Poems of James Clarence Mangan (Many hitherto uncollected): Centenary edition: Edited, with preface and notes by D. J. O'Donoghue: Introduction by John Mitchel |
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IRISH NATIONAL HYMN. |
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 | Poems of James Clarence Mangan |  |
IRISH NATIONAL HYMN.
O Ireland! Ancient Ireland!
Ancient! yet for ever young!
Thou our mother, home and sire-land—
Thou at length hast found a tongue—
Proudly thou, at length,
Resistest in triumphant strength.
Thy flag of freedom floats unfurled;
And as that mighty God existeth,
Who giveth victory when and where He listeth,
Thou yet shalt wake and shake the nations of the world.
For this dull world still slumbers,
Weetless of its wants or loves,
Though, like Galileo, numbers
Cry aloud, “It moves! it moves!”
In a midnight dream,
Drifts it down Time's wreckful stream—
All march, but few descry the goal.
O Ireland! be it thy high duty
To teach the world the might of Moral Beauty,
And stamp God's image truly on the struggling soul.
Strong in thy self-reliance,
Not in idle threat or boast,
Hast thou hurled thy fierce defiance
At the haughty Saxon host,
Thou hast claimed, in sight
Of high Heaven, thy long-lost right.
Upon thy hills—along thy plains—
In the green bosom of thy valleys,
The new-born soul of holy freedom rallies,
And calls on thee to trample down in dust thy chains!
Ancient! yet for ever young!
Thou our mother, home and sire-land—
Thou at length hast found a tongue—
Proudly thou, at length,
Resistest in triumphant strength.
Thy flag of freedom floats unfurled;
And as that mighty God existeth,
Who giveth victory when and where He listeth,
Thou yet shalt wake and shake the nations of the world.
106
Weetless of its wants or loves,
Though, like Galileo, numbers
Cry aloud, “It moves! it moves!”
In a midnight dream,
Drifts it down Time's wreckful stream—
All march, but few descry the goal.
O Ireland! be it thy high duty
To teach the world the might of Moral Beauty,
And stamp God's image truly on the struggling soul.
Strong in thy self-reliance,
Not in idle threat or boast,
Hast thou hurled thy fierce defiance
At the haughty Saxon host,
Thou hast claimed, in sight
Of high Heaven, thy long-lost right.
Upon thy hills—along thy plains—
In the green bosom of thy valleys,
The new-born soul of holy freedom rallies,
And calls on thee to trample down in dust thy chains!
Deep, saith the Eastern story,
Burns in Iran's mines a gem,
For its dazzling hues and glory
Worth a Sultan's diadem.
But from human eyes,
Hidden there it ever lies!
The aye-travailing Gnomes alone,
Who toil to form the mountain's treasure,
May gaze and gloat with pleasure, without measure,
Upon the lustrous beauty of that wonder-stone.
So is it with a nation,
Which would win for its rich dower
That bright pearl, Self-liberation—
It must labour hour by hour.
Strangers who travail
To lay bare the gem, shall fail;
Within itself must grow, must glow—
Within the depth of its own bosom,
Must flower in loving might, must broadly blossom,
The hopes that shall be born ere Freedom's Tree can blow
Go on, then, all rejoiceful!
March on thy career unbowed!
Ireland! let thy noble, voiceful
Spirit cry to God aloud!
Man will bid thee speed—
God will aid thee in thy need—
The Time, the Hour, the Power are near—
Be sure thou soon shalt form the vanguard
Of that illustrious band, whom Heaven and Man guard:
And these words come from one whom some have called a Seer.
Burns in Iran's mines a gem,
For its dazzling hues and glory
Worth a Sultan's diadem.
But from human eyes,
Hidden there it ever lies!
The aye-travailing Gnomes alone,
Who toil to form the mountain's treasure,
May gaze and gloat with pleasure, without measure,
Upon the lustrous beauty of that wonder-stone.
So is it with a nation,
Which would win for its rich dower
That bright pearl, Self-liberation—
It must labour hour by hour.
107
To lay bare the gem, shall fail;
Within itself must grow, must glow—
Within the depth of its own bosom,
Must flower in loving might, must broadly blossom,
The hopes that shall be born ere Freedom's Tree can blow
Go on, then, all rejoiceful!
March on thy career unbowed!
Ireland! let thy noble, voiceful
Spirit cry to God aloud!
Man will bid thee speed—
God will aid thee in thy need—
The Time, the Hour, the Power are near—
Be sure thou soon shalt form the vanguard
Of that illustrious band, whom Heaven and Man guard:
And these words come from one whom some have called a Seer.
| Poems of James Clarence Mangan | |