Classic Poem

Ere the long roll of the ages end
—And the days of time are done,
The Lord shall unto Erin send
—His own appointed One,
Whose soul must wait the hour of Fate,
—His name be known to none;
But his feet shall stand on the Irish land
—In the rising of the sun.

In darkness of our captive night,
—Whilst storms the watch-tower shake,
Some shall not sleep, but vigil keep
—Until the morning break;
Until through clouds of threatening hate,
—The seas of sorrow o'er,
The first red beam of the sun-burst gleam
—Illumines Erin's shore.

Oh! perfect, pure, exalted One,
—For whom in prayer we wait,
Of Irish-born thou happiest son
—And noblest of the great;
As night to noon goes swift and soon,
—May years now roll away
And bring the hour of thy conquering power
—And the dawning of the day!