 | The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves |  |
143
THE EXILES
O! if for ev'ry tender tear
That from our aching exiled eyes
Has fallen for you, Erin dear,
Our own loved Shamrocks could arise,
They'd weave and weave a garland green,
To stretch the cruel ocean through,
All, all the weary way between
Our yearning Irish hearts and you.
That from our aching exiled eyes
Has fallen for you, Erin dear,
Our own loved Shamrocks could arise,
They'd weave and weave a garland green,
To stretch the cruel ocean through,
All, all the weary way between
Our yearning Irish hearts and you.
And oh! if ev'ry patriot prayer,
Put forth for your sad sake to God,
Could in one cloud of incense rare
Be lifted o'er your lovely sod,
That cloud would curtain all the skies
That far and near your fairness cope,
Until upon its arch of sighs
There beamed Heav'ns rainbow smile of hope.
Put forth for your sad sake to God,
Could in one cloud of incense rare
Be lifted o'er your lovely sod,
That cloud would curtain all the skies
That far and near your fairness cope,
Until upon its arch of sighs
There beamed Heav'ns rainbow smile of hope.
| The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves | |