Thomas MacDonagh (Томас Макдона)
To James Clarence Mangan
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.
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