 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
ODE ON THE FIRST REPEAL OF THE PENAL LAWS.
A.D. 1778.
I
The hour has struck! at last in heavenThe golden shield an Angel smites!
On Erin's altars thunder-riven
A happier Destiny alights.
'Tis done that cannot be undone
The lordlier ages have begun;
The flood that widens as it flows
Is loosed; fulfilled the Triple Woes!
II
Once more the Faith uplifts her foreheadStar-circled to the starry skies:
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Beneath her foot Oppression lies:
Above the waning moon of Time
The Apparition stands sublime
From hands immaculate, hands of light
Down scattering gifts of saintly might.
III
Long for her martyrs Erin waited:They came at last. Rejoice this hour
Ye tonsured heads, or consecrated
That sank beneath the stony shower!
Thou Land for centuries dark and dumb
Arise and shine! thy light is come!
Return; for they are dead their knife
Who raised, and sought the young child's life.
IV
Again the wells of ancient knowledgeShall cheer the thirsty lip and dry:
Again waste places, fane and college,
The radiance wear of days gone by!
Once more shall rise the Minster porch;
Once more shall laugh the village church
O'er plains that yield the autumnal feast
Once more to industry released!
V
Once more the far sea-tide returnethAnd feeds the rivers of the Land:
Once more her heart maternal yearneth
With hopes the growth of memories grand.
Immortal longings swell her breast
Quickened from dust of Saints at rest:
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To share the triumph of this hour!
VI
Who was it called thee the Forsaken?A consort judged? a Wife put by?
He at whose nod the heavens are shaken
'Tis He Who hails thee from on high.
‘I loved thee from of old: I saved:
Upon My palms thy name is graved:
With blood were sealed the bridal vows;
For lo, thy Maker is thy Spouse!’
VII
Who, who are those like clouds of morningThat sail to thee o'er seas of gold?
That fly, like doves, their exile scorning,
To windows known and loved of old?
To thee the Isles their hands shall raise;
Thy sons have taught them songs of praise;
And Kings rebuild thy wall, or wait
Beside thy never-closing gate.
VIII
As from the fig-tree, tempest-wastedThe untimely fruitage falleth crude,
So dropp'd around thee, blighted, blasted
Age after age thy sentenced brood.
To thee this day thine own are given:
Yet what are these to thine in heaven?
They left thee in thy years of pain:
Thy cause they pleaded—not in vain.
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IX
Those years are o'er: made soft by distanceOld wars like war-songs soon will seem,
The aggression dire, the wild resistance
Put on the moonlight of a dream.
Ah, gentle Foes! If wholly past—
That Norman foe was friend at last!
Like him, the ill deed redress, recall—
In Erin's heart is room for all.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |