River of billows, to whose mighty heart
The tide-wave rushes of the Atlantic sea;
River of quiet depths, by cultured lea,
Romantic wood, or city’s crowded mart;
River of old poetic founts, which start
From their lone mountain-cradles, wild and free,
Nursed with the fawns, lulled by the woodlark’s glee,
And cushat’s hymeneal song apart:
River of chieftains, whose baronial halls,
Like veteran warders, watch each wave-worn steep,
Portumna’s towers, Bunratty’s royal walls,
Carrick’s stern rock, the Geraldine’s gray keep,—
River of dark mementos! must I close
My lips with Limerick’s wrong, with Anghrim’s woes?