From where the loops of the Shannon flow, And the crosses gleam in the even-glow, And the halls of Tara now are low. And Donegal cliffs are sheer.
And never a word does one man speak,
Each in his narrow bed, F'or this is the Vale of Long Release, This is the Vale of the Lasting Peace, Where wars, and the rumors of wars, shall cease,
The valley of the dead.
No more are they than the scattered scud,
No more than broken reeds. No more than shards or shattered glass, Than dust blown down the winds that pass, Than trampled wefts of pampas-grass
When the wild herd stampedes.
In the dusk of death they laid them down
With naught of murmuring, And laughter rings through the House of Mirth To hear the vaunt of the high of birth. For what are all the kings of earth
Before the one great King !
And what shall these proud war-lords say At foot of His mighty throne?
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