Part 8 (1/2)
Who, in descent from Heaven's ecstatic throng, Was twin to light, and ranged from source to sea, And sh.o.r.e to peak, and G.o.d, drew up to thee The generations happy, pure and strong?
Freedom, as Erin's was, ere ruthless wrong Caught, scourged and hanged it on the out-law's tree; And is; for lo! it proves Divinity, Transfiguring from anguish, ages long.
True, they have strangled Freedom on the cross Of every Right's suppression--nay, have barred His body's tomb, and placed a host on guard!
Still, He is risen; His faithful mourn no loss.
He s.h.i.+nes forth in their midst. No bolts r.e.t.a.r.d His entrance, where grand aims for life engross.
THE FIGHT IN IRELAND
The fight in Ireland is 'twixt Man and Brute.
A lion with the sea-surge for his mane, Is there hurled back by Man with proud disdain, Although heart-drained with gash from head to foot.
Oh, in that Eden of Forbidden Fruit, How Satan, searching for a snake in vain, Fumed forth a monster from his heart and brain-- The Lion--as the serpent's subst.i.tute!
Oh, all ye peoples of the World draw nigh!
Stand on the bodies of eight centuries, Struck dead with horror; for, raised thus, one sees In Erin, torn, a soul that cannot die, And that its struggle is Humanity's Against the fiend, who would give G.o.d the lie.
TO ERIN
How help take pride in thee, whose golden hair Of culture trailed the earth for centuries; Whose throne was freedom and whose realm was peace; And, in strange lands, whose joy and only care Were to spread light, and who, not anywhere Thy charm made headway, planting liberties, Didst, then, by stealthy step, or creep on knees, Sow with the lilies, faster-growing tare!
How help love thee, whose hand, raised to the sun, Glows rosy, and not red with murder's stain?
The angels kiss it. Force can forge no chain To drag thee false-ward. Like a holy Nun, Stigmated, how thy faith grows with thy pain-- Aye, till thy Cross, like Constantine's has won.
THE QUEEN OF BEAUTY
In rapt, roused Erin, who does not behold A Venus, rising from the sea of tears, Up to her native, Earth-illuming spheres?
Her hair, long matted, is a flow of gold Which even the Sun might wear and feel not cold; And, oh, her heavenly smile at doubts and fears, As when she, at all depths, raised to her ears, Sh.e.l.ls of her Glory, murmuring, ”Be bold!”
Lo! where the green and orange morn unfurls, See Erin rise. How s.h.i.+ne her golden tresses!
They form her crown, for trailing rocks down whirls, And reaching all the under-sea recesses, They draw about her brow, the rarest pearls-- Love for what frees and hate for what oppresses!
LIBERTY, THE LIGHT TO PEACE
All hail to those who, through the stormy night, Make Liberty the light on Erin's coast; Who, ceaseless, send up sparks; who hold their post On each and every ledge of Human Right, Forming a beacon blaze from base to height Where Erin's hope may steer and land its host.