To a Lady, with the Author's Sonnets Entitled "The Purple East"
Daughter of Ireland — O, be it rather said,
Daughter of Ireland's beauty, Ireland's grace,
Child of her charm, of her romance; whose face
Is legendary with her glories fled!
The shadow of her living griefs and dead
I pray you to put by, a little space,
And mourn with me an ancient Orient race
Outcast and doomed and disinherited.
Though Wrong be strong, with great thrones built on crimes,
To know you is at least to doubt no more
That in the world are mightier powers than these;
Nay, that Truth's ocean gains on Falsehood's shore;
And that deformity and hate are Time's,
And love and loveliness Eternity's.
Daughter of Ireland's beauty, Ireland's grace,
Child of her charm, of her romance; whose face
Is legendary with her glories fled!
The shadow of her living griefs and dead
I pray you to put by, a little space,
And mourn with me an ancient Orient race
Outcast and doomed and disinherited.
Though Wrong be strong, with great thrones built on crimes,
To know you is at least to doubt no more
That in the world are mightier powers than these;
Nay, that Truth's ocean gains on Falsehood's shore;
And that deformity and hate are Time's,
And love and loveliness Eternity's.
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