How oft, when the summer sun rested on Clara,

And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera,

Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the ocean,

And trod all thy wilds with a Minstrel's devotion,

And thought of thy bards, when assembling together,

In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depth of thy heather,

They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter,

And waked their last song by the rush of thy water.

High sons of the lyre, oh! how proud was the feeling,

To think while alone through that solitude stealing,

Though loftier Minstrels green Erin can number,

I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber,

And mingled once more with the voice of those fountains,

The song's even echo forgot on her mountains,

And gleaned each gray legend, that darkly was sleeping

Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty was creeping.

Least bard of the hills! were it mine to inherit

The fire of thy harp, and the wing of thy spirit,

With the wrongs which like thee to our country has bound me;

Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around me,

Still, still in those wilds may young liberty rally,

And send her strong shout over mountain and valley,

The star of the west may yet rise in its glory,

And the land that was darkest, be brightest in story.

I too shall be gone; but my name shall be spoken

When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken;

Some Minstrel will come, in the summer eve's gleaming,

When Freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming,

And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion,

Where calm Avon Buee seeks the kisses of ocean,