 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
373
THE IRISH MOTHER.
“They shall hunger no more.”—
Revelation, vii. 16.
Revelation, vii. 16.
I heard the lament of a poor Irish mother,
As watch by the forms of the famished she kept;
The wan, wasted features of sister and brother
Were bathed by the drops she had uselessly wept:
Oh! sweet was her lay for the burden it bore—
“They shall hunger no more.”
As watch by the forms of the famished she kept;
The wan, wasted features of sister and brother
Were bathed by the drops she had uselessly wept:
Oh! sweet was her lay for the burden it bore—
“They shall hunger no more.”
While winter's rude wind through each cranny was sighing,
The last blackened crumb to my first-born I gave;
I opened my veins when my youngest was dying,
Aroused by a mother's wild instinct to save—
The lips of my darling are wet with the gore—
She will hunger no more.
The last blackened crumb to my first-born I gave;
I opened my veins when my youngest was dying,
Aroused by a mother's wild instinct to save—
The lips of my darling are wet with the gore—
She will hunger no more.
Food flung by the fox-hunting lords of this nation,
With prodigal hand, to their hounds, would subdue
In many a hovel the pangs of starvation,
And thankfulness waken that pomp never knew:
Poor babes! I regret not that anguish is o'er—
Ye will hunger no more.
With prodigal hand, to their hounds, would subdue
In many a hovel the pangs of starvation,
And thankfulness waken that pomp never knew:
Poor babes! I regret not that anguish is o'er—
Ye will hunger no more.
While famine the flesh on their bones was consuming,
It crazed me to hear their low moans night and day—
No brand on the desolate hearth-stone illuming
Their couches of cold, musty straw with its ray;
Now calmly they rest, side by side, on the floor—
“They shall hunger no more.”
It crazed me to hear their low moans night and day—
No brand on the desolate hearth-stone illuming
Their couches of cold, musty straw with its ray;
Now calmly they rest, side by side, on the floor—
“They shall hunger no more.”
374
Oh! dark is the cloud that impends over Britain!
The wrongs of the wretched make barren her soil:
That country with curses should ever be smitten
Where perishing Want is forbidden to toil—
Where Hunger kills more than disease or the sword,
And white handed Sloth finds a plentiful board.
The wrongs of the wretched make barren her soil:
That country with curses should ever be smitten
Where perishing Want is forbidden to toil—
Where Hunger kills more than disease or the sword,
And white handed Sloth finds a plentiful board.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |