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AN GAOḊAL.
Which sin cast o'er their future doom
6
From out the darkness of the shroud,
Which veiled the world's eternal birth,
Came forth a voice that pierc'd the cloud
Shadowing his descent on earth,
Of woman born doomed to tread
And crush the wily serpent's head.
7
The bush that fixed the prophet's gaze,
When in Egypt Israel groan'd,
Remained intact amid the blaze —
Nor its fierceness felt or owned,
Bright types of her whose spotless soul
Had never known the fiend’s control.
8
The garden closed, the secret bowers
Impervious all to mortal eye,
The fountain sealed, the lovely flowers
Of richest fragrance fairest dye,
All but emblems, yet how faint,
Of her, whom sin could never taint.
9
Since the Ephesian trumpets rolled,
God's mother glories thro' each clime,
No bells from church’s roof e’er tolled
To waft o'er earth a sweeter chime
Than that to her on this day given,
Lifting up the soul to heaven.
10
Hail thou to whom God's angel bright
Brought down the tidings from the skies
That, full of grace and heavenly light,
Thou wert all lovely in his eyes;
Hail thou of all God made the best,
His virgin mother ever blessed.
11
When in this darksome vale of tears
Our weary pilgrim days are run,
When death's approach awakes our fears
Do thou, sweet virgin, with thy Son,
Plead and show forth thy gracious power
And light our passage at that hour.
The greatest scoffers and ridiculers of everything
Irish in America are the English-educated children
of well-to-do ignorant Irish parents.
Gaels will be pleased to learn of the recovery of
his health and strength by their venerable brother,
Mr. John Fleming.
Those looking for Irish Books should apply to the
Irish Printer, Mr. P. O’Brien. 46 Cuffe St. Dublin
The following poetical address was composed by
a Donegal student in the Irish College, Rome, and
formed a part of the exercises on the occasion of the
reception and congratulations tendered to His Emi¬
nence Cardinal Logue on his promtion to the Red
Hat.
DO ṀIĊEÁL,
Árdeaspog Árdmaċa,
Cairdineál Eagluise Naoiṁ Róṁánaiġ
In Éirinn a's in seo tá gáirdeaċas an
diú,
Agus buiḋeaċas d'a ṫaḃairt d'ár b¬
Pápa mór
Le 'n onóir do ṫug sé d'ár Easpog
cóir
D'a árduġaḋ do 'n dearg a ḃ-fuil sé
fiú.
Buḋ ceart 's buḋ suḃaċ le leoṁan na
treoir'
Gráḋ Creidim 's tíre adṁáil gan
maoiḋeaṁ,
'S an dís do h-onóraḋ le ceudna
gníoṁ,
A's an te ḃ-fuilid aige le ċo h-árd an
ġlóir.
Ní do 'n Eaglais aṁáin atá an Pápa
fial —
Giḋ naoṁ a's eagnaċ tá 's againn
gur é —
Aċt do Éire uile, air son an dóċuis
glé
Le 'r ċongḃaiġ sí Creideaṁ Ṗádraig i
riaṁ;
'S as ár g-croiḋtiḃ guiḋmíd go ċo ġeal
an spré
I g-coṁnuiḋe go g-congḃóċaiḋ sí le
beannaċt Dé.
A. Mc D.
Dún-na-Gall
Colláiste Éireannaċ
Róiṁe, 15-2-'93.
Were we president of the United States what a lot
of subscriptions we should receive, accompanied by
heart-rending missives of sympathy for “The Dear
Old Tongue ! " and —
Every Irishman should assist in the preserva¬
tion of his native language; if he say he loves his
native land and despise her language, he lies —
