X A MEMORY OF IRELAND

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Where the saints of Holy Ireland sleep
No chancels pen them round,
But the waving trees their vigils keep
Above each verdant mound.

Here they climbed no lofty marble beds
To find a frigid rest,
But a canopy of golden threads
Hangs o’er them in the west.

When the larks have ceased their thankful hymn,
The ocean booms his bell,
And the lamps of heaven swing o’er the rim
Of every holy well.

May the Lord bring back that race of men
Whom charity enticed
To desert the world for some poor glen
And give the people Christ.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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