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SONNET.

SARSFIELD AND CLARE.

Silent they slumber in the unwholesome shade:
And why lament them? Virtue too can die:
Old wisdom labours in extremity;
And greatness stands aghast, and cries for aid
Full often: aye, and honour grows dismayed;
And all those eagle hopes so pure and high

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Which soar aloft in youth's unclouded sky
Drop dustward, self-subverted, self-betrayed.
Call it not joy to walk the immortal floor
Of this exulting earth, nor peace to lie
Where the thronged marbles awe the passer by:
True rest is this; the task, the mission o'er,
To bide God's time and man's neglect to bear—
Hail, loyal Sarsfield! Hail, high-hearted Clare!