 | The poems and stories of Fitz-James O'Brien |  |
WANTED—SAINT PATRICK.
I.
When Irish hills were fair and green,And Irish fields were white with daisies,
And harvests, golden and serene,
Slept in the lazy summer hazes;
When bards went singing through the land
Their grand old songs of knightly story,
And hearts were found in every hand,
And all was peace, and love, and glory;—
'T was in those happy, happy days
When every peasant lived in clover,
And in the pleasant woodland ways
One never met the begging rover;
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And naught was hollow or theatric;—
'T was in those days of golden hue
That Erin knew the great Saint Patrick.
II.
He came among the rustics rudeWith shining robes and splendid crosier,
And swayed the listening multitude
As breezes sway the beds of osier.
He preached the love of man for man,
And moved the unlettered Celt with wonder,
Till through the simple crowd there ran
A murmur like repeated thunder.
He preached the grand Incarnate Word
By rock and ruin, hill and hollow,
Till warring princes dropped the sword
And left the fields of blood to follow.
For never yet did bardic song,
Though graced with harp and poet's diction,
With such strange charm enchain the throng
As that sad tale of crucifixion.
III.
Though fair the isle and brave the men,Yet still a blight the land infested;
Green vipers darted through each glen,
And snakes within the woodlands nested;
And 'mid the banks where violets blew,
And on the slopes where bloomed the primrose,
Lurked spotted toads of loathsome hue,
And coiling, poisonous serpents grim rose.
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Are types of human degradation;
From other ills I 've cleansed the place,
And now of these I'll rid the nation.”
He waved his crosier o'er his head,
And lo! each venomed thing took motion,
And toads and snakes and vipers fled
In terror to the circling ocean.
IV.
Why is Saint Patrick dead? or whyDoes he not seek this soil to aid us?
To wave his mystic crook on high,
And rout the vermin that degrade us?
Our land is fertile, broad, and fair,
And should be fairer yet and broader;
But noxious reptiles taint the air,
And poison peace, and law, and order.
For murder stalks along each street,
And theft goes lurking through our alleys,—
What reptiles worse does traveller meet
On India's hills, in Java's valleys?
And when we see this gambling host,
That 'mongst us practise this and that trick,
One knows not which would serve us most,
The Goddess Justice or Saint Patrick!
| The poems and stories of Fitz-James O'Brien | |