Take a blessing from my heart to the land of my birth, And the fair hills of Eiré, O! And to all that yet survive of Eibhear’s tribe on earth, On the… - James Clarence Mangan

O my Dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep!
The priests are on the ocean green, They march along the deep.
There’s wine from the royal Pope, Upon the ocean green;
And Spanish ale shall give you hope, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen!
Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,
Shall give you health, and help, and hope, My Dark Rosaleen!Over hills, and thro’ dales, Have I roam’d for your sake;
All yesterday I sail’d with sails On river and on lake.
The Erne, at its highest flood, I dash’d across unseen,
For there was lightning in my blood, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen!
O, there was lightning in my blood,
Red lightning lighten’d thro’ my blood, My Dark Rosaleen!All day long, in unrest, To and fro do I move.
The very soul within my breast Is wasted for you, love!
The heart in my bosom faints To think of you, my Queen,
My life of life, my saint of saints, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen!
To hear your sweet and sad complaints,
My life, my love, my saint of saints, My Dark Rosaleen!Woe and pain, pain and woe, Are my lot, night and noon,
To see your bright face clouded so, Like to the mournful moon.
But yet will I rear your throne Again in golden sheen;
’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen!
’Tis you shall have the golden throne,
’Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, My Dark Rosaleen!Over dews, over sands, Will I fly, for your weal:
Your holy delicate white hands Shall girdle me with steel.
At home, in your emerald bowers, From morning’s dawn till e’en,
You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers, My Dark Rosaleen! My fond Rosaleen!
You’ll think of me thro’ daylight hours,
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, My Dark Rosaleen!I could scale the blue air, I could plough the high hills,
O, I could kneel all night in prayer, To heal your many ills!
And one beamy smile from you Would float like light between
My toils and me, my own, my true, My Dark Rosaleen! My fond Rosaleen!
Would give me life and soul anew,
A second life, a soul anew, My Dark Rosaleen!O, the Erne shall run red, With redundance of blood,
The earth shall rock beneath our tread, And flames wrap hill and wood,
And gun-peal and slogan-cry Wake many a glen serene,
Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen!
The Judgement Hour must first be nigh,
Ere you can fade, ere you can die, My Dark Rosaleen!

Roll forth, my song, like the rushing river, That sweeps along to the mighty sea;
God will inspire me while I deliver My soul of thee!Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whitening Amid the last homes of youth and eld,
That once there was one whose veins ran lightning No eye beheld.Tell how his boyhood was one drear night-hour, How shone for him, through his griefs and gloom,
No star of all heaven sends to light our Path to the tomb.Roll on, my song, and to after ages Tell how, disdaining all earth can give,
He would have taught men, from wisdom’s pages, The way to live.And tell how trampled, derided, hated, And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong,
He fled for shelter to God, who mated His soul with song.—With song which alway, sublime or vapid, Flow’d like a rill in the morning beam,
Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid: A mountain stream.Tell how this Nameless, condemn’d for years long To herd with demons from hell beneath,
Saw things that made him, with groans and tears, long For even death.Go on to tell how, with genius wasted, Betray’d in friendship, befool’d in love,
With spirit shipwreck’d, and young hopes blasted, He still, still strove;Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others (And some whose hands should have wrought for him,
If children live not for sires and mothers), His mind grew dim;And he fell far through that pit abysmal, The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns,
And pawn’d his soul for the devil’s dismal Stock of returns.But yet redeem’d it in days of darkness, And shapes and signs of the final wrath,
When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness, Stood on his path.And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow, And want, and sickness, and houseless nights,
He bides in calmness the silent morrow, That no ray lights.And lives he still, then? Yes! Old and hoary At thirty-nine, from despair and woe,
He lives, enduring what future story Will never know.Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble, Deep in your bosoms: there let him dwell!
He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble, Here and in hell.

Solomon, where is thy throne? It is gone in the wind.
Babylon, where is thy might? It is gone in the wind.
Like the swift shadows of noon, like the dreams of the blind,
Vanish the glories and pomps of the earth in the wind.Man, canst thou build upon aught in the pride of thy mind?
Wisdom will teach thee that nothing can tarry behind:
Tho’ there be thousand bright actions embalm’d and enshrined,
Myriads and millions of brighter are snow in the wind.Solomon, where is thy throne? It is gone in the wind.
Babylon, where is thy might? It is gone in the wind.
All that the genius of man hath achieved or design’d
Waits but its hour to be dealt with as dust by the wind.Say what is pleasure? A phantom, a mask undefined:
Science? An almond whereof we can pierce but the rind:
Honour and affluence? Firmans that Fortune hath sign’d,
Only to glitter and pass on the wings of the wind.Solomon, where is thy throne? It is gone in the wind.
Babylon, where is thy might? It is gone in the wind.
Who is the fortunate? He who in anguish hath pined!
He shall rejoice when his relics are dust in the wind.Mortal, be careful with what thy best hopes are entwined:
Woe to the miners for Truth, where the lampless have mined!
Woe to the seekers on earth for what none ever find!
They and their trust shall be scatter’d like leaves to the wind!Solomon, where is thy throne? It is gone in the wind.
Babylon, where is thy might? It is gone in the wind.
Happy in death are they only whose hearts have consign’d
All earth’s affections and longings and cares to the wind.Pity thou, reader, the madness of poor humankind
Raving of knowledge—and Satan so busy to blind!
Raving of glory, like me; for the garlands I bind,
Garlands of song, are but gather’d—and strewn in the wind.Solomon, where is thy throne? It is gone in the wind.
Babylon, where is thy might? It is gone in the wind.
I, Abul-Namez, must rest; for my fire is declined,
And I hear voices from Hades like bells on the wind.