Fulfilled, for glory of the battle won? Hast thou no prophet left? Is all thy Druid wizardry undone, And thou of thy foreknowledge quite bereft? Nay! but the power of faith is prophecy, Vision, and certainty; Faith, that hath walked the waves, and mountains cleft. As haunting Tirnanoge within the sea, So hid within the Eyes of God thy fate Lies dreaming: and when God shall bid it be, Far to the desert of their own sad clime Shall fly the ill Angels, when God bids them cease. No evil can destroy: The sorrows of thy soul shall have release. Thy blood of martyrs to the martyrs' Home That surge of a long sigh, That voice of an unresting misery, That ardor of anguish unto the Most High. Thou from thy wronged earth pleadest with the Just, Whose loving mercy must Hear, and command thy death in life to die. Golden allies are thine, bright souls of Saints, Glad choirs of intercession for the Gael: Their flame of prayer ascends, their stream of plaints Flows to the wounded feet, for Inisfail. Victor, the Angel of thy Patrick, pleads; Mailed Michael with his sword Kneels there, the champion of thy bitter needs, Prince of the shining armies of the Lord: And there, Star of the Morning and the Sea, And unto Mary be thy prayers outpoured. O Rose! O Lily! O Lady full of grace! O Mary Mother! O Mary Maid! hear thou. Ah! who can help her, but in mercy He? His, at Whose word depart Sorrows and hates, home to Hell's waste and wild. Lionel Johnson (1867-1902] TO THE DEAD OF '98 GOD rest you, rest you, rest you, Ireland's dead! Peace be upon you shed, Peace from the Mercy of the Crucified, You, who for Ireland died! Soft fall on you the dews and gentle airs Of interceding prayers, From lowly cabins of our ancient land, Yours yet, O Sacred Band! God rest you, rest you: for the fight you fought Was His; the end you sought, His; from His altar fires you took your flame, Hailing His Holy Name. Triumphantly you gave yourselves to death: And your last breath Was one last sigh for Ireland, sigh to Him, As the loved land grew dim. And still, blessed and martyr souls! you pray In the same faith this day: From forth your dwelling beyond sun and star, Where only spirits are, Your prayers in a perpetual flight arise, Their tireless wings, and wait the Holy Word Not unto us, they plead, Thy goodness gave Our mother to enslave; To us Thou gavest death for love of her: Ah, what death lovelier? But to our children's children give to see Thy dead beseech thee: to Thy living give In liberty to live! Lionel Johnson [1867-1902] THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD WHO fears to speak of Ninety-Eight? When cowards mock the patriot's fate, We drink the memory of the brave, The fame of those who died; Some on the shores of distant lands But, though their clay be far away The dust of some is Irish earth; Among their own they rest; And the same land that gave them birth And we will pray that from their clay They rose in dark and evil days That nothing shall withstand. They fell and passed away; But true men, like you, men, Are plenty here to-day. Then here's their memory-may it be For us a guiding light, To cheer our strife for liberty, And teach us to unite. Through good and ill, be Ireland's still, Though sad as theirs your fate; And true men be you, men, Like those of Ninety-Eight! John Kells Ingram [1823-1907] CUSHLA MA CHREE DEAR Erin, how sweetly thy green bosom rises! Each blade of thy meadows my faithful heart prizes, Thou queen of the west! the world's cushla ma chree! Thy gates open wide to the poor and the stranger— Thy friendship is seen in the moment of danger, And the wanderer is welcomed with cushla ma chree. Thy sons they are brave; but, the battle once over, John Philpot Curran [1750-1817] THE GREEN LITTLE SHAMROCK OF IRELAND THERE'S a dear little plant that grows in our isle, It thrives through the bog, through the brake, and the mireland; And he called it the dear little shamrock of Ireland The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock, This dear little plant still grows in our land, Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin, Whose smiles can bewitch, whose eyes can command, And shine through the bog, through the brake, and the mireland, Just like their own dear little shamrock of Ireland. The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock, This dear little plant that springs from our soil, And ourselves by ourselves be befriended; |