Sing not that violet-veined skin,
That cheek's pale roses,
The lily of that form wherein
Her soul reposes!
Forth to the fight, true man! true knight!
The clash of arms
Shall more prevail than whisper'd tale,
To win her charms.
The Warrior for the True, the Right,
Fights in Love's name;
The love that lures thee from that flight
Lures thee to shame:
That love which lifts the heart, yet leaves
The spirit free,—
That love, or none, is fit for one
Man-shap'd like thee.
THE SONS OF PATRICK
By James B. Dollard
Into the mists of the Pagan island
Bearing God's message great Patrick came;
The Druid altars on plain and highland
Fell at the sound of his mighty name!
Swift was the conquest—with hearts upswelling
The Faith they took, and to God they swore:
That precious spark from their bosoms' dwelling,
Man's guile or torture should snatch no more.
