Dark is the tomb, yet holdeth but one fear
In all its chill and silent majesty,
Lest I should lie divorced from all held dear
An exile yet—and ever still to be.
I never trod upon a foreign shore
But in my heart a flitting shade would rise
To whisper ‘Haste, else thou return no more,
Who could not rest save under native skies.’
Nor do I look in envy on the stone
That tells, with all the luxury of art,
The fame of one who many virtues own,
Rich still in death he lies elect, apart.
By Dublin hills with purple heath aflame,
Where once I played glad 'neath soft Irish skies;
By those proud tombs that bear a patriot's name
I could sleep well—near where O'Leary lies.