Page:The Spirit of the Nation.djvu/32

20 A teeming soil—abounding streams—wide havens—genial air—

And yet a People ever plunged in suffering and care!

Eight millions of a noble race—high-minded, pure, and good—

Kept subject to a petty gang—a miserable brood!

Strong but in England's constant hate, and help to keep us down,

And blast the smiles of Nature fair, with man's unholy frown.

How is it like my thought, again?—How is it like my thought?

Because your thought is Ireland's self—and even thus her lot!

What with it would you do, again—What with it would you do?

Work even to the death I would, to rive her chain in two!

To help her 'gainst unnatural sons, and foreign foemen's rage,

And all her hapless People's woes and bitter griefs assuage;

Bid them be happy now, at length, in this their rescued land—

That land no longer marked and cursed with slav'ry's withering brand!

No longer Slave to England!—but her Sister, if she will—

Prompt to give friendly aid at need, and to forget all ill!

But holding high her head, and with serenest brow

Claiming, amid Earth's nations all, her fitting station now!

is my thought—it is your thought.

—If thus each Irish heart

Will only think and purpose thus, henceforth, to act its part,

Full soon their honest boast shall be—that she was made by them

Great, Glorious, Free!—the Earth's first Flower!

The Ocean's brightest Gem!

SUGGESTED BY A VISIT TO THE GRAVE OF BRIC, IN ST. ANDREW'S CHURCHYARD.

Since first they placed thee in this cheerless cell,

Hither I've wandered each succeeding year,

Oppress'd with grief, to think no honours tell

That courage, worth, and genius slumber here—