In rapt, roused Erin, who does not behold

A Venus, rising from the sea of tears,

Up to her native, Earth-illuming spheres?

Her hair, long matted, is a flow of gold

Which even the Sun might wear and feel not cold;

And, oh, her heavenly smile at doubts and fears,

As when she, at all depths, raised to her ears,

Shells of her Glory, murmuring, "Be bold!"

Lo! where the green and orange morn unfurls,

See Erin rise. How shine her golden tresses!

They form her crown, for trailing rocks down whirls,

And reaching all the under-sea recesses,

They draw about her brow, the rarest pearls—

Love for what frees and hate for what oppresses!