The Shannon

River of billows, to whose mighty heart
The tide-wave rushes of the Atlantic sea ;
River of quiet depths, by cultured lea,
Romantic wood, or city's crowded mart ;
River of old poetic founts, that start
From their lone mountain-cradles, wild and free,
Nursed with the fawns, lulled by the woodlark's glee,
And cushat's hymeneal song apart :
River of chieftains, whose baronial halls,
Like veteran warders, watch each wave-worn steep,
Portrunna's towers, Bunratty's royal walls,
Carrick's stern rock, the Geraldine's grey keep —
River of dark mementoes ! must I close
My lips with Limerick's wrong, with Aughrim's woes ?