Traverse not the globe for lore! The sternest But the surest teacher is the heart; Studying that and that alone, thou learnest Best and soonest whenc… - James Clarence Mangan

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.

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!

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.