Poor splendid Poet of the burning eyes
And withered hair and godly pallid brow,
Low-voiced and shrinking and apart wert thou,
And little men thy dreaming could despise.
How vain, how vain the laughter of the wise!
Before thy Folly's throne their children bow--
For lo! thy deathless spirit triumphs now,
And mortal wrongs and envious Time defies.

And all their prate of frailty : thou didst stand
The barren virtue of their lives above,
And above lures of fame ;-- though to thy hand
All strings of music throbbed, thy single love
Was, in high trust, to hymn thy Gaelic land
And passionate proud woes of Roisin Dubh.