All hail; thou noble land,Our Fathers' native soil!O, stretch thy mighty hand,Gigantic grown by toil,O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore!For thou with magic mightCanst reach to where the lightOf Phoebus travels brightThe world o'er!
The genius of our climeFrom his pine-embattled steepShall hail the guest sublime;While the Tritons of the deepWith their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim.Then let the world combine,—O'er the main our naval lineLike the Milky Way shall shineBright in flame!
Though ages long have passedSince our Fathers left their home,Their pilot in the blast,O'er untravelled seas to roam,Yet lives the blood of England in our veins!And shall we not proclaimThat blood of honest fameWhich no tyranny can tameBy its chains?
While the language free and boldWhich the Bard of Avon sung,In which our Milton toldHow the vault of heaven rungWhen Satan, blasted, fell with his host;While this, with reverence meet,Ten thousand echoes greet,From rock to rock repeatRound our coast;
While the manners, while the arts,That mould a nation's soul,Still cling around our hearts,—Between let Ocean roll,Our joint communion breaking with the sun:Yet still from either beachThe voice of blood shall reach,More audible than speech,"We are One."
* * * * *
First drink a health, this solemn night,A health to England, every guest:That man's the best cosmopoliteWho loves his native country best.May Freedom's oak for ever liveWith stronger life from day to day:That man's the best ConservativeWho lops the moulded branch away.Hands all round!God the tyrant's hope confound!To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends,And the great name of England, round and round.
A health to Europe's honest men!Heaven guard them from her tyrants' jails!From wronged Poerio's noisome den,From iron limbs and tortured nails!We curse the crimes of southern kings,The Russian whips and Austrian rods:We likewise have our evil things,—Too much we make our ledgers, gods.Yet hands all round!God the tyrant's cause confound!To Europe's better health we drink, my friends,And the great name of England, round and round!
What health to France, if France be she,Whom martial progress only charms?Yet tell her—better to be freeThan vanquish all the world in arms.Her frantic city's flashing heatsBut fire, to blast the hopes of men.Why change the titles of your streets?You fools, you'll want them all again.Hands all round!God the tyrant's cause confound!To France, the wiser France, we drink, my friends,And the great name of England, round and round.
Gigantic daughter of the West,We drink to thee across the flood!We know thee and we love thee best;For art thou not of British blood?Should war's mad blast again be blown,Permit not thou the tyrant powersTo fight thy mother here alone,But let thy broadsides roar with ours.Hands all round!God the tyrant's cause confound!To our great kinsman of the West, my friends,And the great name of England, round and round.
Oh rise, our strong Atlantic sons,When war against our freedom springs!Oh, speak to Europe through your guns!Theycanbe understood by kings.You must not mix our Queen with thoseThat wish to keep their people fools:Our freedom's foemen are her foes;She comprehends the race she rules.Hands all round!God the tyrant's cause confound!To our great kinsman in the West, my friends,And the great cause of Freedom, round and round.
* * * * *
God of our fathers, known of old,—Lord of our far-flung battle line,—Beneath whose awful hand we holdDominion over palm and pine,—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget,—lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies,The captains and the kings depart:Still stands thine ancient sacrifice,—An humble and a contrite heart.Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget,—lest we forget!
Far-called, our navies melt away;On dune and headland sinks the fire.Lo! all our pomp of yesterdayIs one with Nineveh and Tyre!Judge of the nations, spare us yet,Lest we forget,—lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we looseWild tongues that have not thee in awe,Such boasting as the Gentiles useOr lesser breeds without the law,—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget,—lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trustIn reeking tube and iron shard,All valiant dust that builds on dust,And guarding calls not thee to guard,For frantic boasts and foolish word,Thy mercy on thy people, Lord!Amen.
* * * * *
She stands, a thousand-wintered tree,By countless morns impearled;Her broad roots coil beneath the sea,Her branches sweep the world;Her seeds, by careless winds conveyed,Clothe the remotest strandWith forests from her scatterings made,New nations fostered in her shade,And linking land with land.
O ye by wandering tempest sown'Neath every alien star,Forget not whence the breath was blownThat wafted you afar!For ye are still her ancient seedOn younger soil let fall—Children of Britain's island-breed,To whom the Mother in her needPerchance may one day call.
* * * * *
O Caledonia! stern and wild,Meet nurse for a poetic child!Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,Land of the mountain and the flood,Land of my sires! what mortal handCan e'er untie the filial bandThat knits me to thy rugged strand?Still, as I view each well-known scene,Think what is now, and what hath been,Seems, as to me, of all bereft,Sole friends thy woods and streams were left;And thus I love them better still,Even in extremity of ill.By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,Though none should guide my feeble way;Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,Although it chilled my withered cheek;Still lay my head by Teviot stone,Though there, forgotten and alone,The bard may draw his parting groan.
* * * * *
"Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!Confusion on thy banners wait;Tho' fanned by Conquest's crimson wing,They mock the air with idle state,Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall availTo save thy secret soul from nightly fears,From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!"Such were the sounds that o'er the crested prideOf the first Edward scattered wild dismay,As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy sideHe wound with toilsome march his long array.Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance:"To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couched his quiv'ring lance.
On a rock, whose haughty browFrowns o'er cold Conway's foaming flood,Robed in the sable garb of woe,With haggard eyes the poet stood:(Loose his beard, and hoary hairStreamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air)And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire,Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre."Hark how each giant oak, and desert cave,Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!O'er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave,Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.
"Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,That hushed the stormy main:Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:Mountains, ye mourn in vainModred, whose magic songMade huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head.On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale;Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail;The famished eagle screams, and passes by.Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,Ye died amidst your dying country's cries—No more I weep. They do not sleep.On yonder cliffs, a grisly band,I see them sit, they linger yet,Avengers of their native land:With me in dreadful harmony they join,And weave with bloody hands the tissues of thy line.
"Weave the warp, and weave the woof,The winding sheet of Edward's race.Give ample room, and verge enoughThe characters of hell to trace.Mark the year, and mark the night,When Severn shall re-echo with affrightThe shrieks of death, thro' Berkeley's roof that ring,Shrieks of an agonizing king!She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangsThe scourge of Heaven. What Terrors round him wait!Amazement in his van, with Flight combined,And Sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind.
"Mighty victor, mighty lord!Low on his funeral couch he lies!No pitying heart, no eye, affordA tear to grace his obsequies.Is the sable warrior fled?Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.The swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born,Gone to salute the rising morn.Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows.While proudly riding o'er the azure realmIn gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm;Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway,That, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey.
"Fill high the sparkling bowl,The rich repast prepare,Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast;Close by the regal chairFell Thirst and Famine scowlA baleful smile upon their baffled guest.Heard ye the din of battle bray,Lance to lance, and horse to horse?Long years of havoc, urged their destined course,And through the kindred squadrons mow their way.Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,With many a foul and midnight murder fed,Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame,And spare the meek usurper's holy head.Above, below, the rose of snow,Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:The bristled Boar in infant-goreWallows beneath the thorny shade.Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursèd loom,Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.
"Edward, lo! to sudden fate(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.)Half of thy heart we consecrate.(The web is wove. The work is done.)Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlornLeave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn:In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,They melt, they vanish from my eyes.But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's heightDescending slow their glittering skirts unroll?Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail.All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail!
"Girt with many a baron boldSublime their starry fronts they rear;And gorgeous dames, and statesmen oldIn bearded majesty, appear.In the midst a form divine!Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line:Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face,Attempered sweet to virgin-grace.What strings symphonious tremble in the air,What strains of vocal transport round her play!Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings,Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colored wings.
"The verse adorn again,Fierce War, and faithful Love,And Truth severe by fairy fiction drest.In buskined measure movePale Grief and pleasing Pain,With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.A voice, as of the cherub-choir,Gales from blooming Eden bear;And distant warblings lessen on my ear,That lost in long futurity expire.Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud,Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day?To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,And warms the nations with redoubled ray.Enough for me; with joy I seeThe different doom our fates assign.Be thine Despair, and sceptred Care,To triumph, and to die, are mine."He spoke and headlong from the mountain's heightDeep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.
* * * * *
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe.My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,The birthplace of valor, the country of worth;Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,The hills of the Highlands forever I love.
Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow;Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe.My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
* * * * *
From the bonny bells of heatherThey brewed a drink long-syne,Was sweeter far than honey,Was stronger far than wine.They brewed it and they drank it,And lay in a blessed swoundFor days and days togetherIn the dwellings underground.
There rose a king in Scotland,A fell man to his foes,He smote the Picts in battle,He hunted them like roes.Over miles of the red mountainHe hunted as they fled,And strewed the dwarfish bodiesOf the dying and the dead.
Summer came in the country,Red was the heather bell;But the manner of the brewingWas none alive to tell.In graves that were like children'sOn many a mountain head,The Brewsters of the HeatherLay numbered with the dead.
The king in the red moorlandRode on a summer's day;And the bees hummed, and the curlewsCried beside the way.The king rode, and was angry;Black was his brow and pale,To rule in a land of heatherAnd lack the Heather Ale.
It fortuned that his vassals,Riding free on the heath,Came on a stone that was fallenAnd vermin hid beneath.Rudely plucked from their hiding,Never a word they spoke:A son and his agèd father—Last of the dwarfish folk.
The king sat high on his charger,He looked on the little men;And the dwarfish and swarthy coupleLooked at the king again.Down by the shore he had them;And there on the giddy brink—"I will give you life, ye vermin,For the secret of the drink."
There stood the son and fatherAnd they looked high and low;The heather was red around them,The sea rumbled below.And up and spoke the father,Shrill was his voice to hear;"I have a word in private,A word for the royal ear.
"Life is dear to the agèd,And honor a little thing;I would gladly sell the secret,"Quoth the Pict to the King.His voice was small as a sparrow's,And shrill and wonderful clear:"I would gladly sell my secret,Only my son I fear.
"For life is a little matter,And death is nought to the young;And I dare not sell my honorUnder the eye of my son.Takehim, O king, and bind him,And cast him far in the deep;And it's I will tell the secret.That I have sworn to keep."
They took the son and bound him,Neck and heels in a thong,And a lad took him and swung him,And flung him far and strong,And the sea swallowed his body,Like that of a child of ten;—And there on the cliff stood the father,Last of the dwarfish men.
"True as the word I told you:Only my son I feared;For I doubt the sapling courageThat goes without the beard.But now in vain is the torture,Fire shall never avail:Here dies in my bosomThe secret of Heather Ale."
* * * * *
[James Graham, Marquis of Montrose, was executed in Edinburgh, May 21, 1650, for an attempt to overthrow the Commonwealth and restore Charles II.]
Come hither, Evan Cameron!Come, stand behind my knee—I hear the river roaring downToward the wintry sea.There's shouting on the mountain-side,There's war within the blast—Old faces look upon me,Old forms go trooping past.I hear the pibroch wailingAmidst the din of fight,And my dim spirit wakes againUpon the verge of night.
'Twas I that led the Highland hostThrough wild Lochaber's snows,What time the plaided clans came downTo battle with Montrose.I've told thee how the Southrons fellBeneath the broad claymore,And how we smote the Campbell clanBy Inverlochy's shore.I've told thee how we swept Dundee,And tamed the Lindsays' pride;But never have I told thee yetHow the great Marquis died.
A traitor sold him to his foes;—O deed of deathless shame!I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meetWith one of Assynt's name—Be it upon the mountain's side,Or yet within the glen,Stand he in martial gear alone,Or backed by armèd men—Face him as thou wouldst face the manWho wronged thy sire's renown;Remember of what blood thou art,And strike the caitiff down!
They brought him to the Watergate,Hard bound with hempen span.As though they held a lion there,And not a 'fenceless man.They set him high upon a cart—The hangman rode below—They drew his hands behind his back,And bared his noble brow.Then, as a hound is slipped from leash,They cheered the common throng,And blew the note with yell and shout,And bade him pass along.
It would have made a brave man's heartGrow sad and sick that day.To watch the keen, malignant eyesBent down on that array.There stood the Whig west-country lordsIn balcony and bow;There sat their gaunt and withered dames,And their daughters all a-row.And every open windowWas full as full might beWith black-robed Covenanting carles,That goodly sport to see!
But when he came, though pale and wan,He looked so great and high,So noble was his manly front,So calm his steadfast eye;—The rabble rout forbore to shout,And each man held his breath,For well they knew the hero's soulWas face to face with death.And then a mournful shudderThrough all the people crept,And some that came to scoff at himNow turned aside and wept.
But onward—always onward,In silence and in gloom,The dreary pageant labored,Till it reached the house of doom.Then first a woman's voice was heardIn jeer and laughter loud,And an angry cry and a hiss aroseFrom the heart of the tossing crowd:Then, as the Graeme looked upward,He saw the ugly smileOf him who sold his king for gold—The master-fiend Argyle!
The Marquis gazed a moment,And nothing did he say,But the cheek of Argyle grew ghastly pale,And he turned his eyes away.The painted harlot by his side,She shook through every limb,For a roar like thunder swept the street,And hands were clenched at him;And a Saxon soldier cried aloud,"Back, coward, from thy place!For seven long years thou hast not daredTo look him in the face."
Had I been there with sword in hand,And fifty Camerons by,That day through high Dunedin's streetsHad pealed the slogan-cry.Not all their troops of trampling horse,Nor might of mailèd men—Not all the rebels in the southHad borne us backward then!Once more his foot on Highland heathHad trod as free as air,Or I, and all who bore my name,Been laid around him there!
It might not be. They placed him nextWithin the solemn hall,Where once the Scottish kings were thronedAmidst their nobles all.But there was dust of vulgar feetOn that polluted floor,And perjured traitors filled the placeWhere good men sate before.With savage glee came WarristonTo read the murderous doom;And then uprose the great MontroseIn the middle of the room:
"Now, by my faith as belted knightAnd by the name I bear,And by the bright St. Andrew's crossThat waves above us there—Yea, by a greater, mightier oath—And O that such should be!—By that dark stream of royal bloodThat lies 'twixt you and me—I have not sought in battle-fieldA wreath of such renown,Nor dared I hope on my dying dayTo win the martyr's crown!
"There is a chamber far awayWhere sleep the good and brave,But a better place ye have named for meThan by my father's grave.For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might,This hand has always striven,And ye raise it up for a witness stillIn the eye of earth and heaven.Then nail my head on yonder tower—Give every town a limb—And God who made shall gather them:I go from you to Him!"
The morning dawned full darkly,The rain came flashing down,And the jagged streak of the levin boltLit up the gloomy town.The thunder crashed across the heaven,The fatal hour was come;Yet aye broke in, with muffled beat,The 'larum of the drum.There was madness on the earth belowAnd anger in the sky,And young and old, and rich and poor,Came forth to see him die.
Ah God! that ghastly gibbet!How dismal 'tis to seeThe great tall spectral skeleton,The ladder and the tree!Hark! hark! it is the clash of arms,—The bells begin to toll,—"He is coming! he is coming!God's mercy on his soul!"One last long peal of thunder,—The clouds are cleared away.And the glorious sun once more looks downAmidst the dazzling day.
"He is coming! he is coming!"Like a bridegroom from his roomCame the hero from his prisonTo the scaffold and the doom.There was glory on his forehead,There was lustre in his eye,And he never walked to battleMore proudly than to die.There was color in his visage,Though the cheeks of all were wan;And they marvelled as they saw him pass,That great and goodly man!
He mounted up the scaffold,And he turned him to the crowd;But they dared not trust the people,So he might not speak aloud.But he looked upon the heavens,And they were clear and blue,And in the liquid etherThe eye of God shone through:Yet a black and murky battlementLay resting on the hill,As though the thunder slept within,—All else was calm and still.
The grim Geneva ministersWith anxious scowl drew near,As you have seen the ravens flockAround the dying deer.He would not deign them word nor sign,But alone he bent the knee;And veiled his face for Christ's dear graceBeneath the gallows-tree.Then, radiant and serene, he rose,And cast his cloak away;For he had ta'en his latest lookOf earth and sun and day.
A beam of light fell o'er him,Like a glory round the shriven,And he climbed the lofty ladderAs it were the path to heaven.Then came a flash from out the cloud,And a stunning thunder-roll;And no man dared to look aloft,—Fear was on every soul.There was another heavy sound,A hush, and then a groan;And darkness swept across the sky,—The work of death was done!
* * * * *
March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale!Why the de'il dinna ye march forward in order?March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale!All the Blue Bonnets are over the Border!Many a banner spreadFlutters above your head,Many a crest that is famous in story!—Mount and make ready, then,Sons of the mountain glen,Fight for the queen and our old Scottish glory.
Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing;Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing;Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.Trumpets are sounding;War-steeds are bounding;Stand to your arms, and march in good order,England shall many a dayTell of the bloody fray,When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.
* * * * *
Oh! why left I my hame?Why did I cross the deep?Oh! why left I the landWhere my forefathers sleep?I sigh for Scotia's shore,And I gaze across the sea,But I canna get a blinkO' my ain countrie.
The palm-tree waveth high,And fair the myrtle springs;And, to the Indian maid,The bulbul sweetly sings.But I dinna see the broomWi' its tassels on the lee,Nor hear the lintie's sangO' my ain countrie.
Oh! here no Sabbath bellAwakes the Sabbath morn,Nor song of reapers heardAmong the yellow corn:For the tyrant's voice is here,And the wail of slaverie;But the sun of freedom shinesIn my ain countrie.
There's a hope for every woe,And a balm for every pain,But the first joys o' our heartCome never back again.There's a track upon the deep,And a path across the sea:But the weary ne'er returnTo their ain countrie.
* * * * *
The savage loves his native shore,Though rude the soil and chill the air;Then well may Erin's sons adoreTheir isle which nature formed so fair,What flood reflects a shore so sweetAs Shannon great or pastoral Bann?Or who a friend or foe can meetSo generous as an Irishman?
His hand is rash, his heart is warm,But honesty is still his guide;None more repents a deed of harm,And none forgives with nobler pride;He may be duped, but won't be dared—More fit to practise than to plan;He dearly earns his poor reward,And spends it like an Irishman.
If strange or poor, for you he'll pay,And guide to where you safe may be;If you're his guest, while e'er you stay,His cottage holds a jubilee.His inmost soul he will unlock,And if he mayyoursecrets scan,Your confidence he scorns to mock,For faithful is an Irishman.
By honor bound in woe or weal,Whate'er she bids he dares to do;Try him with bribes—they won't prevail;Prove him in fire—you'll find him true.He seeks not safety, let his postBe where it ought in danger's van;And if the field of fame be lost,It won't be by an Irishman.
Erin! loved land! from age to age,Be thou more great, more famed, and free,May peace be thine, or shouldst thou wageDefensive war, cheap victory.May plenty bloom in every fieldWhich gentle breezes softly fan,And cheerful smiles serenely gildThe home of every Irishman.
* * * * *
A health to you, Piper,And your pipes silver-tongued, clear and sweet in their crooning!
Full of the music they gathered at mornOn your high heather hills from the lark on the wing,From the blackbird at eve on the blossoming thorn,From the little green linnet whose plaining they sing,And the joy and the hope in the heart of the Spring,O, Turlough MacSweeney!
Play us our Eire's most sorrowful songs,As she sits by her reeds near the wash of the wave,That the coldest may thrill at the count of her wrongs,That the sword may flash forth from the scabbard to save,And the wide land awake at the wrath of the brave,O, Turlough MacSweeney!
Play as the bards played in days long ago,When O'Donnell, arrayed for the foray or feast,With your kinsmen from Bannat and Fannat and Doe,With piping and harping, and blessing of priest,Rode out in the blaze of the sun from the East,O, Turlough MacSweeney!
Play as they played in that rapturous hourWhen the clans heard in gladness his young fiery callWho burst from the gloom of the Sassenach tower,And sped to the welcome in dear Donegal,Then on to his hailing as chieftain of all—O, Turlough MacSweeney!
Play as they played, when, a trumpet of war,His voice for the rally, pealed up to the blue,And the kerns from the hills and the glens and the scaurMarched after the banner of conquering Hugh—Led into the fray by a piper like you,O, Turlough MacSweeney!
And surely no note of such music shall fail,Wherever the speech of our Eire is heard,To foster the hope of the passionate Gael,To fan the old hatred, relentless when stirred,To strengthen our souls for the strife to be dared,O, Turlough MacSweeney!
May your pipes, silver-tongued, clear and sweet in their crooning,Keep the magic they captured at dawning and evenFrom the blackbird at home, and the lark on its journey,From the thrush on its spray, and the little green linnet.A health to you, Piper!
ANNA MACMANUS (Ethna Carbery).
* * * * *
My love to fight the Saxon goes,And bravely shines his sword of steel;A heron's feather decks his brows,And a spur on either heel;His steed is blacker than the sloe,And fleeter than the falling star;Amid the surging ranks he'll goAnd shout for joy of war.Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle; let the white wool drift and dwindle.Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love's coat of steel.Hark! the timid, turning treadle crooning soft, old-fashioned dittiesTo the low, slow murmur of the brown round wheel.
My love is pledged to Ireland's fight;My love would die for Ireland's weal,To win her back her ancient right,And make her foemen reel.Oh! close I'll clasp him to my breastWhen homeward from the war he comes;The fires shall light the mountain's crest,The valley peal with drums.Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle; let the white wool drift and dwindle.Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love's coat of steel.Hark! the timid, turning treadle crooning soft old-fashioned dittiesTo the low, slow murmur of the brown round wheel.
* * * * *
[Footnote A: Variation of an old street song of about 1798. Sung in DionBoucicault's play "The Shan Van Voght."]
O Paddy dear, an' did you hear the news that's goin' round?The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground;St. Patrick's Day no more we'll keep; his colors can't be seen:For there's a cruel law agin' the wearin' of the green.I met with Napper Tandy, and he tuk me by the hand,And he said, "How's poor ould Ireland, and how does she stand?"She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen:They are hangin' men and women there for wearin' of the green.
An' if the color we must wear is England's cruel red,Sure Ireland's sons will ne'er forget the blood that they have shed.Then pull the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod,And never fear, 'twill take root there, though under foot 'tis trod.When law can stop the blades of grass from growin' as they grow,And when the leaves in summer-time their color dare not show,Then I will change the color, too, I wear in my caubeen;But till that day, please God, I'll stick to wearin' of the green.
But if at last our color should be torn from Ireland's heart,Her sons with shame and sorrow from the dear old isle will part:I've heard a whisper of a land that lies beyond the sea,Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of freedom's day.O Erin, must we leave you, driven by a tyrant's hand?Must we ask a mother's blessin' from a strange and distant land?Where the cruel cross of England shall nevermore be seen,And where, please God, we'll live and die still wearin' of the green.
* * * * *
It chanced to me upon a time to sailAcross the Southern ocean to and fro;And, landing at fair isles, by stream and valeOf sensuous blessing did we ofttimes go.And months of dreamy joys, like joys in sleep,Or like a clear, calm stream o'er mossy stone,Unnoted passed our hearts with voiceless sweep,And left us yearning still for lands unknown.
And when we found one,—for 'tis soon to findIn thousand-isled Cathay another isle,—For one short noon its treasures filled the mind,And then again we yearned, and ceased to smile.And so it was from isle to isle we passed,Like wanton bees or boys on flowers or lips;And when that all was tasted, then at lastWe thirsted still for draughts instead of sips.
I learned from this there is no Southern landCan fill with love the hearts of Northern men.Sick minds need change; but, when in health they stand'Neath foreign skies, their love flies home agen.And thus with me it was: the yearning turnedFrom laden airs of cinnamon away,And stretched far westward, while the full heart burnedWith love for Ireland, looking on Cathay!
My first dear love, all dearer for thy grief!My land, that has no peer in all the seaFor verdure, vale, or river, flower or leaf,—If first to no man else, thou'rt first to me.New loves may come with duties, but the firstIs deepest yet,—the mother's breath and smiles;Like that kind face and breast where I was nursedIs my poor land, the Niobe of isles.
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Bless the dear old verdant land!Brother, wert thou born of it?As thy shadow life doth standTwining round its rosy band.Did an Irish mother's handGuide thee in the morn of it?Did a father's first commandTeach thee love or scorn of it?
Thou who tread'st its fertile breast,Dost thou feel a glow for it?Thou of all its charms possest.Living on its first and best,Art thou but a thankless guestOr a traitor foe for it,If thou lovest, where's the test?Wilt thou strike a blow for it?
Has the past no goading stingThat can make thee rouse for it?Does thy land's reviving spring,Full of buds and blossoming,Fail to make thy cold heart cling,Breathing lover's vows for it?With the circling ocean's ringThou wert made a spouse for it.
Hast thou kept as thou shouldst keepThy affections warm for it,Letting no cold feeling creepLike an ice-breath o'er the deep,Freezing to a stony sleepHopes the heart would form for it,Glories that like rainbows peepThrough the darkening storm for it?
Son of this down-trodden land,Aid us in the fight for it.We seek to make it great and grand,Its shipless bays, its naked strand,By canvas-swelling breezes fanned:Oh, what a glorious sight for it,The past expiring like a brandIn morning's rosy light for it!
Think, this dear old land is thine,And thou a traitor slave of it:Think how the Switzer leads his kine,When pale the evening star doth shine;His song has home in every line,Freedom in every stave of it;Think how the German loves his RhineAnd worships every wave of it!
Our own dear land is bright as theirs,But oh! our hearts are cold for it;Awake! we are not slaves, but heirs.Our fatherland requires our cares,Our speech with men, with God our prayers;Spurn blood-stained Judas gold for it:Let us do all that honor dares—Be earnest, faithful, bold for it!
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[1847.]
They are dying! they are dying! where the golden corn is growing;They are dying! they are dying! where the crowded herds are lowing:They are gasping for existence where the streams of life are flowing,And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing!
God of justice! God of power!Do we dream? Can it be,In this land, at this hour,With the blossom on the tree,In the gladsome month of May,When the young lambs play,When Nature looks aroundOn her waking children now,The seed within the ground,The bud upon the bough?Is it right, is it fair,That we perish of despairIn this land, on this soil,Where our destiny is set,Which we cultured with our toil,And watered with our sweat?We have ploughed, we have sownBut the crop was not our own;We have reaped, but harpy handsSwept the harvest from our lands;We were perishing for food,When lo! in pitying mood,Our kindly rulers gaveThe fat fluid of the slave,While our corn filled the mangerOf the war-horse of the stranger!
God of mercy! must this last?Is this land preordained,For the present and the pastAnd the future, to be chained,—To be ravaged, to be drained,To be robbed, to be spoiled,To be hushed, to be whipt,Its soaring pinions clipt,And its every effort foiled?
Do our numbers multiplyBut to perish and to die?Is this all our destiny below,—That our bodies, as they rot,May fertilize the spotWhere the harvests of the stranger grow?If this be, indeed, our fate,Far, far better now, though late,That we seek some other land and try some other zone;The coldest, bleakest shoreWill surely yield us moreThan the storehouse of the stranger that we dare not call our own.
Kindly brothers of the West,Who from Liberty's full breastHave fed us, who are orphans beneath a step-dame's frown,Behold our happy state,And weep your wretched fateThat you share not in the splendors of our empire and our crown!
Kindly brothers of the East,—Thou great tiaraed priest,Thou sanctified Rienzi of Rome and of the earth,—Or thou who bear'st controlOver golden Istambol,Who felt for our misfortunes and helped us in our dearth,—
Turn here your wondering eyes,Call your wisest of the wise,Your muftis and your ministers, your men of deepest lore;Let the sagest of your sagesOpe our island's mystic pages,And explain unto your highness the wonders of our shore.
A fruitful, teeming soil,Where the patient peasants toilBeneath the summer's sun and the watery winter sky;Where they tend the golden grainTill it bends upon the plain,Then reap it for the stranger, and turn aside to die;
Where they watch their flocks increase,And store the snowy fleeceTill they send it to their masters to be woven o'er the waves;Where, having sent their meatFor the foreigner to eat,Their mission is fulfilled, and they creep into their graves.
'Tis for this they are dying where the golden corn is growing,'Tis for this they are dying where the crowded herds are lowing,'Tis for this they are dying where the streams of life are flowing,And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing!
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A great, still Shape, alone,She sits (her harp has fallen) on the sand,And sees her children, one by one, depart:—Her cloak (that hides what sins beside her own!)Wrapped fold on fold about her. Lo,She comforts her fierce heart,As wailing some, and some gay-singing go,With the far vision of that Greater LandDeep in the Atlantic skies,Saint Brandan's Paradise!Another Woman there,Mighty and wondrous fair,Stands on her shore-rock:—one uplifted handHolds a quick-piercing lightThat keeps long sea-ways bright;She beckons with the other, saying "Come,O landless, shelterless,Sharp-faced with hunger, worn with long distress:—Come hither, finding home!Lo, my new fields of harvest, open, free,By winds of blessing blown,Whose golden corn-blades shake from sea to sea—Fields without walls that all the people own!"
* * * * *
There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairingTo wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion,He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.
Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger;The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee,But I have no refuge from famine and danger,A home and a country remain not to me.Never again in the green sunny bowersWhere my forefathers lived shall I spend the sweet hours,Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!
Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more!O cruel fate! wilt thou never replace meIn a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me?Never again shall my brothers embrace me?They died to defend me, or live to deplore!
Where is my cabin door, fast by the wildwood?Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall?Where is the mother that looked on my childhood?And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all?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 mavourneen, Erin go bragh![A]
[Footnote A: Ireland my darling, Ireland forever!]
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Shall mine eyes behold thy glory, O my country?Shall mine eyes behold thy glory?Or shall the darkness close around them, ere thesun-blaze breaks at last upon thy story?When the nations ope for thee their queenly circle,as a sweet new sister hail thee,
Shall these lips be sealed in callous death andsilence, that have known but to bewail thee?Shall the ear be deaf that only loved thy praises,when all men their tribute bring thee?Shall the mouth be clay that sang thee in thysqualor, when all poets' mouths shall sing thee?
Ah, the harpings and the salvos and the shoutingsof thy exiled sons returning!I should hear, though dead and mouldered, andthe grave-damps should not chill my bosom's burning.
Ah, the tramp of feet victorious! I should hearthem 'mid the shamrocks and the mosses,And my heart should toss within the shroud andquiver as a captive dreamer tosses.
I should turn and rend the cere-clothes round me,giant sinews I should borrow—Crying, "O my brothers, I have also loved her inher loneliness and sorrow.
"Let me join with you the jubilant procession;let me chant with you her story;Then contented I shall go back to the shamrocks,now mine eyes have seen her glory!"
* * * * *
Lo Venice, gay with color, lights and song,Calls from St. Mark's with ancient voice and strange:I am the Witch of Cities! glide alongMy silver streets that never wear by changeOf years: forget the years, and pain, and wrong,And ever sorrow reigning men among.Know I can soothe thee, please and marry theeTo my illusions. Old and siren strong,I smile immortal, while the mortals fleeWho whiten on to death in wooing me.
Say, what more fair by Arno's bridgèd gleamThan Florence, viewed from San Miniato's slopeAt eventide, when west along the streamThe last of day reflects a silver hope!—Lo, all else softened in the twilight beam:—The city's mass blent in one hazy cream,The brown Dome 'midst it, and the Lily tower,And stern Old Tower more near, and hills that seemAfar, like clouds to fade, and hills of powerOn this side greenly dark with cypress, vine and bower.
End of desire to stray I feel would comeThough Italy were all fair skies to me,Though France's fields went mad with flowery foamAnd Blanc put on a special majesty,Not all could match the growing thought of homeNor tempt to exile. Look I not on Rome—This ancient, modern, mediæval queen—Yet still sigh westward over hill and dome,Imperial ruin and villa's princely sceneLovely with pictured saints and marble gods serene.
Rome, Florence, Venice—noble, fair and quaint,They reign in robes of magic round me here;But fading, blotted, dim, a picture faint,With spell more silent, only pleads a tear.Plead not! Thou hast my heart, O picture dim!I see the fields, I see the autumn handOf God upon the maples! Answer HimWith weird, translucent glories, ye that standLike spirits in scarlet and in amethyst!I see the sun break over you: the mistOn hills that lift from iron bases grandTheir heads superb!—the dream, it is my native land.
* * * * *
O child of Nations, giant-limbed,Who stand'st among the nations now,Unheeded, unadored, unhymned,With unanointed brow:
How long the ignoble sloth, how longThe trust in greatness not thine own?Surely the lion's brood is strongTo front the world alone!
How long the indolence, ere thou dareAchieve thy destiny, seize thy fame;Ere our proud eyes behold thee bearA nation's franchise, nation's name?
The Saxon force, the Celtic fire,These are thy manhood's heritage!Why rest with babes and slaves? Seek higherThe place of race and age.
I see to every wind unfurledThe flag that bears the Maple-Wreath;Thy swift keels furrow round the worldIts blood-red folds beneath;
Thy swift keels cleave the furthest seas;Thy white sails swell with alien gales;To stream on each remotest breezeThe black smoke of thy pipes exhales.
O Falterer, let thy past convinceThy future: all the growth, the gain,The fame since Cartier knew thee, sinceThy shores beheld Champlain!
Montcalm and Wolfe! Wolfe and Montcalm!Quebec, thy storied citadelAttest in burning song and psalmHow here thy heroes fell!
O Thou that bor'st the battle's bruntAt Queenstown, and at Lundy's Lane:On whose scant ranks but iron frontThe battle broke in vain!
Whose was the danger, whose the day,From whose triumphant throats the cheers,At Chrysler's Farm, at Chateauguay,Storming like clarion-bursts our ears?
On soft Pacific slopes,—besideStrange floods that northward rave and fall,Where chafes Acadia's chainless tide,—Thy sons await thy call.
They wait; but some in exile, someWith strangers housed, in stranger lands;And some Canadian lips are dumbBeneath Egyptian sands.
O mystic Nile! Thy secret yieldsBefore us; thy most ancient dreamsAre mixed with far Canadian fieldsAnd murmur of Canadian streams.
But thou, my Country, dream not thou!Wake, and behold how night is done,—How on thy breast, and o'er thy brow,Bursts the uprising sun!
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