O my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure,
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure?

Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing,

One dying wish my lone bosom can draw,— Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing!

Land of my forefathers, Erin go bragh!

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean!

And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,Erin mavournin, Erin go bragh!

Thomas Campbell [1777-1844]

ANDROMEDA

THEY chained her fair young body to the cold and cruel stone;

The beast begot of sea and slime had marked her for his own; The callous world beheld the wrong, and left her there alone. Base caitiffs who belied her, false kinsmen who denied her, Ye left her there alone!

My Beautiful, they left thee in thy peril and thy pain;
The night that hath no morrow was brooding on the main:
But, lo! a light is breaking of hope for thee again;

'Tis Perseus' sword a-flaming, thy dawn of day proclaiming Across the western main.

O Ireland! O my country! he comes to break thy chain!

James Jeffrey Rocke [1847–1908]

IRELAND

Si oblitus fuero tui Ierusalem: oblivioni detur dextera mea.

THY Sorrow, and the sorrow of the sea,
Are sisters; the sad winds are of thy race:
The heart of melancholy beats in thee,
And the lamenting spirit haunts thy face,

Mournful and mighty Mother! who art kin
To the ancient earth's first woe,
When holy Angels wept, beholding sin.
For not in penance do thy true tears flow,
Not thine the long transgression: at thy name,
We sorrow not with shame,

But proudly: for thy soul is as the snow.

Old as the sorrow for lost Paradise

Seems thine old sorrow: thou in the mild West,
Who wouldst thy children upon earth suffice
For Paradise, and pure Hesperian rest;
Had not the violent and bitter fates

Burned up with fiery feet

The greenness of thy pastures; had not hates,
Envies, and desolations, with fierce heat
Wasted thee, and consumed the land of grace,
Beauty's abiding place;

And vexed with agony bright joy's retreat.

Swift at the word of the Eternal Will,
Upon thee the malign armed Angels came.
Flame was their winging, flame that laps thee still;
And in the anger of their eyes was flame.
One was the Angel of the field of blood,
And one of lonelier death:

One saddened exiles on the ocean flood,
And famine followed on another's breath.
Angels of evil, with incessant sword,

Smote thee, O land adored!

And yet smite: for the Will of God so saith.

A severing and sundering they wrought,
A rending of the soul. They turned to tears
The laughter of thy waters: and they brought,
To sow upon thy fields, quick seed of fears;
That brother should hate brother, and one roof
Shelter unkindly hearts;

Friend from his ancient friendship hold aloof,
And comrades learn to play sad alien parts,

Province from noble, province dwell estranged,
And all old trusts be changed;.

And treason teach true men her impious arts.

But yet in their reluctant hands they bore Laurel, and palm, and crown, and bay: an host, Heartened by wrath and sorrow more and more, Strove ever, giving up the mighty ghost;

The field well fought, the song well sung, for sake, Mother! of thee alone:

Sorrow and wrath bade deathless courage wake, And struck from burning harps a deathless tone. With palm and laurel won, with crown and bay, Went proudly down death's way

Children of Ireland, to their deathless throne.

Proud and sweet habitation of thy dead!
Throne upon throne, its thrones of sorrow filled:
Prince on prince coming with triumphant tread,
All passion, save the love of Ireland, stilled.
By the forgetful waters they forget

Not thee, O Inisfail!

Upon thy fields their dreaming eyes are set,
They hear thy winds call ever through each vale.
Visions of victory exalt and thrill

Their hearts' whole hunger still:
High beats their longing for the living Gael.

Sarsfield is sad there with his last desire;
FitzGerald mourns with Emmet; ancient chiefs
Dream on their saffron-mantled hosts, afire
Against the givers of their Mother's griefs.
Was it for naught, captain asks captain old,
Was it in vain, we fell?

Shall we have fallen like the leaves of gold,

And no green spring wake from the long dark spell? Shall never a crown of summer fruitage come

From blood of martyrdom?

Yet to our faith will we not say farewell!

There the white soul of Davis, there the worn,
Waste soul of Mangan, there the surging soul
Of Grattan, hunger for thy promised morn:
There the great legion of thy martyr roll,
Filled with the fames of seven hundred years,

Hunger to hear the voice,

Sweeter than marriage music in their ears,
That shall bid thee and all thy sons rejoice.
There bide the spirits who for thee yet burn;
Ah! might we but return,

And make once more for thee the martyr choice!

No swordsmen are the Christians! Oisin cried:
O Patrick! thine is but a little race.

Nay, ancient Oisin! they have greatly died
In battle glory and with warrior grace.

Signed with the Cross, they conquered and they fell,
Sons of the Cross, they stand:

The Prince of Peace loves righteous warfare well,

And loves thine armies, O our Holy Land!

The Lord of Hosts is with thee, and thine eyes

Shall see upon thee rise

His glory, and the blessing of His Hand.

Thou hast no fear: with immemorial pride,

Bright as when Oscar ran the morning glades;

The knightly Fenian hunters at his side,

The sunlight through green leaves glad on their blades; The heart in thee is full of joyous faith.

Not in the bitter dust

Thou crouchest, heeding what the coward saith:

But, radiant with an everlasting trust,

Hearest thine ancient rivers in their glee

Thy winds make melody: O joy most just!

Nay! we insult thee not with tears, although
With thee we sorrow: not as for one dead
We mourn, for one in the cold earth laid low.
Still is the crown upon thy sovereign head,

Still is the scepter within thy strong hand,

Still is the kingdom thine:

The armies of thy sons on thy command

Wait, and thy starry eyes through darkness shine. Tears for the dear and dead! For thee, All hail! Unconquered Inisfail!

Tears for the lost: thou livest, O divine!

Thou passest not away: the sternest powers
Spoil not all beauty of thy face, nor mar
All peace of thy great heart, O pulse of ours!
The darkest cloud dims thee not all, O star!
Ancient and proud thy sorrows, and their might
That of the murmuring waves:

They hearten us to fight the unceasing fight,
Filled with the grace, that flows from holy graves.
Sons pass away, and thou hast sons as true

To fight the fight anew:

Thy welfare, all the gain their warfare craves.

Sweet Mother! in what marvellous dear ways
Close to thine heart thou keepest all thine own!
Far off, they yet can consecrate their days
To thee, and on the swift winds westward blown,
Send thee the homage of their hearts, their vow
Of one most sacred care:

To thee devote all passionate power, since thou
Vouchsafest them, O land of love! to bear
Sorrow and joy with thee. Each far son thrills
Toward thy blue dreaming hills,

And longs to kiss thy feet upon them, Fair!

If death come swift upon me, it will be
Because of the great love I bear the Gael!
So sang upon the separating sea

Columba, while his boat sped out of hail,

And all grew lonely. But some sons thou hast, Whose is an heavier lot,

Close at thy side: they see thy torment last,

And all their will to help thee helps thee not.