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 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
THE IRISH FAMINE.
[_]
Occasional Lines. Written, and read before the citizens of Newark, March 17, 1880, at the Irish Aid Entertainment.
This is our country—though there courses through
My arteries Irish blood, my country, too:
A land that gives her children equal voice
If they be sons by accident or choice;
A land whose laws permit the men of toil
To own in fee, as well as till the soil;
A land, however fierce for gain she press,
Feels her heart melt at other lands' distress.
If, since I knew so well her real worth,
I held her dearest of all lands of earth,
And prized my birthright as a rarer gem
Than glitters on a monarch's diadem,
Even while I censured faults, how more to-day
Should I, her son, my filial homage pay?
The wolf of want has left the poor man's door:
Full-handed Plenty scatters golden store;
His task again the busy craftsman plies;
Again in street and lane new dwellings rise;
The hammers in the workshops clink once more,
Clatter the mills, the furnace chimneys roar;
Through every channel industry has made
Flows the swift current of reviving trade;
Again resumes the absolute sway of greed.
And yet, at murmur of a human need
Three thousand miles away, the faint, low cry:
“Gaunt famine strikes us!—aid us, or we die!”
A people's feeling to its depth is stirred,
The quick heart answers what the ear has heard;
And, as the generous impulse shakes the land,
To the warm heart responds the liberal hand.
O blessed country! seeking not to know
The why or wherefore, but the fact of woe;
Not hers to ask what narrow spot of earth
The man who suffers claims as place of birth;
Not hers to seek what his relief may be—
If led by Christ, or following Confutzee.
Enough, while she prosperity enjoys,
That fire makes homeless, pestilence destroys,
Cold summer rains the lagging harvest blights,
And pitiless famine countless thousands smites;
The Moses of her pity deals the stroke—
The fountain gushes where the rock is broke.
No creed, no birthplace can her purpose ban,
She owns in full the brotherhood of man;
Draws, without counting, from her hard-won gains,
And gives and gives, so long as need remains.
My arteries Irish blood, my country, too:
A land that gives her children equal voice
If they be sons by accident or choice;
A land whose laws permit the men of toil
To own in fee, as well as till the soil;
A land, however fierce for gain she press,
Feels her heart melt at other lands' distress.
If, since I knew so well her real worth,
I held her dearest of all lands of earth,
And prized my birthright as a rarer gem
Than glitters on a monarch's diadem,
692
Should I, her son, my filial homage pay?
The wolf of want has left the poor man's door:
Full-handed Plenty scatters golden store;
His task again the busy craftsman plies;
Again in street and lane new dwellings rise;
The hammers in the workshops clink once more,
Clatter the mills, the furnace chimneys roar;
Through every channel industry has made
Flows the swift current of reviving trade;
Again resumes the absolute sway of greed.
And yet, at murmur of a human need
Three thousand miles away, the faint, low cry:
“Gaunt famine strikes us!—aid us, or we die!”
A people's feeling to its depth is stirred,
The quick heart answers what the ear has heard;
And, as the generous impulse shakes the land,
To the warm heart responds the liberal hand.
O blessed country! seeking not to know
The why or wherefore, but the fact of woe;
Not hers to ask what narrow spot of earth
The man who suffers claims as place of birth;
Not hers to seek what his relief may be—
If led by Christ, or following Confutzee.
Enough, while she prosperity enjoys,
That fire makes homeless, pestilence destroys,
Cold summer rains the lagging harvest blights,
And pitiless famine countless thousands smites;
The Moses of her pity deals the stroke—
The fountain gushes where the rock is broke.
No creed, no birthplace can her purpose ban,
She owns in full the brotherhood of man;
Draws, without counting, from her hard-won gains,
And gives and gives, so long as need remains.
693
Springs our warm zeal, in this the hour of woe,
From kindred currents through our veins that flow?
Is it because in this, our mingled race,
Nine millions their descent from Ireland trace?
Not needed that our heart of hearts to win—
When famine strikes, all human kind are kin.
Is it that in the early day when we
Fought the long fight that kept a people free,
So many Irish joined the patriot band—
Barry at sea, Montgomery on the land,
Thornton in Congress—Irish everywhere—
That chance was given for men to do and dare?
Why, no! it is enough their deeds to tell;
They did their duty, and they did it well.
Is it that at the hour our army lay,
By famine melting bit by bit away,
Twelve Irish merchants gold to Morris gave—
Ten thousand pounds—in time our force to save?
Those men had found their country on this shore;
They did their duty, and they did no more.
'Tis not that ties of kindred hold their sway,
Or gratitude, that brings you here to-day.
You are not Irish all by blood and birth;
There are men here from many lands of earth—
The Yankee grasps the Scotsman by the hand,
And here the Germans by the Irish stand.
No selfish motives move; but pity warm
And generous impulse take the heart by storm;
All of one land, if need for action call,
For boundary lines at human misery fall.
From kindred currents through our veins that flow?
Is it because in this, our mingled race,
Nine millions their descent from Ireland trace?
Not needed that our heart of hearts to win—
When famine strikes, all human kind are kin.
Is it that in the early day when we
Fought the long fight that kept a people free,
So many Irish joined the patriot band—
Barry at sea, Montgomery on the land,
Thornton in Congress—Irish everywhere—
That chance was given for men to do and dare?
Why, no! it is enough their deeds to tell;
They did their duty, and they did it well.
Is it that at the hour our army lay,
By famine melting bit by bit away,
Twelve Irish merchants gold to Morris gave—
Ten thousand pounds—in time our force to save?
Those men had found their country on this shore;
They did their duty, and they did no more.
'Tis not that ties of kindred hold their sway,
Or gratitude, that brings you here to-day.
You are not Irish all by blood and birth;
There are men here from many lands of earth—
The Yankee grasps the Scotsman by the hand,
And here the Germans by the Irish stand.
No selfish motives move; but pity warm
And generous impulse take the heart by storm;
All of one land, if need for action call,
For boundary lines at human misery fall.
Have we not had our days of trouble, too?
In our weak youth, ere we to greatness grew,
Two centuries since, in Massachusetts, there
Rose from the land the wailing of despair.
The crops were smitten by drought, the harvest failed,
Disease struck many, famine all assailed;
There was no food for even wealth to buy,
And rich and poor alike lay down to die.
They heard the news in Ireland. Not their way
To let their purpose dull by long delay.
The generous Irish heart was stirred to save;
The generous Irish hand unclosed and gave.
With every inch of space from plank to keel,
Packed close with Irish meat and Irish meal,
With Irish tars to guide her o'er the sea,
The good ship Katharine sailed from Dublin quay;
Her welcome cargo reached this Western shore,
And famine vexed the rescued land no more.
The bread they cast upon the waters then,
Be it ours to send it tenfold back again;
Each crumb become a loaf! And let them get
A generous usury when we pay our debt!
In our weak youth, ere we to greatness grew,
Two centuries since, in Massachusetts, there
694
The crops were smitten by drought, the harvest failed,
Disease struck many, famine all assailed;
There was no food for even wealth to buy,
And rich and poor alike lay down to die.
They heard the news in Ireland. Not their way
To let their purpose dull by long delay.
The generous Irish heart was stirred to save;
The generous Irish hand unclosed and gave.
With every inch of space from plank to keel,
Packed close with Irish meat and Irish meal,
With Irish tars to guide her o'er the sea,
The good ship Katharine sailed from Dublin quay;
Her welcome cargo reached this Western shore,
And famine vexed the rescued land no more.
The bread they cast upon the waters then,
Be it ours to send it tenfold back again;
Each crumb become a loaf! And let them get
A generous usury when we pay our debt!
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |