Poem by William Hamilton Drummond

Ode to the Hill of Howth

HOW sweet from proud Ben-Edir’s height,
To see the ocean roll in light;
And fleets swift-bounding in the gale,
With warriors clothed in shining mail!

Fair hill, on thee great Finn of old
Was wont his counsels sage to hold;
On thee rich bowls the Fenians crowned,
And passed the foaming beverage round.

’T was thine within a sea-washed cave
To hide and shelter Duivne brave,
When, snared by Grace’s charms divine,
He bore her o’er the raging brine.

Fair hill, thy slopes are ever seen
Bedecked with flowers or robed in green;
Thy nut-groves rustle o’er the deep,
And forests crown thy cliff-girt steep.

High from thy russet peaks ’t is sweet
To see the embattled war-ships meet;
To hear the crash, the shout, the roar
Of cannon, through the caverned shore.

Most beauteous hill, around whose head
Ten thousand sea-birds’ pinions spread,
May joy thy lord’s true bosom thrill,
Chief of the Fenians’ happy hill!

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