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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THE PEAL OF ANOTHER TRUMPET. |
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 | Poems of James Clarence Mangan |  |
THE PEAL OF ANOTHER TRUMPET.
“Irlande, Irlande, rejouis toi! Pour toi l'heure de vengeance est
sonné. Ton tribun prepare ta deliverance.”
—From the “Derniers Mots” of Mdlle. Lenormand, the celebrated French Pythoness.
I.
Youths of Ireland, patriots, friends!Know ye what shall be your course
When the storm that now impends
Shall come down in all its force?
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How the horizon of the Time
Hourly wears a duskier hue,
From all else await we bold
Bearing, and Resolve sublime—
Youths of Ireland, what from you?
II.
Will you bide irresolute?Will you stand with folded arms,
Purposeless, disheartened, mute,
As men hopeless of escape,
Till the wildest, worst alarms
Of your souls take giant shape?
Are you dastards? Are you dolts?
Irishmen! shall you be seen
With white lips and faltering mien,
When all on earth, when heaven above,
Torn by thousand thunderbolts,
Rocks and reels which way you move?
III.
Oh, no! no! forfend it, Heaven!Such debasement cannot be!
Pillaged of your liberty,
You are not as yet bereaven
Of that heritage of bravery
Which descends to you through ages,
And ennobles all—save slavery.
Yours, thank God, are manhood still,
And the inborn strength of soul,
Which nought outward can control,
And the headlong chariot—Will,
Ever-bounding, never-bending,
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As befits the season, wages
Unrelenting war with Wrong—
Unrelenting and unending.
IV.
Gentler gifts are yours, no less,Tolerance of the faults of others,
Love of mankind as your brothers,
Generous Pity, Tenderness,
Soul-felt sympathy with grief:
The warm heart, the winged hand,
Whereso suffering craves relief.
Through all regions hath your fame
For such virtues long gone forth.
The swart slave of Kaffirland,
The frozen denizen of the North,
The dusk Indian Mingo chief
In his lone savannahs green,
The wild, wandering Beddaween
Mid his wastes of sand and flame;
All have heard how, unsubdued
By long centuries of sorrow,
You still cherish in your bosoms
The deep Love no wrongs can slay,
And the Hopes which, crushed to-day,
Rear their crests afresh, renewed,
In immortal youth, to-morrow,
Like the Spring's rejoicing blossoms.
V.
And 'tis well you thus can blendSoftest moods of mind with sternest—
Well you thus can temper earnest
Might with more than Feminine meekness,
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For even now the wail of Want,
The despairing cry of Weakness,
Rings throughout a stricken land,
And blood-blackening Plague and gaunt
Famine roam it hand-in-hand!
To you, now, the millions turn
With glazed eyes and lips that burn—
To you lies their last appeal,
To your hearts—your feelings—reason!
Oh, stretch forth your hands in season!
Soothe and solace—help and heal!
Rich in blessings, bright with beauty,
Shine their names throughout all æons,
Theirs who nobly consecrate
To self-sacrificing Duty
Their best years—the new St. Leons,
Who thus conquer Time and Fate!
VI.
But for more, far more, than this,Youths of Ireland, stand prepared!
Revolution's red abyss
Burns beneath us, all but bared—
And on high the fire-charged Cloud
Blackens in the firmament,
And afar we list the loud
Sea-voice of the unknown Event.
Youths of Ireland, stand prepared!
For all woes the Meek have dree'd,
For all risks the Brave have dared,
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Stand prepared!
For the Pestilence that striketh
Where it listeth, whom it liketh,
For the Blight whose deadly might
Desolateth day and night—
For a Sword that never spared
Stand prepared!
Though that gory Sword be bared
Be not scared!
Do not blench and dare not falter!
For the axe and for the halter
Stand prepared!
And give God the glory
If, whene'er the Wreath of Story
Swathe your names, the men whose hands
Brightly twine it,
May enshrine it
In one temple with your lands!
| Poems of James Clarence Mangan | |