A story I heard on the cliffs of the west, That oft, through the breakers dividing, A city is seen on the ocean's wild breast In turreted majesty riding. But brief is the glimpse of that phantom so bright, Soon close the white waters to screen it; And the bodement, they say, of the wonderful sight, Is death to the eyes that have seen it. I said, when they told me the wonderful tale, My country, is this not thy story? Thus oft through the breakers of discord we hail A promise of peace and of glory. Soon gulphed in those waters of hatred again No longer our fancy can find it, And woe to our hearts for the vision so vain, For ruin and death come behind it.
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Published in 1998 by Dennis McCarthy
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