The pillar towers of Ireland, how wondrously they stand By the lakes and rushing rivers through the valleys of our land; In mystic file, through the … - Denis Florence MacCarthy

The cherished traditions of a people, however extravagant they may appear, are in every instance valuable sources of information. No matter what amount of error may have been heaped upon them in their downward course through ages—no matter what incrustations may have formed around them—still like the statue in the block of marble the original form of truth is there, and requires only the discriminating hands of the historian to reveal.

Youth’s bright palace Is overthrown,
With its diamond sceptre And golden throne; As a time-worn stone
Its turrets are humbled—
All hath crumbled But grief alone!Whither, O whither Have fled away
The dreams and hopes Of my early day? Ruin’d and grey
Are the towers I builded;
And the beams that gilded— Ah, where are they?Once this world Was fresh and bright,
With its golden noon And its starry night: Glad and light,
By mountain and river,
Have I bless’d the Giver With hush’d delight.Youth’s illusions One by one
Have pass’d like clouds That the sun look’d on. While morning shone,
How purple their fringes!
How ashy their tinges When that was gone!As fire-flies fade When the nights are damp—
As meteors are quench’d In a stagnant swamp— Thus Charlemagne’s camp
Where the Paladins rally,
And the Diamond valley, And the Wonderful Lamp,And all the wonders Of Ganges and Nile,
And Haroun’s rambles, And Crusoe’s isle, And Princes who smile
On the Genii’s daughters
’Neath the Orient waters Full many a mile,And all that the pen Of Fancy can write
Must vanish in manhood’s Misty light; Squire and Knight,
And damosel’s glances,
Sunny romances, So pure and bright!These have vanish’d, And what remains?
Life’s budding garlands Have turn’d to chains— Its beams and rains
Feed but docks and thistles,
And sorrow whistles O’er desert plains.