Poems (1871?): a machine-readable transcription

Wilde, Lady Jane (1826-1896)

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July 31, 1996

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Victorian Women Writers Project: an Electronic Collection

Perry Willett, General Editor.

Poems

by Wilde, Lady Jane
Second Edition. 181 p.
Cameron & Ferguson
Glasgow
1871?

        The transcribed copy is from the Research Collections, Indiana University.


        All poems occur as DIV0. Sonnets are attributed as "type=sonnets"; the rest are "type=poem". All quotation marks, hyphens, dashes, apostrophes and colons have been transcribed as entity references. All <lg> (line groups) are attributed as cantos, stanzas, couplets, verse paragraphs, etc. All poems with regularly indented lines use the attribute "rend" in the <l> tag, with the value "indent1" for one tab stop, "indent2" for two tab stops, etc. All split lines are attributed as "type=i" for the initial portion, and "type=f" for the final portion.


        All apostrophes and single right quotation marks are encoded as &rsquo;.


        Any hyphens occurring in line breaks have been removed; all hyphens are encoded as &hyphen; and em dashes as &mdash;.


        The publisher's advertisement, beginning after p. 181, has been omitted.

(frontis)

        


        Pictorial representation of Speranza (Lady Wilde). Painted by Bernard Mulrenin, R.H.A. Engraved by Wm. Oldham.


        

Poems

by

Speranza (Lady Wilde)

Second Edition Glasgow:
Cameron & Ferguson,

88 to 94 West Nile Street.
London:


12 Ave Maria Lane.
Page iii

(dedication)
    

DEDICATION.

      

To Ireland.

    

I.


MY COUNTRY, wounded to the heart,
    Could I but flash along thy soul
Electric power to rive apart
    The thunder-clouds that round thee roll,
And, by my burning words, uplift
Thy life from out Death's icy drift,
Till the full splendours of our age
Shone round thee for thy heritage--
As Miriam's, by the Red Sea strand
Clashing proud cymbals, so my hand
        Would strike thy harp,
        Loved Ireland!

    

II.


She flung her triumphs to the stars
    In glorious chants for freedom won,
While over Pharaoh's gilded cars
    The fierce, death-bearing waves rolled on;
I can but look in God's great face,
And pray Him for our fated race,
To come in Sinai thunders down,
And, with His mystic radiance, crown
Some Prophet-Leader, with command
To break the strength of Egypt's band,
        And set thee free,
        Loved Ireland!
Page iv

    

III.


New energies, from higher source,
    Must make the strong life-currents flow,
As Alpine glaciers in their course
    Stir the deep torrents 'neath the snow.
The woman's voice dies in the strife
Of Liberty's awakening life;
We wait the hero heart to lead,
The hero, who can guide at need,
And strike with bolder, stronger hand,
Though towering hosts his path withstand
        Thy golden harp,
        Loved Ireland!

    

IV.


For I can breathe no trumpet call,
    To make the slumb'ring Soul arise;
I only lift the funeral-pall,
    That so God's light might touch thine eyes,
And ring the silver prayer-bell clear,
To rouse thee from thy trance of fear;
Yet, if thy mighty heart has stirred,
Even with one pulse-throb at my word,
Then not in vain my woman's hand
Has struck thy gold harp while I stand,
        Waiting thy rise
        Loved Ireland!

Page v

(contents)
    

CONTENTS.

Page 7

    

POEMS.

    

THE BROTHERS.

      

A SCENE FROM '98.


                    "Oh! give me truths,
For I am weary of the surfaces,
And die of inanition." --EMERSON.

    

I.


'TIS midnight, falls the lamp-light dull and sickly,
    On a pale and anxious crowd,
Through the court, and round the judges, thronging thickly,
    With prayers none dare to speak aloud.
Two youths, two noble youths, stand prisoners at the bar--
    You can see them through the gloom--
In pride of life and manhood's beauty, there they are
    Awaiting their death doom.

    

II.


All eyes an earnest watch on them are keeping,
    Some, sobbing, turn away,
And the strongest men can hardly see for weeping,
    So noble and so loved were they.
Their hands are locked together, those young brothers,
    As before the judge they stand--
They feel not the deep grief that moves the others,
    For they die for Fatherland.
Page 8

    

III.


They are pale, but it is not fear that whitens
    On each proud, high brow,
For the triumph of the martyr's glory brightens
    Around them even now.
They sought to free their land from thrall of stranger;
    Was it treason? Let them die;
But their blood will cry to Heaven--the Avenger
    Yet will hearken from on high.

    

IV.


Before them, shrinking, cowering, scarcely human,
    The base informer bends,
Who, Judas-like, could sell the blood of true men,
    While he clasped their hands as friends.
Aye, could fondle the young children of his victim,
    Break bread with his young wife,
At the moment that for gold his perjured dictum
    Sold the husband and the father's life.

    

V.


There is silence in the midnight--eyes are keeping
    Troubled watch till forth the jury come;
There is silence in the midnight--eyes are weeping--
    "Guilty!"--is the fatal uttered doom.
For a moment o'er the brothers' noble faces
    Came a shadow sad to see;
Then silently they rose up in their places,
    And embraced each other fervently.

    

VI.


Oh! the rudest heart might tremble at such sorrow,
    The rudest cheek might blanch at such a scene:
Twice the judge essayed to speak the word--to-morrow--
    Twice faltered, as a woman he had been.
To-morrow!--Fain the elder would have spoken,
    Prayed for respite, tho' it is not death he fears;
But thoughts of home and wife his heart hath broken,
    And his words are stopped by tears.
Page 9

    

VII.


But the youngest--oh, he spake out bold and clearly:--
    "I have no ties of children or of wife;
Let me die--but spare the brother who more dearly
    Is loved by me than life."
Pale martyrs, ye may cease, your days are numbered;
    Next noon your sun of life goes down;
One day between the sentence and the scaffold--
    One day between the torture and the crown!

    

VIII.


A hymn of joy is rising from creation;
    Bright the azure of the glorious summer sky;
But human hearts weep sore in lamentation,
    For the Brothers are led forth to die.
Aye, guard them with your cannon and your lances--
    So of old came martyrs to the stake;
Aye, guard them--see the people's flashing glances,
    For those noble two are dying for their sake.

    

IX.


Yet none spring forth their bonds to sever
    Ah! methinks, had I been there,
I'd have dared a thousand deaths ere ever
    The sword should touch their hair.
It falls!--there is a shriek of lamentation
    From the weeping crowd around;
They're stilled--the noblest hearts within the nation--
    The noblest heads lie bleeding on the ground.

    

X.


Years have passed since that fatal scene of dying,
    Yet, lifelike to this day,
In their coffins still those severed heads are lying,
    Kept by angels from decay.
Oh! they preach to us, those still and pallid features--
    Those pale lips yet implore us, from their graves,
To strive for our birthright as God's creatures,
    Or die, if we can but live as slaves.

Page 10

    

THE FAMINE YEAR.

    

I.


WEARY men, what reap ye?--Golden corn for the stranger.
What sow ye?--Human corses that wait for the avenger.
Fainting forms, hunger-stricken, what see you in the offing?
Stately ships to bear our food away, amid the stranger's scoffing.
There's a proud array of soldiers--what do they round your door?
They guard our masters' granaries from the thin hands of the poor.
Pale mothers, wherefore weeping?--Would to God that we were dead--
Our children swoon before us, and we cannot give them bread.

    

II.


Little children, tears are strange upon your infant faces,
God meant you but to smile within your mother's soft embraces.
Oh! we know not what is smiling, and we know not what is dying;
But we're hungry, very hungry, and we cannot stop our crying.
And some of us grow cold and white--we know not what it means;
But, as they lie beside us, we tremble in our dreams.
There's a gaunt crowd on the highway--are ye come to pray to man,
With hollow eyes that cannot weep, and for words your faces wan?

    

III.


No; the blood is dead within our veins--we care not now for life;
Let us die hid in the ditches, far from children and from wife;
Page 11


We cannot stay and listen to their raving, famished cries--
Bread! Bread! Bread! and none to still their agonies.
We left our infants playing with their dead mother's hand:
We left our maidens maddened by the fever's scorching brand:
Better, maiden, thou were strangled in thy own dark-twisted tresses--
Better, infant, thou wert smothered in thy mother's first caresses.

    

IV.


We are fainting in our misery, but God will hear our groan;
Yet, if fellow-men desert us, will He hearken from His Throne?
Accursed are we in our own land, yet toil we still and toil;
But the stranger reaps our harvest--the alien owns our soil.
O Christ! how have we sinned, that on our native plains
We perish houseless, naked, starved, with branded brow, like Cain's?
Dying, dying wearily, with a torture sure and slow--
Dying, as a dog would die, by the wayside as we go.

    

V.


One by one they're falling round us, their pale faces to the sky;
We've no strength left to dig them graves--there let them lie.
The wild bird, if he's stricken, is mourned by the others,
But we--we die in Christian land--we die amid our brothers,
In the land which God has given, like a wild beast in his cave,
Without a tear, a prayer, a shroud, a coffin, or a grave.
Ha! but think ye the contortions on each livid face ye see,
Will not be read on judgment-day by eyes of Deity?
Page 12

    

VI.


We are wretches, famished, scorned, human tools to build your pride,
But God will yet take vengeance for the souls for whom Christ died.
Now is your hour of pleasure--bask ye in the world's caress;
But our whitening bones against ye will rise as witnesses,
From the cabins and the ditches, in their charred, uncoffin'd masses,
For the Angel of the Trumpet will know them as he passes.
A ghastly, spectral army, before the great God we'll stand,
And arraign ye as our murderers, the spoilers of our land.

    

THE ENIGMA.


    PALE victims, where is your Fatherland?
Where oppression is law from age to age,
Where the death-plague, and hunger, and misery rage,
And tyrants a godless warfare wage
    'Gainst the holiest rights of an ancient land.


Where the corn waves green on the fair hillside,
But each sheaf by the serfs and slavelings tied
Is taken to pamper a foreigner's pride--
    There is our suffering Fatherland.


Where broad rivers flow 'neath a glorious sky,
And the valleys like gems of emerald lie;
Yet, the young men, and strong men, starve and die,
    For want of bread in their own rich land.


And we pile up their corses, heap on heap,
While the pale mothers faint, and the children weep;
Yet, the living might envy the dead their sleep,
    So bitter is life in that mourning land.

Page 13


Oh! Heaven ne'er looked on a sadder scene;
Earth shuddered to hear that such woe had been;
Then we prayed, in despair, to a foreign queen,
    For leave to live on our own fair land.


We have wept till our faces are pale and wan;
We have knelt to a throne till our strength is gone;
We prayed to our masters, but, one by one,
    They laughed to scorn our suffering land;


And sent forth their minions, with cannon and steel,
Swearing with fierce, unholy zeal,
To trample us down with an iron heel,
    If we dared but to murmur our just demand.--
    Know ye not now our Fatherland?


    What! are there no MEN in your Fatherland,
To confront the tyrant's stormy glare,
With a scorn as deep as the wrongs ye bear,
With defiance as fierce as the oaths they sware,
With vengeance as wild as the cries of despair,
    That rise from your suffering Fatherland?


    Are there no SWORDS in your Fatherland,
To smite down the proud, insulting foe,
With the strength of despair give blow for blow
Till the blood of the baffled murderers flow
    On the trampled soil of your outraged land?


Are your right arms weak in that land of slaves,
That ye stand by your murdered brothers' graves,
Yet tremble like coward and crouching knaves,
    To strike for freedom and Fatherland?


    Oh! had ye faith in your Fatherland,
    In God, your Cause, and your own right hand,
Ye would go forth as saints to the holy fight,
Go in the strength of eternal right,
Go in the conquering Godhead's might--
    And save or AVENGE your Fatherland!

Page 14

    

THE VOICE OF THE POOR.

    

I.


WAS sorrow ever like to our sorrow?
    Oh, God above!
Will our night never change into a morrow
    Of joy and love?
A deadly gloom is on us waking, sleeping,
    Like the darkness at noontide,
That fell upon the pallid mother, weeping
    By the Crucified.

    

II.


Before us die our brothers of starvation:
    Around are cries of famine and despair
Where is hope for us, or comfort, or salvation--
    Where--oh! where?
If the angels ever hearken, downward bending,
    They are weeping, we are sure,
At the litanies of human groans ascending
    From the crushed hearts of the poor.

    

III.


When the human rests in love upon the human,
    All grief is light;
But who bends one kind glance to illumine
    Our life-long night?
The air around is ringing with their laughter--
    God has only made the rich to smile;
But we--in our rags, and want, and woe--we follow after,
    Weeping the while.

    

IV.


And the laughter seems but uttered to deride us.
    When--oh! when
Will fall the frozen barriers that divide us
    From other men?
Will ignorance for ever thus enslave us?
    Will misery for ever lay us low?
All are eager with their insults, but to save us,
    None, none, we know.
Page 15

    

V.


We never knew a childhood's mirth and gladness,
    Nor the proud heart of youth, free and brave;
Oh! a deathlike dream of wretchedness and sadness,
    Is life's weary journey to the grave.
Day by day we lower sink and lower,
    Till the Godlike soul within,
Falls crushed, beneath the fearful demon power
    Of poverty and sin.

    

VI.


So we toil on, on with fever burning
    In heart and brain;
So we toil on, on through bitter scorning,
    Want, woe, and pain:
We dare not raise our eyes to the blue heaven,
    Or the toil must cease--
We dare not breathe the fresh air God has given
    One hour in peace.

    

VII.


We must toil, though the light of life is burning,
    Oh, how dim!
We must toil on our sick bed, feebly turning
    Our eyes to Him,
Who alone can hear the pale lip faintly saying,
    With scarce moved breath
While the paler hands, uplifted, aid the praying--
    "Lord, grant us Death!"

    

A SUPPLICATION.

"De profundis clamavi ad te Domine."


BY our looks of mute despair,
By the sighs that rend the air,
From lips too faint to utter prayer,
                Kyrie Eleison.

Page 16


By the last groans of our dying,
Echoed by the cold wind's sighing
On the wayside as they're lying,
                Kyrie Eleison.


By our fever-stricken bands
Lifting up their wasted hands
For bread throughout the far-off lands,
                Kyrie Eleison.


Miserable outcasts we,
Pariahs of humanity,
Shunned by all where'er we flee,
                Kyrie Eleison.


For our dead no bell is ringing,
Round their forms no shroud is clinging,
Save the rank grass newly springing,
                Kyrie Eleison.


Golden harvests we are reaping,
With golden grain our barns heaping,
But for us our bread is weeping,
                Kyrie Eleison.


Death-devoted in our home,
Sad we cross the salt sea's foam,
But death we bring where'er we roam,
                Kyrie Eleison.


Whereso'er our steps are led,
They can track us by our dead,
Lying on their cold earth bed,
                Kyrie Eleison.


We have sinned--in vain each warning--
Brother lived his brother scorning,
Now in ashes see us mourning,
                Kyrie Eleison.


Heeding not our country's state,
Trodden down and desolate,
While we strove in senseless hate,
                Kyrie Eleison.

Page 17


We have sinned, but holier zeal
May we Christian patriots feel,
Oh! for our dear country's weal,
                Kyrie Eleison.


Let us lift our streaming eyes
To God's throne above the skies,
He will hear our anguish cries,
                Kyrie Eleison.


Kneel beside me, oh! my brother,
Let us pray each with the other,
For Ireland, our mourning mother,
                Kyrie Eleison.

    

FORESHADOWINGS.

    

I.


OREMUS! Oremus! Look down on us, Father!
Like visions of Patmos Thy last judgments gather
The angels of doom, in bright, terrible beauty,
Rise up from their thrones to fulfil their stern duty.
Woe to us, woe! the thunders have spoken,
The first of the mystical seals hath been broken.

    

II.


Through the cleft thunder-cloud the weird coursers are rushing--
Their hoofs will strike deep in the hearts they are crushing;
And the crown'd and the proud of the old kingly races
Fall down at the vision, like stars from their places:
Oremus! Oremus! The pale earth is heark'ning;
Already the spirit-steeds round us are dark'ning.

    

III.


With crown and with bow, on his white steed immortal,
The Angel of Wrath passes first through the portal;
But faces grow paler, and hush'd is earth's laughter,
When on his pale steed comes the Plague Spirit after.
Page 18


Oremus! Oremus! His poison-breath slayeth;
The red will soon fade from each bright lip that prayeth.

    

IV.


Now, with nostrils dilated and thunder hoofs crashing,
On rushes the war-steed, his lurid eyes flashing;
There is blood on the track where his long mane is streaming,
There is death where the sword of his rider is gleaming.
Woe to the lands where that red steed is flying!
There tyrants are warring, and heroes are dying.

    

V.


Oh! the golden-hair'd children reck nought but their playing,
Thro' the rich fields of corn with their young mothers straying;
And the strong-hearted men, with their muscles of iron,
What reck they of ills that their pathway environ?
There's a tramp like a knell--a cold shadow gloometh--
Woe! 'tis the black steed of Famine that cometh

    

VI.


At the breath of its rider the green earth is blasted,
And childhood's frail form droops down pallid, and wasted;
The soft sunny hair falleth dank on the arm
Of the mother, whose love shields no longer from harm:
For strength is scarce left her to weep o'er the dying,
Ere dead by the loved one the mother is lying.

    

VII.


But can we only weep, when above us thus lour
The death-bearing wings of the angels of power;
When around are the arrows of pestilence flying--
Around, the pale heaps of the famine-struck lying
--No, brother of sorrow, when life's light is weakest,
Look up, it is nigh the redemption thou seekest.

    

VIII.


Still WORK, though the tramp of the weird spirit-horses,
Fall dull on the ear, like the clay upon corses;
Page 19


Still Freedom must send forth her young heroes glowing,
Though her standard be red with their life-current flowing;
Still the preacher must cast forth the seed, as God's sower,
Though he perish like grass at the scythe of the mower.

    

IX.


Still do the Lord's work through life's tragical drama,
Though weeping goes upward like weeping at Rama;
The path may be thorny, but Spirit eyes see us;
The cross may be heavy, but Death will soon free us:
Still, strong in Christ's power we'll chant the Hosanna,
Fling down Christ's defiance--&Ugr;&pgr;a&ggr;e &Sgr;a&tgr;ana!

    

X.


I see in a vision the shadowy portal,
That leadeth to regions of glory immortal;
I see the pale forms from the seven wounds bleeding,
Which up to God's Throne the bright angels are leading;
I see the crown placed on each saint bending lowly,
While sounds the Trisagion--Holy, thrice Holy!

    

XI.


I have Paradise dreams of a band with palm-branches,
Whose wavings give back their gold harps' resonances,
And a jewelled-walled city, where walketh in splendour
Each one who his life for God's truth did surrender.
Who would weep their death-doom, if such bliss we inherit,
When the veil of the human falls off from the spirit?

    

XII.


The Christian may shrink from the last scenes of trial,
And the woes yet unknown of each mystical vial;
But the hosts of Jehovah will gather beside him,
The rainbow-crowned angel stoop downward to guide him;
And to him, who as hero and martyr hath striven,
Will the Crown, and the Throne, and the Palm-branch be given.

Page 20

    

TO A DESPONDENT NATIONALIST.

    

I.


WHEREFORE wail you for the harp? Is it broken?
    Have the bold hands that once struck it weaker grown?
Can false words, by false traitors spoken,
    Blight a cause which we know is God's own?
No coward hearts are with us that would falter,
    Tho' a thousand tyrants strove to crush us low;
No coward pen the daring words to alter,
    That we fling in haughty scorn 'gainst the foe.

    

II.


Who has doomed, or can dare "doom us to silence?"
    In the conscious pride of truth and right we stand;
Let them rave like the ocean round the islands,
    Firm as they we stand unmoved for Fatherland.
Ay, we'll "till," spite of banded foes who hate us--
    But to rear the tree of Freedom God hath given;
Ay, we'll toil--but for triumphs that await us,
    If not leading to the Capital--to Heaven.

    

III.


Shall we mourn if we're martyrs for the truth?
    God has ever tried His noblest by the cross--
Let us bless Him that we're worthy in our youth,
    For Country, truth, and right to suffer loss.
So the word that we have spoken be immortal,
    Little reck we tho' no glory may be won;
If of God, it will scorn ban of mortal--
    Standing ever as the archetypal sun.

    

IV.


True, the path is dark, but ever sunward,
    In faith, and love, and hope we journey on;
We may pause in the desert passing onward,
    Lay our weary heads to rest upon the stone;
Page 21


But ever in our visions, low and faintly,
    Come the voices of the far-off angel band,
To earnest souls, in prophecy all saintly,
    That the good cause will yet triumph in the land.

    

V.


Fear not, oh! my brother, then, that any
    Will hush Ierne's harp at man's command;
For phylacteries of misery too many,
    Are bound upon all foreheads in the land.
Let others bow in abject genuflexion--
    Sue from Pity what they ought to claim as right;
By God's grace we'll stand by our election--
    Freedom, Knowledge, Independence, Truth, and Light!

    

SIGNS OF THE TIMES.

    

I.


WHEN mighty passions, surging, heave the depth of life's great ocean--
When the people sway, like forest trees, to and fro in wild commotion--
When the world-old kingdoms, rent and riven, quiver in their place,
As the human central fire is upheaving at their base,
And throbbing hearts, and flashing eyes, speak a language deep and cryptic;
Yet he who runs may read aright these signs apocalyptic:
Then rise, ye crownéd Elohim*--rise trembling from your thrones;
Soon shall cease the eternal rhythm betwixt them and human groans.
___________________

"Kings--The Earthly Elohim." --SIR THOMAS BROWNE.

    

II.


Ah! ye thought the nations, faint and weary, lay for ever bound;
They were sleeping like Orestes, with the Furies watching round;
Page 22


Soon they'll spring to vengeance, maddened by the whisperings divine,
That breathed of human freedom, as they knelt before God's shrine.
See you not a form advancing, as the shadow of the Gnomon,
Step by step, in darkness, onward--can ye read the fatal omen!
Coarse the hand, and rude the raiment, and the brow is dark to see,
But flashes fierce the eye as those of vengeful Zincali.

    

III.


On its brow a name is written--France read it once before,
And like a demon's compact, it was written in her gore--
A fearful name--thrones trembled as the murmur passed along--
RETRIBUTION, proud oppressors, for your centuries of wrong.
From the orient to the ocean, from the palm-tree to the pine,
From Innisfail, by Tagus, to the lordly Appenine--
From Indus to the river by which pale Warsaw bleeds--
Souls are wakening--hands are arming--God is blessing noble deeds.

    

IV.


Bravely done, ye Roman Eagles, ye are fluttering at last;
Spread your broad wings brave and proudly, as in old times, to the blast;
Never furl them--never flag, till with the Austrian's slaughter,
Ye crimson the full tide of the Danube's rolling water.
Who will falter now? Who'll stand like a trembling coward dumb!
Plaudite! Freedom stands again on the Janiculum!
From the Tiber to the Adige her vatic words are waking,
Italy! fair Italy! arise the dawn is breaking!
Page 23

    

V.


The Russian breathed on Poland, and she changed to a Zahara;
The jewels of her ancient crown adorn the Czar's tiara.
Her princes, and her nobles, tread the land with footsteps weary,
And her people cry to Heaven with ceaseless Miserere.
On her pale brow, thorn crownéd, ye may read her shame and loss;
See, foreign rule has branded there the fatal Thanatos.
But her agony and bloody sweat the Lord from Heaven will see,
And a resurrection morn heal the wounds of Calvary.

    

VI.


By our prophets God is speaking, in Sinai's awful thunders,
By pestilence and famine, in fearful signs and wonders;
By our great poet-priesthood, the sacred race immortal,
Whose words go forth triumphant, as through a golden portal;
By our patriots and martyrs, who, for Freedom's holy law,
Have hearts to dare, a hand to burn, like Mutius Scævola.
Then, courage, Brothers! lock your shields, like the old Spartan band,
Advance! and be your watchword ever--God for Ireland!

    

THE OLD MAN'S BLESSING.


MINE eye is dull, my hair is white,
This arm is powerless for the fight,
Alas! alas! the battle's van
Suits not a weak and aged man.
Thine eye is bright, thine arm is strong--
'Tis Youth must right our country's wrong.
Arise, my son, and proudly bear
This sword that I was wont to wear;
Firm grasp the hilt, fling down the sheath--
A thousand years their wrongs bequeath

Page 24


To thy young heart, thy hot revenge--
Kneel down, and swear thou wilt avenge.


May thy hand be fierce as Até's,
Fighting for our old Penates;
May thy glance be lightning flashes,
May thy words be thunder crashes,
May that earnest, haughty frown,
Like weapon, strike the foeman down.
May thy smile of scorn be
Blasting as the Upas tree;
Boldly like Olympian God,
Hurl the tyrants from our sod,
Let their wail be Ichabod!


Be to them destruction glooming--
Be to them a vengeance looming,
Hair-suspended o'er their race,
Like the sword of Damoclés,
Let thy daring right hand free us,
Like that son of old Ægeus,
Who purged his land for evermore
From the blood-stained Minotaur.
Fear not death, but fear dishonour;
Yield thy country all but honour.
What more fitting warrior's shroud
Than the foeman's standard proud?
Heed ye not their glozing words;
Fear ye not their myriad swords;
Never make ye peace with them
'Till ye chant their requiem.
Ha! I hear thy heart's pulsation
Throbbing vengeance for our nation;
Ha! I see thy dark eyes shine
With a fury leonine--
Burning brow and clenchéd hand--
Quivering lip and naked brand--
Arise! arise! my patriot son,
By hearts like thine is Freedom won!

Page 25

    

MAN'S MISSION.

    

I.


HUMAN lives are silent teaching,
    Be they earnest, mild, and true--
Noble deeds are noblest preaching
    From the consecrated Few.
Poet-Priests their anthems singing,
Hero-sword on corslet ringing,
    When Truth's banner is unfurled;
Youthful preachers, genius-gifted,
Pouring forth their souls uplifted,
    Till their preaching stirs the world;

    

II.


Each must work as God has given
    Hero hand or poet soul;
Work is duty while we live in
    This weird world of sin and dole.
Gentle spirits, lowly kneeling,
Lift their white hands up appealing
    To the Throne of Heaven's King--
Stronger natures, culminating,
In great actions incarnating
    What another can but sing.

    

III.


Pure and meek-eyed as an angel,
    We must strive--must agonise;
We must preach the saints' evangel
    Ere we claim the saintly prize.
Work for all, for work is holy,
We fulfil our mission solely
    When, like Heaven's arch above,
Blend our souls in one emblazon,
And the social diapason
    Sounds the perfect chord of love.
Page 26

    

IV.


Life is combat, life is striving,
    Such our destiny below;
Like a scythéd chariot driving
    Through an onward pressing foe.
Deepest sorrow, scorn, and trial
Will but teach us self-denial;
    Like the alchymists of old,
Pass the ore through cleansing fire
If our spirits would aspire
    To be God's refinéd gold.

    

V.


We are struggling in the morning
    With the spirit of the night;
But we trample on it scorning--
    Lo! the eastern sky is bright.
We must watch. The day is breaking;
Soon, like Memnon's statue waking
    With the sunrise into sound,
We shall raise our voice to Heaven,
Chant a hymn for conquest given,
    Seize the palm, nor heed the wound.

    

VI.


We must bend our thoughts to earnest,
    Would we strike the idols down;
With a purpose of the sternest
    Take the Cross, and wait the Crown.
Sufferings human life can hallow,
Sufferings lead to God's Valhalla;
    Meekly bear, but nobly try,
Like a man with soft tears flowing,
Like a God with conquest glowing
    So to love, and work, and die!

Page 27

    

A LAMENT.

    

I.


GONE from us--dead to us--he whom we worshipped so!
    Low lies the altar we raised to his name;
Madly his own hand hath shattered and laid it low--
    Madly his own breath hath blasted his fame.
He whose proud bosom once raged with humanity,
    He whose broad forehead was circled with might,
Sunk to a time-serving, driv'lling inanity--
    God! Why not spare our loved country the sight?

    

II.


Was it the gold of the stranger that tempted him?
    Ah! we'd have pledged to him body and soul;
Toiled for him--fought for him--starved for him--died for him--
    Smiled, tho' our graves were the steps to his goal.
Breathed he one word in his deep, earnest whispering,
    Wealth, crown, and kingdom, were laid at his feet;
Raised he his right hand, the millions would round him cling--
    Hush! 'tis the Sassenach ally you greet.

    

III.


Leaders have fallen--we wept, but we triumphed, too--
    Patriot blood never sinks in the sod;
He falls, and the jeers of the nation he bent to sue
    Rise like accusing weird spirits to God.
Weep for him--weep for him--deep is the tragedy--
    Angels themselves now might doubt of God's truth;
Souls from their bloody graves, shuddering, rise to see
    How he avenges their lost, murdered youth.

    

IV.


Tone, and Fitzgerald, and the pale-brow'd enthusiast--
    He whose heart broke, but shrank not from the strife;
Davis, the latest loved--he who in glory passed,
    Kindling Hope's lamp with the chrism of life.
Page 28


Well may they wail for him--power and might were his--
    Loved as no mortal was loved in the land--
What has he sold them for? Sorrow and shame it is,
    Fair words and false from a recreant band.

    

V.


Time's shade was on him; what matter? we loved him yet;
    Aye, would have torn the veins with our teeth,
Made him a bath of our young blood to pay the debt--
    Purchased his life, tho' we bought it by death.
Pray for him--pray: an archangel has fallen low;
    There's a throne less in Heaven, there is sorrow on earth.
Weep, angels--laugh, demons! When his hand could strike the blow,
    Where shall we seek for truth, honour, or worth?

    

THE YOUNG PATRIOT LEADER.


OH! he stands beneath the sun, that glorious Fated One
        Like a martyr or conqueror, wearing
On his brow a mighty doom, be it glory, be it gloom,
        The shadow of a crown it is bearing.


At his Cyclopean stroke the proud heart of man awoke,
        Like a king from his lordly down-lying;
And whereso'er he trod, like the footstep of a God,
        Was a trail of light the gloom outvying.


In his beauty and his youth, the Apostle of the Truth,
        Goes he forth with the words of salvation,
And a noble madness falls on each spirit he enthralls,
        As he chants his wild Pæans to the nation.


As a tempest in its force, as a torrent in its course,
        So his words fiercely sweep all before them,

Page 29


And they smite like two-edged swords, those undaunted thunder-words,
        On all hearts, as tho' angels did implore them.


See our pale cheeks how they flush, as the noble visions rush
        On our soul's most dark desolation,
And the glorious lyric words, Right, Freedom, and our Swords!
        Wake the strong chords of life to vibration.


Aye; right noble, in good sooth, seemed he battling for the truth,
        When he poured the full tide of his scorn
Down upon the tyrant's track, like an Alpine cataract:
        Ah! such men wait an Æon to be born.


So he stood before us then, one of God's eternal men,
        Flashing eye, and hero mould of stature,
With a glory and a light circling round his brow of might,
        That revealed his right royal kingly nature.


Lo! he leadeth on our bands, Freedom's banner in his hands,
        Let us aid him, not with words, but doing;
With the marches of the brave, prayers of might that strike and save,
        Not a slaving spirit's abject suing.


Thus in glory is he seen, tho' his years are yet but green,
        The anointed as head of our nation;
For high Heaven hath decreed that a soul like his must lead,
        Let us kneel, then, in deep adoration.


Oh! his mission is divine; dash down the Lotus wine--
        Too long is your trancéd sleep abiding;
For by Him who gave us life, we shall conquer in the strife,
        So we follow but that Young Chief's guiding.

Page 30

    

ATTENDITE POPULE.


OH! that I stood upon some lofty tower,
    Before the gathered people, face to face,
That, like God's thunder, might my words of power
    Roll down the cry of Freedom to its base!
Oh! that my voice, a storm above all storms,
    Could cleave earth, air, and ocean, rend the sky
With the fierce earthquake shout: "To arms! to arms!
    For Truth, Fame, Freedom, Vengeance, Victory!"


The mountains, could they speak, would cry in thunder,
    "Too long we've borne the tyrant's trampling hoof;"
The stars would fight from Heaven with signs of wonder;
    The tempest waves dash back a stern reproof:
But ye, writhing like worms beneath the tyrant's spurning,
    Dragged in the dust behind his chariot-wheel,
Is there no vengeance in your strong hearts burning,
    Tho' God, and man, and earth, and heaven appeal?
Oh! for some prophet's voice to rouse and warn--
    Some angel's strength to strike them branch and root!
Oh! for Christ's strength to bid, in Godlike scorn,
    The very stones cry out, should ye be mute!

    

FORWARD!

    

I.


        WHAT though Freedom's hosts are parted,
            Yet, beneath one banner fighting,
        Strong in love and hero-hearted,
            All, their Country's wrongs are righting
With the weapon that each deemeth best to strike oppression down.
Page 31

    

II.


        And one battle-cry resoundeth
            From your ranks, success presaging;
        And one heart within you boundeth
            With a martyr's faith, engaging
Each to bind upon his forehead cypress wreath or laurel crown.

    

III.


        For a power without you urges
            That can brook no more delaying,
        And the heaving myriad surges,
            To and fro in tumult swaying,
Threaten death to all who vainly would oppose them in their might.

    

IV.


        Thrilling words, that burn like fire,
            Ye have preached to hut and hovel,
        Till they leap up in their ire
            From the death-dust where they grovel,
These men of many sufferings, to die or win their right.

    

V.


        Pass the word that bands together--
            Word of mystic conjuration--
        And, as fire consumes the heather,
            So the young hearts of the nation
Fierce will blaze up, quick and scathing, 'gainst the stranger and the foe.

    

VI.


        Hand to hand with them confronted,
            Looking death and danger gravely
        In the face, with brow undaunted;
            Doing nobly, dying bravely,
Stern as men resolved to conquer or to perish in their woe.

    

VII.


        For the God-breath speaketh in you,
            Dare ye not belie your mission;
Page 32


        And the beck'ning angels win you
            On with many a radiant vision,
Up the thorny path of glory, where the hero gains his crown.

    

VIII.


        Fling abroad our Country's banner,
            Foremost march to Freedom leading,
        Let the breath of millions fan her,
            Not alone the wine-press treading,
For a Nation is arising from her long and ghastly swoon.

    

IX.


        Go with lips that dare not falter,
            Offer up, with exaltations,
        On your country's holy altar,
            Youth, with all its fervid passions,
And your life, if she demands it--Can a patriot fear to die?

    

X.


        What is life that ye should love it
            More than manlike deeds of duty?
        There's a glory far above it
            Crowns your brow with nobler beauty--
'Tis to die, with cheers heroic, lifting Freedom's standard high.

    

XI.


        Through the darkness and the dunlight,
            Of this sorrow-night of weeping,
        Ye shall trail the radiant sunlight,
            And, like strong men armed, leaping
Forth to wondrous deeds of glory, make Humanity sublime.

    

XII.


        Rising higher still, and higher,
            Till the Angel who stands nighest
        To the Throne shall tune his lyre
            To your praise before the Highest,
And the Crown of Fame Immortal shall be yours throughout all time.

Page 33

    

HAVE YE COUNTED THE COST?

    

I.


WILL our Leaders faint and falter
    At the foes they have to bind--
The Ignorance and Prejudice,
    Bigot heart and shallow mind?
Do they tremble at the ordeal
    That is looming from afar--
The battle, and the hero-death,
    And vict'ry's fiery car?

    

II.


Ah! the brave ones! Lion-hearted!
    They whose prophet-accents rung,
As if pentecostal fires
    Had been kindled on their tongue;
Some with words of soft persuasion,
    Melting hearts of stern and strong,
Like the minor chord that waketh
    All our tears in Irish song.

    

III.


Some with glance, like eagles, fearless,
    And great thoughts that kindle deeds,
Bowing souls of men before them
    As the storm-wind sweeps the reeds.
Will they sink down, pale and weary?
    Vain is preaching to the wind,
Burning words and supplications--
    Slavish souls are deaf and blind.

    

IV.


Never! Like the protomartyr,
    Ages since on Judah's plains,
While around him, furious raging,
    Stood the fierce, unbranded Cains;
So, sublime in holy daring,
    Stand our Leaders calmly there,
Though such grief their spirit's clouding
    As might quickly fade young hair.
Page 34

    

V.


Grief for the idiot people,
    Who, with suicidal hand,
Strive to bind the fetters closer
    On their prostrate, bleeding land.
But a silver cord of gladness
    Is inwoven in the gloom--
Through the midnight of our sadness,
    Brightest stars from heaven loom.

    

VI.


Morning comes when night is darkest,
    Near to evil good will spring,
As the Indian serpent resteth
    On the leaf that heals its sting.
Braver spirits will enkindle,
    To redeem our abject race;
Noble hearts will beat yet nobler,
    To retrieve our past disgrace.

    

VII.


Brighter still, and brighter shining,
    Seems the glory of the few,
Who, in face of earth and heaven,
    Swear to God they dare be true.
Let the masses pass on scorning,
    Seek not courage in their mind;
Self-devotion, patriot fervour,
    Spring not from the craven kind.

    

VIII.


Abject tears, and prayers submissive--
    Have they eyes, and cannot see?
Never country gained her freedom
    When she sued on bended knee.
Be our Leaders, then, still daring,
    Bold in word, and brave in fight;
And when comes the day of trial,
    Then, may God defend the Right!

Page 35

    

THE YEAR OF REVOLUTIONS.

    

I.


LIFT up your pale faces, ye children of sorrow,
The night passes on to a glorious to-morrow!
Hark! hear you not sounding glad Liberty's pæan,
From the Alps to the Isles of the tideless Ægean?
And the rhythmical march of the gathering nations,
And the crashing of thrones 'neath their fierce exultations,
And the cry of Humanity cleaving the ether,
With hymns of the conquering rising together--
God, Liberty, Truth! How they burn heart and brain--
These words shall they burn--shall they waken in vain?

    

II.


No! soul answers soul, steel flashes on steel,
And land wakens land with a grand thunder-peal.
Shall we, oh! my Brothers, but weep, pray, and groan,
When France reads her rights by the flames of a Throne?
Shall we fear and falter to join the grand chorus,
When Europe has trod the dark pathway before us?
Oh, courage! and we, too, will trample them down,
The minions of power, the serfs of a crown.
Oh, courage! but courage, if once to the winds
Ye fling Freedom's banner, no tyranny binds.

    

III.


At the voice of the people the weak symbols fall,
And Humanity marches o'er purple and pall,
O'er sceptre and crown, with a glorious disdain,
For the symbol must fall and Humanity reign.
Onward! then onward! ye brave to the vanguard,
Gather in glory round Liberty's standard!
Like France, lordly France, we shall sweep from their station
All, all who oppose the stern will of a nation;
Like Prussia's brave children will stoop to no lord,
But demand our just rights at the point of the sword.
Page 36

    

IV.


We'll conquer! we'll conquer! No tears for the dying,
The portal to Heaven be the field where they're lying.
We'll conquer! we'll conquer! No tears for the slain,
God's angels will smile on their death-hour of pain.
On, on in your masses dense, resolute, strong
To war against treason, oppression, and wrong;
On, on with your chieftains, and Him we adore most,
Who strikes with the bravest and leads with the foremost,
Who brings the proud light of a name great in story,
To guide us through danger unconquered to glory.

    

V.


With faith like the Hebrew's we'll stem the Red Sea--
God! smite down the Pharaohs--our trust is in Thee;
Be it blood of the tyrant or blood of the slave,
We'll cross it to Freedom, or find there a grave.
Lo! a throne for each worker, a crown for each brow,
The palm for each martyr that dies for us now;
Spite the flash of their muskets, the roar of their cannon,
The assassins of Freedom shall lower their pennon;
For the will of a Nation what foe dare withstand?
Then Patriots, Heroes, strike! God for our Land!

    

RUINS.

    

I.


SHALL we tread the dust of ages,
    Musing, dreamlike, on the past,
Seeking on the broad earth's pages
    For the shadows Time hath cast;
Waking up some ancient story,
    From each prostrate shrine or hall,
Old traditions of a glory
    Earth may never more recall?
Page 37

    

II.


Poets thoughts of sadness breathing,
    For the temples overthrown;
Where no incense now is wreathing,
    And the gods are turned to stone.
Wandering by the graves of heroes,
    Shrouded deep in classic gloom,
Or the tombs where Egypt's Pharaohs
    Wait the trumpet and the doom.

    

III.


By the city, desert-hidden,*
    Which Judea's mighty king
Made the Genii, at his bidding,
    Raise by magic of his ring;
By the Lake Asphaltian wander,
    While the crimson sunset glow
Flings its radiance, as we ponder
    On the buried towns below.

    

IV.


By the Cromleach, sloping downward,
    Where the Druid's victim bled;
By those Towers, pointing sunward,
    Hieroglyphics none have read:
In their mystic symbols seeking,
    Of past creeds and rites o'erthrown,
If the truths they shrined are speaking
    Yet in Litanies of Stone.

    

V.


By the Temple of the Muses,
    Where the climbers of the mount
Learned the soul's diviner uses
    From the Heliconian fount.
By the banks of dark Illyssus,
    Where the Parcæ walked of old,
In their crowns of white narcissus,
    And their garments starred with gold.
___________________

* Palmyra, or Tadmer

 Page 38

    

VI.


By the tomb of queenly Isis,
    Where her fallen prophets wail,
Yet no hand has dared the crisis
    Of the lifting of the vail.
By the altar which the Grecian
    Raised to God without a name;
By the stately shrine Ephesian,
    Erostratus burned for fame.

    

VII.


By the Libyan shrine of Ammon,
    Where the sands are trod with care,
Lest we, bending to examine,
    Start the lion from his lair.
Shall we tread the halls Assyrian,
    Where the Arab tents are set;
Trace the glory of the Tyrian,
    Where the fisher spreads his net?

    

VIII.


Shall we seek the "Mene, mene,"
    Wrote by God upon the wall,
While the proud son of Mandane
    Strode across the fated hall?
Shall we mourn the Loxian's lyre,
    Or the Pythian priestess mute?
Shall we seek the Delphic fire,
    Though we've lost Apollo's lute?

    

IX.


Ah! the world has sadder ruins
    Than these wrecks of things sublime;
For the touch of man's misdoings
    Leaves more blighted tracks than Time.
Ancient lore gives no examples
    Of the ruins here we find--
Prostrate souls for fallen temples,
    Mighty ruins of the mind.
Page 39

    

X.


We had hopes that rose as proudly
    As each sculptured marble shrine;
And our prophets spake as loudly
    As their oracles divine.
Grand resolves of giant daring,
    Such as Titans breathed of old;
Brilliant aims their front uprearing,
    Like a temple roofed with gold.

    

XI.


Souls of fire, like columns pointing,
    Flamelike, upward to the skies;
Glorious brows, which God's anointing
    Consecrated altar-wise.
Stainless hearts, like temples olden,
    None but priest hath ever trod;
Hands as pure as were the golden
    Staves which bore the ark of God.

    

XII.


Oh! they built up radiant visions,
    Like an iris after rain;
How all Paradise traditions
    Might be made to live again.
Of Humanity's sad story,
    How their hand should turn the page,
And the ancient primal glory,
    Fling upon this latter age.

    

XIII.


How with Godlike aspirations,
    Up the souls of men would climb,
Till the fallen, enslavéd nations
    Trod in rhythmic march sublime;
Reaching heights the people knew not,
    Till their Prophet Leaders led--
Bathed in light that mortals view not,
    While the spirit life lies dead.
Page 40

    

XIV.


How the pallid sons of labour,
    They should toil, and toil to raise,
Till a glory, like to Tabor,
    Once again should meet earth's gaze.
How the poor, no longer keeping
    Count of life alone by groans,
With the strong cry of their weeping,
    Start the angels on their thrones.

    

XV.


Ah! that vision's bright ideal,
    Must it fade and perish thus?
Must its fall alone be real?
    Are its ruins trod by us?
Ah! they dreamed an Eldorado,
    Given not to mortal sight;
Yet the souls that walk in shadow,
    Still bend forward to its light.

    

XVI.


Earnest dreamers, sooth we blame not
    If ye failed to reach the goal--
If the glorious Real came not
    At the strong prayer of each soul.
By the path ye've trod to duty,
    Blessings yet to man may flow,
Though the proud and stately beauty
    Of your structure lieth low.

    

XVII.


Low as that which Salem mourneth,
    On Moriah's holy hill;
While the heathen proudly scorneth,
    Yet the wrecks are glorious still:
Like the seven columns frowning,
    On the desert city down;
Or the seven cedars crowning
    Lofty Lebanon.
Page 41

    

XVIII.


Poet wanderer, hast thou bent thee
    O'er such ruins of the soul?
Pray to God that some Nepenthe
    May efface that hour of dole.
We may lift the shrine and column,
    From the dust which Time hath cast;
Choral chants may mingle solemn,
    Once again where silence passed;

    

XIX.


But the stately, radiant palace,
    We had built up in our dreams,
With Hope's rainbow-woven trellis,
    And Truth's glorious sunrise beams;
Our aims of towering stature,
    Our aspirations vain,
And our prostrate human nature--
    Who will raise them up again?

    

DISCIPLINE.

    

I.


CLOSE the starry dream-portal,
    We must tread earth again,
Flashes no light immortal
    Now on life's dreary plain.
We must wait, like the Stoic,
    Brave, enduring, and strong,
Till the soul's strength heroic
    Bends the fetters of wrong.

    

II.


By the lore life has brought us,
    We shall fathom man's soul;
By the tears sorrow taught us,
    We shall measure their dole.
Guide them on through affliction,
    All earth's Saviours have trod,
Page 42


Till from life's crucifixion
    They can soar up to God.

    

III.


From the heart of man weeding
    Up each rough brier and thorn,
With a hero-pride treading
    Down the world's shallow scorn;
With a saint's self-denying
    Toiling still for our land;
With a Christ-strength defying
    Earth and Hell's gathered band.

    

IV.


In the soul's earnest travail
    Must the God-work be wrought;
By the world's woe and cavil,
    Must the deep heart be taught.
Blighted youth, crushed ambition,
    On the altar must lie;
'Tis the world-old tradition,
    Thus the Prophet must die.

    

V.


But this deep lore can only
    Be learnéd in the gloom,
Where the gifted tread, lonely,
    The Prophet-path of doom:
For by life-blood, and brain-sweat,
    Is the altar-flame fed;
And from hearts crushed by pain, yet
    Must the incense be shed.

    

VI.


Still, 'tis grand this wild warring,
    Upon life's battle-field;
Fear not the heart's marring
    If the soul never yield.
Fight for God's Truth yet longer,
    'Gainst the fierce storms of life,
For the strong soul grows stronger
    By the combat and strife.

Page 43

    

THE EXODUS.

    

I.


"A MILLION A DECADE!" Calmly and cold
    The units are read by our statesmen sage;
Little they think of a Nation old,
    Fading away from History's page;
        Outcast weeds by a desolate sea--
        Fallen leaves of Humanity.

    

II.


"A million a decade!"--of human wrecks,
    Corpses lying in fever sheds--
Corpses huddled on foundering decks,
    And shroudless dead on their rocky beds;
        Nerve and muscle, and heart and brain,
        Lost to Ireland--lost in vain.

    

III.


"A million a decade!" Count ten by ten,
    Column and line of the record fair;
Each unit stands for ten thousand men,
    Staring with blank, dead eye-balls there;
        Strewn like blasted trees on the sod,
        Men that were made in the image of God.

    

IV.


"A million a decade!"--and nothing done;
    The Cæsars had less to conquer a world;
And the war for the Right not yet begun,
    The banner of Freedom not yet unfurled:
        The soil is fed by the weed that dies;
        If forest leaves fall, yet they fertilise.

    

V.


But ye--dead, dead, not climbing the height,
    Not clearing a path for the future to tread;
Not opening the golden portals of light,
    Ere the gate was choked by your piled-up dead:
        Martyrs ye, yet never a name
        Shines on the golden roll of Fame.
Page 44

    

VI.


Had ye rent one gyve of the festering chain,
    Strangling the life of the Nation's soul;
Poured your life-blood by river and plain,
    Yet touched with your dead hand Freedom's goal;
        Left of heroes one footprint more
        On our soil, tho' stamped in your gore--

    

VII.


We could triumph while mourning the brave,
    Dead for all that was holy and just,
And write, through our tears, on the grave,
    As we flung down the dust to dust--
        "They died for their country, but led
        Her up from the sleep of the dead."

    

VIII.


"A million a decade!" What does it mean?
    A Nation dying of inner decay--
A churchyard silence where life has been--
    The base of the pyramid crumbling away:
        A drift of men gone over the sea,
        A drift of the dead where men should be.

    

IX.


Was it for this ye plighted your word,
    Crowned and crownless rulers of men?
Have ye kept faith with your crucified Lord,
    And fed His sheep till He comes again?
        Or fled like hireling shepherds away,
        Leaving the fold the gaunt wolf's prey?

    

X.


Have ye given of your purple to cover,
    Have ye given of your gold to cheer,
Have ye given of your love, as a lover
    Might cherish the bride he held dear,
        Broken the Sacrament-bread to feed
        Souls and bodies in uttermost need?
Page 45

    

XI.


Ye stand at the Judgment-bar to-day--
    The Angels are counting the dead-roll, too;
Have ye trod in the pure and perfect way,
    And ruled for God as the crowned should do?
        Count our dead--before Angels and Men,
        Ye're judged and doomed by the Statist's pen.

    

THE FAITHLESS SHEPHERDS.


"Os habent, et non loquuntur:
Oculos habent, et non vident."


DEAD! DEAD! Ye are dead while ye live;
    Ye've a name that ye live--but are dead.
Neither counsel nor love did ye give,
    And your lips never uttered a word
While swift ruin downward sped,
    And the plague raged on undisturbed.
Not a throb of true life in your veins,
    Not a pulse in your passionless heart,
Not a thought in the dull, cold brains,
    Of how ye should bear your part,
When summoned the strife to brave,
For our Country, with Death and the Grave.


Ye have gold for the follies of fashion,
    And gold for its tinsel glare,
But none for the wild, sobbing passion
    Wrung from the lips of despair.
False Shepherds and Guides are ye,
    For the heart in each bosom is cold
As the ice on a frozen sea;
    And your trappings of velvet and gold

Page 46


Lie heavy and close as a pall,
When the steps of the bearers fall
On a grave, with measured tread;
For ye seem to live--but are dead.


Ye are dead!--ye are dead! stone by stone
The temple is crumbling down;
It will fall with a crash of doom,
For the night deepens dark in its gloom.
    But ye look on with vacant stare,
Like men lying still in the tomb.
    Stand forth! face the sun, if ye dare,
With your cold eyes unwet by a tear,
For your Country laid low on your bier,
And say--have ye stretched forth a hand
To raise up our desolate Land?


She dies--but ye flourish and grow
    In the midst of the deadly maze:
Like the palm springing heavenward?--No,
    But like weeds in the churchyard fed
By the vapours of death below,
    Breathing round you a poisonous haze.
Go!--go! True life is not so--
    For decay lies beneath your tread,
And the staff in your hand is a reed--
Too weak for your Country's need;
    For you seem to live--but are dead.


Ye are dead!--ye are dead! Fling the clay
    On the noble names--noble no more;
Leave the sword in the sheath to rust;
Let the banners be trailed in the dust;
And the memory perish away
    Of the dead, who are dead evermore;
Blot them out from the book writ in gold.
    Noble neither in deed nor in soul,
    Are ye worthy to stand in the roll
Of the glorified heroes of old?

Page 47


Has Ireland need of such sons?
    Floating down with a silken sail,
On the crimson tide of her life, that runs
    With a mournful, ceaseless wail,
    Like rain pouring down from the eaves.
And ye laugh when the strangers deride
    Her trials, the saddest and sorest,
And plunge the sword deep in her side;
    And no kindly heart sighs or grieves
For her branches, all bare as a forest,
    When the autumn wind scatters the leaves.


Laugh low with your perfumed breath,
For the air is heavy with death.
But ye hear not the gliding feet
    Of the Future, that stands at your door;
For the roses lie heavy and sweet,
    And too thick on your marble floor,
And the dead soul is dead to his call.
    And your eyes are heavy with wine;
Ye see not the letters of flame,
    Traced by a hand divine--
The writing of God on the wall--
"Ye are weighed, and found wanting"--Oh, shame!
        Your life is a gilded lie;
    And the wide world that doom has read,
    With a shudder and chill of dread;
For the judgment of God is nigh,
And the universe echoes the cry--
    You've a name that ye live--but are DEAD.

    

WORK WHILE IT IS CALLED TO-DAY.


"NO man hath hired us"--strong hands drooping,
    Listless, falling in idleness down;
Men in the silent market-place grouping
    Round Christ's cross of silent stone.

Page 48


"No man hath hired us"--pale hands twining,
    Stalwart forms bowed down to sue.
"The red dawn is passed, the noon is shining,
    But no man hath given us work to do."


Then a voice pealed down from the heights of Heaven:
    Men, it said, of the Irish soil!
I gave you a land as a Garden of Eden,
    Where you and your sons should till and toil;
I set your throne by the glorious waters,
    Where ocean flung round you her mighty bands,
That your sails, like those of your Tyrian fathers,
    Might sweep the shores of a hundred lands.


Power I gave to the hands of your leaders,
    Wisdom I gave to the lips of the wise,
And your children grew as the stately cedars,
    That shadowed the rivers of Paradise.
What have ye done with my land of beauty--
    Has the spoiler bereft her of robe and crown?
Have my people failed in a people's duty?
    Has the wild boar trampled my vineyard down?


True, they answered, faint in replying--
    Our vines are rent by the wild boar's tusks;
The corn on our golden slopes is lying,
    But our children feed on the remnant husks.
Our strong men lavish their blood for others;
    Our prophets and wise men are heard no more;
Our young men give a last kiss to their mothers,
    Then sail away for a foreign shore.


From wooded valleys and mountain gorges,
    Emerald meadow and purple glen,
Across the foam of the wild sea surges,
    They flee away like exiled men.
Yet, the chant we hear of the new Evangels,
    Rising like incense from earth's green sod;

Page 49


We--we alone, before worshipping Angels,
    Idly stand in the Garden of God.


Then the Lord came down from the heights of Heaven,
    Came down that garden fair to view,
Where the weary men waited from morn till even,
    For some one to give them work to do.
Ye have sinned, He said, and the angel lustre
    Darkened slowly as summer clouds may;
Weeds are growing where fruit should cluster,
    Yet, ye stand idle all the day.


Have ye trod in the furrows, and worked as truly
    As men who knew they should reap as they sow?
Have ye flung in the seed and watched it duly,
    Day and night, lest the tares should grow?
Have ye tended the vine my hand hath planted,
    Pruned and guided its tendrils fair;
Ready with life-blood, if it were wanted,
    To strengthen the fruit its branches bear?


Have ye striven in earnest, working solely
    To guard my flock in their native fold?
Are your hands as pure, and your hearts as holy,
    As the saints who walk in the City of Gold?
Go! work in my vineyard, let none deceive ye,
    Each for himself his work must do;
And whatever is right shall my Angels give ye,
    The work and the workman shall have their due.--


Who knoweth the times of the new dispensations?
    Go on in faith, and the light will come;
The last may yet be the first amongst nations,
    Wait till the end for the final doom.
The last may be first! Shall our Country's glory
    Ever flash light on the path we have trod?
Who knows?--who knows?--for our future story
    Lies hid in the great sealed Book of God.

Page 50

    

TO-DAY!

    

I.


HAS the line of the Patriots ended,
    The race of the heroes failed,
That the bow of the mighty, unbended,
    Falls slack from the hands of the quailed?
        Or do graves lie too thick in the grass
        For the chariot of Progress to pass?

    

II.


Did the men of the past ever falter?
    The stainless in name and fame.
They flung life's best gifts on the altar
    To kindle the sacrifice flame,
        Till it rose like a pillar of light
        Leading up from Egyptian night.

    

III.


Oh! hearts all aflame, with the daring
    Of youth leaping forth into life!
Have ye courage to lift up, unfearing,
    The banner fallen low in the strife,
        From hands faint through life's deepest loss,
        And bleeding from nails of the cross?

    

IV.


Can ye work on as they worked--unaided,
    When all but honour seemed lost?
And give to your Country, as they did,
    All, without counting the cost?
        For the children have risen since then
        Up to the height of men.

    

V.


Now, swear by those pale martyr-faces,
    All worn by the furrows of tears,
By the lost youth no morrow replaces,
    By all their long-wasted years,
        By the fires trod out on each hearth,
        When the Exiles were driven forth;
Page 51

    

VI.


By the young lives so vainly given,
    By the raven hair blanched to grey,
By the strong spirits crushed and riven,
    By the noble aims faded away,
        By their brows, as the brows of a king,
        Crowned by the circlet of suffering--

    

VII.


To strive as they strove, yet retrieving
    The cause from all shadow of blame,
In the Congress of Peoples achieving
    A place for our nation and name;
        Not by war between brothers in blood,
        But by glory made perfect through good.

    

VIII.


We are blind, not discerning the promise,
    'Tis the sword of the Spirit that kills;
Give us Light, and the fetters fall from us,
    For the strong soul is free when it wills.
        Not our wrongs but our sins make the cloud
        That darkens the land like a shroud.

    

IX.


With this sword like an Archangel's gleaming,
    Go war against Evil and Sin,
'Gainst the falsehood, and meanness, and seeming
    That stifle the true life within.
        Your bonds are the bonds of the soul,
        Strike them off, and you spring to the goal!

    

X.


O men who have passed through the furnace,
    Assayed like the gold, and as pure!
By your strength can the weakest gain firmness
    The strongest may learn to endure,
        When once they have chosen their part,
        Though the sword may drive home to each heart.
Page 52

    

XI.


O Martyrs! The scorners may trample
    On the broken hearts strewed in their path;
But the young race, all flushed by example,
    Will awake to the duties it hath,
        And re-kindle your own torch of Truth
        With the passionate splendours of youth!

    

A REMONSTRANCE,

ADDRESSED TO D. FLORENCE M'CARTHY, M.R.I.A.*


STAND on the heights, O Poet! nor come down
Amid the wise old serpents, coiled around
The Tree of Knowledge in Academics.
The Poet's place is by the Tree of Life,
Whose fruit turns men to Gods, and makes them live,
Not seeking buried treasure in the tombs.
Leave the dim records of a by-gone age
To those great Archivists, who flash the torch
Of Truth along Time's mouldering records,
Illuminating all the fading Past,
Like golden letters on an ancient scroll.
The Poet soars with eagles, breathes pure ether,
Basks in the light that suns the mountain peak,
And sings, from spirit altitudes, such strains,
That all the toilers in life's rugged furrows
Are forced, for once, to lift the bow'd-down head,
And look on Heaven. Flashes from Poet's words
Electric light, strong, swift, and sudden, like
The clash of thunder-clouds, by which men read
God's writing legibly on human hearts.
___________________

On reading his Essay on the Collation of Certain Ancient Spanish Manuscripts, printed from the proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy.

 Page 53


O Poet-Prophets! God hath sent ye forth
With lips made consecrate by altar fire,
To guide the Future, not to tread the Past;
To chaunt, in glorious music, man's great hymn,
The watchword of humanity--Advance!
Advance in Wisdom, Nobleness, and Truth,
High aims, high purposes, and self-control,
Which is self-reverence, knowing we shall stand
With crownéd angels before God's great throne
The Poet nerves the arm to do great deeds,
Inspires great thoughts, flings o'er the tears of life
The rainbow arch, to save us from despair;
Quickens the stagnant energies to act,
Bears the advancing banner of the age,
Full in the van of all Humanity;
And, with a strength, God-given, rolls the stone,
As angels may, from off the Sepulchre
Where souls lie bound, bidding them rise and live.


O Poet! preach this Gospel once again--
True Life, true Liberty, God's gifts to man;
Freedom from servile aims and selfish ends,
That swathe and bind the kingly spirit down,
Like Egypt's grave-clothes on the royal dead;
Scatter the golden grain of lofty thoughts
From which spring hero-deeds--that so, in truth,
Our Future may be nobler than our Past,
In all that makes a nation's life divine--
This is the Poet's mission, therefore--THINE.

    

FRANCE IN '93.

    

I.


HARK! the onward heavy tread--
    Hark! the voices rude--
'Tis the famished cry for Bread
    From a wildered multitude.
Page 54


        They come! They come!
        Point the cannon--roll the drum;
Thousands wail and weep with hunger--
Faster let your soldiers number.
Sword, and gun, and bayonet
A famished people's cries have met.

    

II.


Hark! the onward heavy tread--
    Hark! the voices rude--
'Tis the famished cry for Bread
    From an armed multitude.
        They come! They come!
        Not with meek submission's hum.
Bloody trophy they have won,
Ghastly glares it in the sun--
Gory head on lifted pike.
Ha! they weep not now, but strike.

    

III.


Ye, the deaf ones to their cries--
Ye, who scorned their agonies--
'Tis no longer prayers for bread
Shriek in your ears the famishéd;
But wildly, fiercely, peal on peal,
Resoundeth--Down with the Bastile!
Can ye tame a people now?
Try them--flatter, promise, vow,
Swear their wrongs shall be redressed--
But patience--time will do the rest;
Swear they shall one day be fed--
Hark! the People--Dead for Dead!

    

IV.


Calculating statesmen, quail;
Proud aristocrat, grow pale;
Savage sounds that deathly song:
Down with tyrants! Down with wrong!
Blindly now they wreak revenge--
How rudely do a mob avenge!
Page 55


What! coronetted Prince of Peer,
Will not the base-born slavelings fear?
Sooth, their cry is somewhat stern:
Aristocrats, à la Lanterne!
Ghastly fruit their lances bear--
Noble heads with streaming hair;
Diadem and kingly crown
Strike the famine-stricken down.
Now, the People's work is done--
On they stride o'er prostrate throne;
Royal blood of King and Queen
Streameth from the guillotine;
Wildly on the people goeth,
Reaping what the noble soweth.
Little dreamed he, prince or peer,
Of who should be his heritor.
Hunger now, at last, is sated
In halls where once it wailed and waited;
Wild Justice fiercely rives the laws
Which failed to right a people's cause.
On that human ocean floweth,
Whither stops it no one knoweth--
Surge the wild waves in their strength
Against all chartered rights at length--
Throne, and King, and Noble fall;
But the People--they hold Carnival!

    

THE FALL OF THE TYRANTS.

      

A SPANISH BALLAD, 1492

    

I.


HO! SPANIARDS! rise for Liberty--your country on ye calls,
To fight to-day, in proud array, before Granáda's walls;
A proud array is here to-day, full fifty thousand strong,
Of Fantassins and Cavaliers Gonzalo leads along.
Page 56

    

II.


From Leon to Granáda--from Corunna to Sevílle,
Gather, Spaniards, gather, by the banks of the Xenil!
Eight hundred years of blood and tears beneath a foreign sway--
Eight hundred years of blood and tears must be avenged to-day.

    

III.


Think of your ancient glory, Oh ye lions of León!
And how in ancient story your great lion name was won;
Think of Zamora's conquest field, and royal Douro's flood--
How ye bridged with Moslem corses, and swam it in their blood.

    

IV.


And, mountaineers, have ye no tears to be avenged to-day--
Asturians, and Gallicians, and wild dwellers by Vizcày?
Ye, the unconquered remnant of the brave old Celtic race--
For ne'er could Roman, Goth, or Moor, your nationhood efface.

    

V.


Ye, too, proud Gothic nobles! by your memories as men,
Will never fail, or shrink, or quail to meet the Saracen;
Ye, 'fore whose conquering arm were the bravest forced to yield,
Who smote the Suevi in their tent--the Romans in the field.

    

VI.


Now, now, oh, shame and misery! a stranger rules your lands!--
A stranger's spoil is your native soil--a stranger's voice commands;
Ye, princes once and chieftains, ere the false foe crossed the flood,
Now, drawers of their water and base hewers of their wood!
Page 57

    

VII.


And, Adalusian Brothers, of the old Vandalic race,
Will ye alone 'midst Spaniards, be proud of your disgrace?
They flatter, fawn, but hate you, these proud foes to whom you've sold
Your Liberty for mocking smiles--your country for their gold.

    

VIII.


They own your stately palaces, they desecrate your shrines,
They trample on your vineyards, yet ye stoop to drink their wines;
Ye wear their silk, their gold, their gems, and to their feasts ye run;
Now shame for ye, my brothers, is it thus that Freedom's won?

    

IX.


Back to your wild sierras, better die there in your homes
Than cringingly bow low beneath your masters' haughty domes;
Their Syrian silks, their Indian gems, go--fling them to the Sea,
But keep their Syrian steel, for it will help to set us free.

    

X.


Oh! by your ancient memories, rise Prince, and Peer, and Chief--
Smite down the foe that wrought our woe at Gebel el Taríf.
The robber horde awaits your sword--draw, Spaniards! for your land!
The crown ye lost by Roderic, regain it by Fernand!

    

XI.


No coward fears--eight hundred years ye've lived as slaves, not men;
But swords makes bright each chartered right--ye'll have your own again.
Page 58


Brave hearts and leal of proud Castile--Revenge, on Mauritania!
Rend earth and sky with your gathering cry: Charge! Cierra Espana!

    

XII.


As tempests sweep the surging deep, thus on the Moorish ranks
Dashes the Spanish chivalry; they charge on van and flanks.
From Calpe's rock the thunder-shock re-echoes o'er the main--
Now, God and Santiago, for our Liberty and Spain!

    

XIII.


Little they think of mercy, these slaves of eight hundred years;
Never they spare a foeman, these bold true Iberian spears.
Crescènted hosts your taunting boasts this day find answer meet,
For the light of Heaven is darkened by the dust of your flying feet.

    

XIV.


Granàda falls! From the Castle walls tear down the Alien's rag--
On turret and Alcàzar, comrades, up with our ancient flag!
It floats from the proud Alhambra! Thank God, we've lived to see
Our ancient standard waving once again above the Free!

    

XV.


Pass out, ye weeping people; aye, weep--for never more
Shall ye gather in Granàda by the sound of Atambór;
For, by the rood, ye Moslem brood, we swore it in Castile,
Never again should Spain be ruled by foreign Alquazil.

    

XVI.


O Moorish King! by suffering thou has earned a name to-day--*
But we give thee life, Abdallah; pass onwards on thy way.
Page 59


Accursed race, the foul disgrace thy rule hath brought on Spain,
Is cleansed away in blood to-day--we drive thee 'cross the main.

    

XVII.


By Elvira's gate he goeth, all solemnly and slow--
One last look at Granàda, ere they pass that gate of woe.
"Oh, better far thy scimitar had laid thee with the dead,
Than weep for what thou could'st not keep"--the proud Zoràya said.*

    

XVIII.


Allah, Allah Hu Akbar! what sorrow like my sorrows?
Thus he goeth weeping by the way of Alpujarras;
Allah, Allah Hu Akbar! on his tomb is written down--
The King who lost a Kingdom when great Spain regained her Crown.
___________________

Abdallah is known in history as "El triste Rey."


___________________

This taunt of the Sultana mother is related by Condé.

    

WHO WILL SHOW US ANY GOOD?

    

I.


BEAUTIFUL IRELAND! Who will preach to thee?
    Souls are waiting for lips to vow;
And outstretched hands, that fain would reach to thee,
    Yearn to help, if they knew but how,
    To lift the thorn-wreath off thy brow.

    

II.


Passionate dreamers have fought and died for thee,
    Poets poured forth their lava song;
But dreamer and poet have failed as a guide for thee--
    Still are unriven the chains of wrong.

    

III.


Suffering Ireland! Martyr-Nation!
    Blind with tears thick as mountain mist;
Can none amidst all the new generation
    Change them to glory, as hills sun-kissed
    Flash lights of opal and amethyst?
Page 60

    

IV.


Welcome a Hero! A man to lead for us,
    Sifting true men from chaff and weeds;
Daring and doing as those who, indeed, for us
    Proved their zeal by their life and deeds.

    

V.


Desolate Ireland! Saddest of mothers,
    Waits and weeps in her island home;
But the Western Land--has she help for others
Who feeds her eagles on blood of brothers?
    Not with cannon or roll of drum,
    Or foreign flag can our triumph come.

    

VI.


Why seek aid from the arm of a stranger?
    Trust thy sons, O Mother! for good;
Braver can none be in hours of danger,
    Proudly claiming thy rights withstood.

    

VII.


Then, Ireland! wake from thy vain despairing!
    Grand the uses of life may be;
Heights can be reached by heroic daring,
    Crowns are won by the brave and free,
And Nations create their own destiny.

    

VIII.


But, Time and the hour fleet fast unbidden,
    A turbid stream over golden sands;
And too often the gold is scattered or hidden,
    While we stand by with listless hands.

    

IX.


Then seize the least grain as it glistens and passes,
    Swift and sure is that river's flight:
The glory of morning the bright wave glasses,
    But the gold and glory soon fade from sight,
    And noon-tide splendours will change to night.
Page 61

    

X.


Ah! life is too brief for languor or quarrel,
    Second by second the dead drop down;
And souls, all eager to strive for the laurel,
    Faint and fall ere they win the crown.

    

XI.


Ireland rests mid the rush of progression,
    As a frozen ship in a frozen sea;
And the changeless stillness of life's stagnation,
    Is worse than the wildest waves could be,
    Rending the rocks eternally.

    

XII.


Then, trumpet-tongued, to a people sleeping,
    Who will speak with magic command,
Bidding them rise--these dead men, keeping
    Watch by the dead in a silent land?

    

XIII.


Grandly, solemnly, earnestly preaching,
    Man's great gospel of Truth and light;
With lips like saints' in their love beseeching,
    Hands as strong as a prophet's to smite
    The foes to Humanity's sacred right.

    

XIV.


Earth is thrilling with new aspirations,
    Rending the fetters that bar and ban;
But we alone of the Christian nations
    Fall to the rear in the march of Man.

    

XV.


Alas! can I help? but a nameless singer--
    Weak the words of a woman to save;
We wait the advent of some light-bringer,
    Strong to roll the stone from the grave,
    And summon to life the death-bound slave.
Page 62

    

XVI.


Down from heights of the Infinite drifting,
    Raising the prisoned soul from gloom;
Like the white angels of God uplifting
    Seal and stone from the Saviour's tomb.

    

XVII.


Yet, hear me now, for a Nation pleading;
    Strike! but with swords yet keener than steel;
Flash on the path the new Age is treading,
    As sparks from grooves of the iron wheel,
    In star-flames its onward march reveal.

    

XVIII.


Work by the shore where our broad ocean rages,
    Bridging it over by wraiths of steam;
Linking two worlds by a chain that sages
    Forged in the heat of a science dream.

    

XIX.


For Nature has stamped us with brand immortal,
    Highway of nations our Land must be:
We hold the keys of the Old-world portal,
    We guard the pass of the Western Sea--
    Ireland, sole in her majesty!

    

XX.


Work! there is work for the thinker and doer,
    And glory for all when the goal is won;
So we are true to our Country, or truer
    Than Planets are to the central Sun.

    

XXI.


Call from the hills our own Irish Eagle,
    Spread its plumes on the "The Green" of old;
With a sunrise blaze, as a mantle regal,
    Turning the dust-brown wings to gold--
    Symbol and flag be it then unrolled!
Page 63

    

XXII.


Face Heaven's light with as proud a daring,
    Tread the heights with a step as grand,
Breast the wild storm with brave hearts unfearing
    As kings might do for their rightful land.

    

XXIII.


Irish daring by land and by river,
    Irish wealth from mountain and mine,
Irish courage so strong to deliver,
    Irish love as strong to combine
    Separate chords in one strain divine;

    

XXIV.


These are the forces of conquering power,
    Chains to sever, if slaves we be;
Then strike in your might, O Men of the hour!
    And Ireland springs on the path of the free!

    

A LAMENT FOR THE POTATO.

      

A.D. 1739.

      

(From the Irish).


THERE is woe, there is clamour, in our desolated land,
And wailing lamentation from a famine-stricken band;
And weeping are the multitudes in sorrow and despair,
For the green fields of Munster lying desolate and bare.


Woe for Lorc's* ancient kingdom, sunk in slavery and grief;
Plundered, ruined, are our gentry, our people, and their Chief;

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For the harvest lieth scattered, more worth to us than gold,
All the kindly food that nourished both the young and the old.


Well I mind me of the cosherings, where princes might dine,
And we drank until nightfall the best seven sorts of wine;
Yet was ever the Potato our old, familiar dish,
And the best of all sauces with the beeves and the fish.


But the harp now is silent, no one careth for the sound;
No flowers, no sweet honey, and no beauty can be found;
Not a bird its music thrilling through the leaves of the wood,
Nought but weeping and hands wringing in despair for our food.


And the Heavens, all in darkness, seem lamenting our doom,
No brightness in the sunlight, not a ray to pierce the gloom;
The cataract comes rushing with a fearful deepened roar,
And ocean bursts its boundaries, dashing wildly on the shore.


Yet, in misery and want, we have one protecting man,
Kindly Barry, of Fitzstephen's old hospitable clan;
By mount and river working deeds of charity and grace:
Blessings ever on our champion, best hero of his race!


Save us, God! In Thy mercy bend to hear the people's cry,
From the famine-stricken fields, rising bitterly on high;
Let the mourning and the clamour cease in Lorc's ancient land,
And shield us in the death-hour by Thy strong, protecting hand!*
___________________

Lorc, or Lorcan, an ancient King of Munster, the grandfather of the great King Brian Boru.


___________________

This Irish poem, so pathetic and expressive in its simplicity, first appeared in the Dublin University Magazine, in the Essay on "The Food of the Irish," by Sir William Wilde. It is quoted by him as "highly characteristic both of the feelings of the people and the extent of the calamity of that time; besides being a good specimen of the native poetry of the Irish more than a hundred years ago.

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HAVE WE DONE WELL FOR IRELAND?


O COUNTRY, writhing in thy chain
    With fierce, wild efforts to be free,
Not seeing that with every strain
    The bonds close firmer over thee;
Or grasping blindly in thy hate
The temple pillars of the State,
To hurl them down on friend and foe,
Crushed in one common overthrow--
Can none of all thy Poet band
Preach nobler aims, loved Ireland?


As David drove with magic chords
    The Evil Spirit back to night;
As Moses by his mighty words
    Led Egypt's bondmen up to light;
Hast thou no Poet, strong to calm
Thy troubled soul with holy psalm?
Or trusted Chief, who, safely on
Across the fatal Rubicon,
Could lead thee with pure heart and hand
To Freedom--my own Ireland?


By those doomed men, in dull despair
    Slow wasting in a dungeon's gloom;
By all youth's fiery heart can dare
    Quenched in the prison's living tomb--
By the corroding felon chain,
That tortures with Promethean pain
Of vultures gnawing at the core
Of their lost lives for evermore--
I ask you, People of our Land,
Have ye done well for Ireland?


By History traced on dungeon walls,
    By scaffolds, chains, and exiles' tears,
Slow marking, as the shadow falls,
    The mournful sequence of the years;

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By genius crushed and progress barred,
By noble aspirations marred,
Till with a smouldering fire's life
They burn in deadly hate and strife--
I ask you, Rulers of our Land,
Have ye done well for Ireland?


O Men! these men are brothers too,
    Tho' frenzied by a fatal dream,
Their living souls were meant to do
    Some noble work in God's great scheme,
Perchance to hew down, branch and root,
The tree that bore such bitter fruit;
But, left unguided in the Right,
They grope out blindly in the night
Of their dark passions; striking down
Their Country's proud hopes with their own.


But now, ye say, the Land hath rest--
    Aye, with the death weights on her eyes;
And fettered arms across her breast,
    And mail'd hands stifling down her cries.
So rests a corpse within the grave
O'er which the charnal grasses wave.
Oh, better far some kindly word
To stay the vengeance-lifted sword,
Or Love, with queenly, outstretched hand,
To soothe thee--fated Ireland!

    

WILLIAM CARLETON.

      

DIED, JANUARY 30TH, 1869.


OUR land has lost a glory! Never more,
    Tho' years roll on, can Ireland hope to see
Another Carleton, cradled in the lore
    Of our loved Country's rich humanity.

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The weird traditions, the old, plaintive strain,
    The murmured legends of a vengeful past,
When a down-trodden people stove in vain
    To rend the fetters centuries made fast;


These, with the song and dance and tender tale,
    Linked to our ancient music, have swept on
And died in far-off echoes, like the wail
    Of Israel's broken Harps in Babylon.
No hand like his can wake them now, for he
    Sprang from amidst the people: bathed his soul
In their strong passions, stormy as the sea,
    And wild as skies before the thunder-roll.


Yet, was he gentle; with divinest art
    And tears that shook his nature over much,
He struck the key-note of a people's heart,
    And all the nation answered to his touch,
Even as he swayed them, giving smiles for gloom,
    And childlike tenderness for hate that kills--
As rain clouds threat'ning with a weight of doom
    Flash sudden, silver light upon the hills.


But, he had faults--men said. Oh, fling them back,
    These cold deductions, marring praise with blame;
When earthquakes rend the rocks they leave a track
    For central fires issuing forth in flame;
And by the passionate heat of gifted minds
    The ruddest stones are crystallised to gems
Of glorious worth, such as a poet binds
    Upon his brow, right royal diadems!


Like the great image of the Monarch's dream,
    Genius lifts up on high the head of gold,
And cleaves with iron limbs Time's mighty stream,
    Tho' all too deep the feet may press earth's mould.
Yet, by his gifts made dedicate to God
    In noblest teachings of each gentle grace,
Through every land that Irishmen have trod
    We claim for him the homage of our race.

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With pen of light he drew great pictures when
    Nothing but scorn was ours; and without fear
He flung them down before the face of men,
    Saying, in words the whole world paused to hear:
So brave, so pure, so noble, grand, and true
    Is this, our Irish People. Thus he gave
His fame to build our glory, and undo
    The taunts of ages,--strong to lift and save


So, with a nation's gratitude we vow
    In every Irish heart a shrine shall be
To The Great Peasant, on whose deathless brow
    Rests the star-crown of immortality.
The kings of mind, unlike the kings of earth,
    Can bear their honours with them to illume
The grave's dark vault; so Carleton passes forth,
    As through triumphal arches, to the tomb!

    

THE NEW PATH.

    

I.


WE stand in the light of a dawning day,
    With its glory creation flushing;
And the life-currents up from the pris'ning clay
    Through the world's great heart are rushing.
While from peak to peak of the spirit land
    A voice unto voice is calling:
The night is over, the day is at hand,
    And the fetters of earth are falling!

    

II.


Yet, faces are pale with a mystic fear
    Of the strife and trouble looming;
And we feel that mighty changes are near,
    Tho' the Lord delayeth his coming.
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For the rent flags hang from each broken mast,
    And down in the ocean's surges
The shattered wreck of a foundering Past
    Sinks mid the night wind's dirges.

    

III.


But the world goes thundering on to the light,
    Unheeding our vain presages;
And nations are cleaving a path to Right
    Through the mouldering dust of ages.
Are we, then, to rest in a chill despair,
    Unmoved by these new elations;
Nor carry the flag of our Island fair
    In the onward march of nations?

    

IV.


Shall our hands be folded in slumber, when
    The bonds and the chains are shattered;
As stony and still as enchanted men,
    In a cave of darkness fettered?
The cave may be dark, but we'll flash bright gleams
    Of the morning's radiance on it,
And tread the New Path, tho' the noontide beams,
    As yet, fall faintly upon it.

    

V.


For souls are around us, with gifts divine,
    Unknown and neglected dying;
Like the precious ore in a hidden mine,
    Unworked and as useless lying.
We summon them forth to the banded war,
    The sword of the Spirit using,
To come with their forces from near and far,
    New strength with our strength infusing.

    

VI.


Let each bear a torch with the foremost bands,
    Through the Future's dark outgoing;
Or stand by the helm, mid the shoals and sands
    Of the river of life fast flowing.
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Or as guides on the hills, with a bugle note,
    Let us warn the mountain ranger
Of the chasms that cross and the mists that float
    O'er his upward path of danger.

    

VII.


For the chasms are deep, and the river is strong,
    And the tempest is wildly waking;
We have need of brave hands to guide us along
    The path which the Age is taking.
With our gold and pearls let us build the State;
    Faith, courage, and tender pity
Are the gems that shine on the golden gate
    Of the Angels' Heavenly city.

    

VIII.


O People! so richly endowed with all
    The splendours of spirit power,
With the poet's gift and the minstrel-soul,
    And the orator's glorious dower;
Are hearts not amongst us, or lips to vow,
    With patriot fervour breathing,
To crown with their lustre no alien brow
    While the thorn our own is wreathing.

    

IX.


Ev'n lovelier gifts on our lowly poor,
    Kind Nature lavishly showers,
As the gold rain falls on the cottage door,
    Of the glowing laburnam flowers;
The deathless love for their Country and God
    Undimmed through the ages keeping,
Tho' the fairest harvests that grew on our sod
    Were left for the stangers' reaping.

    

X.


The gentle grace that to commonest words
    Gives a rare and tender beauty;
With the zeal that would face a thousand swords
    For their Country, home and duty.
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Still breathing the prayer for their Motherland
    Her wrongs and her sorrows taught them;
Tho' the scaffold's doom, or the felon-brand,
    Were the only gifts she brought them.

    

XI.


But we, let us bring her--as eastern kings,
    At the foot of Christ low kneeling--
The gold that symbols our costliest things,
    And myrrh for the spirit's healing
Oh, Brothers! be with us, our aim is high,
    The highest of man's vocation:
With these priceless jewels, that round us lie,
    To build up a noble Nation.

    

O'CONNELL,