Veil not thy mirror, sweet Amine, Till night shall also veil each star! Thou seest a twofold marvel there: The only face so fair as thine, The only e… - James Clarence Mangan

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 fair hills of Eiré, O!
In that land so delightful the wild thrush’s lay,
Seems to pour a lament forth for Eiré’s decay.
Alas, alas! why pine I a thousand miles away
From the fair hills of Eiré, O!The soil is rich and soft, the air is mild and bland,
Of the fair hills of Eiré, O!
Her barest rock is greener to me than this rude land;
O the fair hills of Eiré, O!
Her woods are tall and straight, grove rising over grove;
Trees flourish in her glens below and on her heights above;
Ah, in heart and in soul I shall ever, ever love
The fair hills of Eiré, O!A noble tribe, moreover, are the now hapless Gael,
On the fair hills of Eiré, O!
A tribe in battle’s hour unused to shrink or fail
On the fair hills of Eiré, O!
For this is my lament in bitterness outpour’d
To see them slain or scatter’d by the Saxon sword:
O woe of woes to see a foreign spoiler horde
On the fair hills of Eiré, O!Broad and tall rise the cruachs in the golden morning glow
On the fair hills of Eiré, O!
O’er her smooth grass for ever sweet cream and honey flow,
On the fair hills of Eiré, O!
Oh, I long, I am pining, again to behold
The land that belongs to the brave Gael of old.
Far dearer to my heart than a gift of gems or gold
Are the fair hills of Eiré, O!The dewdrops lie bright mid the grass and yellow corn
On the fair hills of Eiré, O!
The sweet-scented apples blush redly in the morn
On the fair hills of Eiré, O!
The water-cress and sorrel fill the vales below,
The streamlets are hush’d till the evening breezes blow,
While the waves of the Suir, noble river! ever flow
Neath the fair hills of Eiré, O!A fruitful clime is Eiré’s, through valley, meadow, plain,
And the fair hills of Eiré, O!
The very bread of life is in the yellow grain
On the fair hills of Eiré, O!
Far dearer unto me than the tones music yields
Is the lowing of the kine and the calves in her fields,
In the sunlight that shone long ago on the shields
Of the Gaels, on the fair hills of Eiré, O!

In Siberia’s wastes The ice-wind’s breath Woundeth like the toothèd steel; Lost Siberia doth reveal Only blight and death.Blight and death alone. No Summer shines.
Night is interblent with Day.
In Siberia’s wastes alway The blood blackens, the heart pines.In Siberia’s wastes No tears are shed,
For they freeze within the brain.
Naught is felt but dullest pain, Pain acute, yet dead;Pain as in a dream, When years go by
Funeral-paced, yet fugitive,
When man lives, and doth not live, Doth not live—nor die.In Siberia’s wastes Are sands and rocks.
Nothing blooms of green or soft,
But the snow-peaks rise aloft And the gaunt ice-blocks.And the exile there Is one with those;
They are part, and he is part,
For the sands are in his heart, And the killing snows.Therefore, in those wastes None curse the Czar.
Each man’s tongue is cloven by
The North Blast, who heweth nigh With sharp scymitar.And such doom each drees, Till, hunger-gnawn,
And cold-slain, he at length sinks there,
Yet scarce more a corpse than ere His last breath was drawn.

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!