Dark Is The Tomb

Dark is the tomb, yet holdeth but one fear In all its chill and silent majesty, Lest I should lie divorced from all held dear An exile yet—and ever still to be. I never trod upon a foreign shore But in my heart a flitting shade would rise To whisper ‘Haste, else thou return no more, Who could not rest save under native skies.’ Nor do I look in envy on the stone That tells, with all the luxury of art, The fame of one who many virtues own, Rich still in death he lies elect, apart. By Dublin hills with purple heath aflame, Where once I played glad 'neath soft Irish skies; By those proud tombs that bear a patriot's name I could sleep well—near where O'Leary lies.