not waste my magic mite on diamond, pearl, or gold, For treasure tires the weary sense—such triumph is but cold; But I would play th’ enchanter’s part in casting bliss around— Oh, not a tear, nor aching heart, should in the world be found. To worth I would give honor!—I’d dry the mourner’s tears, And to the pallid lip recall the smile of happier years, And hearts that had been long estranged, and friends that had grown cold, Should meet again—like parted streams—and mingle as of old! Oh! thus I’d play th’ enchanter’s part, thus scatter bliss around, And not a tear, nor aching heart, should in the world be found! The heart that had been mourning, o’er vanished dreams of love, Should see them all returning—like Noah’s faithful dove; And Hope should launch her blessed bark on Sorrow’s darkening sea, And Misery’s children have an ark and saved from sinking be. Oh! thus I’d play th’ enchanter’s part, thus scatter bliss around, And not a tear, nor aching heart, should in the world be found! —Samuel Lover. Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again,— The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, And dies among his worshippers. |
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