Poems of James Clarence Mangan (Many hitherto uncollected): Centenary edition: Edited, with preface and notes by D. J. O'Donoghue: Introduction by John Mitchel |
 | I. |
 | II. | PART II ORIGINAL POEMS RELATING TO IRELAND |
| III. |
| IV. |
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| VI. |
| VII. |
 | Poems of James Clarence Mangan |  |
89
II. PART II
ORIGINAL POEMS RELATING TO IRELAND
91
SOUL AND COUNTRY.
Arise! my slumbering soul, arise!
And learn what yet remains for thee
To dree or do!
The signs are flaming in the skies;
A struggling world would yet be free,
And live anew.
The earthquake hath not yet been born,
That soon shall rock the lands around
Beneath their base.
Immortal freedom's thunder horn,
As yet, yields but a doleful sound
To Europe's race.
And learn what yet remains for thee
To dree or do!
The signs are flaming in the skies;
A struggling world would yet be free,
And live anew.
The earthquake hath not yet been born,
That soon shall rock the lands around
Beneath their base.
Immortal freedom's thunder horn,
As yet, yields but a doleful sound
To Europe's race.
Look round, my soul, and see and say
If those about thee understand
Their mission here;
The will to smite—the power to slay—
Abound in every heart and hand,
Afar, anear.
But, God! must yet the conqueror's sword
Pierce mind, as heart, in this proud year?
O, dream it not!
It sounds a false, blaspheming word,
Begot and born of moral fear—
And ill-begot!
If those about thee understand
Their mission here;
The will to smite—the power to slay—
Abound in every heart and hand,
Afar, anear.
But, God! must yet the conqueror's sword
Pierce mind, as heart, in this proud year?
O, dream it not!
It sounds a false, blaspheming word,
Begot and born of moral fear—
And ill-begot!
92
To leave the world a name is nought;
To leave a name for glorious deeds
And works of love—
A name to waken lightning thought,
And fire the soul of him who reads
This tells above.
Napoleon sinks to-day before
The ungilded shrine, the single soul
Of Washington;
Truth's name, alone, shall man adore,
Long as the waves of time shall roll
Henceforward on!
To leave a name for glorious deeds
And works of love—
A name to waken lightning thought,
And fire the soul of him who reads
This tells above.
Napoleon sinks to-day before
The ungilded shrine, the single soul
Of Washington;
Truth's name, alone, shall man adore,
Long as the waves of time shall roll
Henceforward on!
My countrymen! my words are weak,
My health is gone, my soul is dark,
My heart is chill—
Yet would I fain and fondly seek
To see you borne in freedom's bark
O'er ocean still.
Beseech your God, and bide your hour—
He cannot, will not, long be dumb;
Even now His tread
Is heard o'er earth with coming power;
And coming, trust me, it will come,
Else were He dead!
My health is gone, my soul is dark,
My heart is chill—
Yet would I fain and fondly seek
To see you borne in freedom's bark
O'er ocean still.
Beseech your God, and bide your hour—
He cannot, will not, long be dumb;
Even now His tread
Is heard o'er earth with coming power;
And coming, trust me, it will come,
Else were He dead!
THE LOVELY LAND.
(On a Landscape by Maclise.)
Glorious birth of Mind and Colour!
Gazing on thy radiant face
The most lorn of Adam's race
Might forget all dolour!
Gazing on thy radiant face
The most lorn of Adam's race
Might forget all dolour!
93
What divinest light is beaming
Over mountain, mead, and grove!
That blue noontide sky above
Seems asleep and dreaming.
Over mountain, mead, and grove!
That blue noontide sky above
Seems asleep and dreaming.
Rich Italia's wild-birds warble
In the foliage of those trees,
I can trace thee, Veronese,
In these rocks of marble!
In the foliage of those trees,
I can trace thee, Veronese,
In these rocks of marble!
Yet no! Mark I not where quiver
The sun's rays on yonder stream?
Only a Poussin's self could dream
Such a sun and river!
The sun's rays on yonder stream?
Only a Poussin's self could dream
Such a sun and river!
What bold imagining! Stony valley,
And fair bower of eglantine!
Here I see the black ravine,
There the lilied alley!
And fair bower of eglantine!
Here I see the black ravine,
There the lilied alley!
This is some rare clime so olden,
Peopled, not by men, but fays;
Some lone land of genii days,
Storyful and golden!
Peopled, not by men, but fays;
Some lone land of genii days,
Storyful and golden!
Oh! for magic power to wander
One bright year through such a land!
Might I even one hour stand
On the blest hills yonder!
One bright year through such a land!
Might I even one hour stand
On the blest hills yonder!
But what spy I? . . . O, by noonlight!
'Tis the same!—the pillar-tower
I have oft passed thrice an hour,
Twilight, sunlight, moonlight!
'Tis the same!—the pillar-tower
I have oft passed thrice an hour,
Twilight, sunlight, moonlight!
94
Shame to me, my own, my sire-land,
Not to know thy soil and skies!
Shame, that through Maclise's eyes
I first see thee, Ireland!
Not to know thy soil and skies!
Shame, that through Maclise's eyes
I first see thee, Ireland!
No! no land doth rank above thee
Or for loveliness or worth!
So shall I, from this day forth,
Ever sing and love thee!
Or for loveliness or worth!
So shall I, from this day forth,
Ever sing and love thee!
A VISION OF CONNAUGHT IN THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY.
I walked entranced
Through a land of Morn;
The sun, with wondrous excess of light,
Shone down and glanced
Over seas of corn
And lustrous gardens aleft and right.
Even in the clime
Of resplendent Spain,
Beams no such sun upon such a land;
But it was the time,
'Twas in the reign,
Of Cáhal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.
Through a land of Morn;
The sun, with wondrous excess of light,
Shone down and glanced
Over seas of corn
And lustrous gardens aleft and right.
Even in the clime
Of resplendent Spain,
Beams no such sun upon such a land;
But it was the time,
'Twas in the reign,
Of Cáhal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.
Anon stood nigh
By my side a man
Of princely aspect and port sublime.
Him queried I—
“O, my Lord and Khan,
What clime is this, and what golden time?”
When he—“The clime
Is a clime to praise,
The clime is Erin's, the green and bland;
And it is the time,
These be the days,
Of Cáhal Mór of the Wine-red Hand!”
By my side a man
Of princely aspect and port sublime.
Him queried I—
“O, my Lord and Khan,
95
When he—“The clime
Is a clime to praise,
The clime is Erin's, the green and bland;
And it is the time,
These be the days,
Of Cáhal Mór of the Wine-red Hand!”
Then saw I thrones,
And circling fires,
And a Dome rose near me, as by a spell,
Whence flowed the tones
Of silver lyres,
And many voices in wreathèd swell;
And their thrilling chime
Fell on mine ears
As the heavenly hymn of an angel-band—
“It is now the time,
These be the years,
Of Cáhal Mór of the Wine-red Hand!”
And circling fires,
And a Dome rose near me, as by a spell,
Whence flowed the tones
Of silver lyres,
And many voices in wreathèd swell;
And their thrilling chime
Fell on mine ears
As the heavenly hymn of an angel-band—
“It is now the time,
These be the years,
Of Cáhal Mór of the Wine-red Hand!”
I sought the hall,
And, behold!—a change
From light to darkness, from joy to woe!
King, nobles, all,
Looked aghast and strange;
The minstrel-group sate in dumbest show!
Had some great crime
Wrought this dread amaze,
This terror? None seemed to understand
'Twas then the time,
We were in the days,
Of Cáhal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.
And, behold!—a change
From light to darkness, from joy to woe!
King, nobles, all,
Looked aghast and strange;
The minstrel-group sate in dumbest show!
Had some great crime
Wrought this dread amaze,
This terror? None seemed to understand
'Twas then the time,
We were in the days,
Of Cáhal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.
96
I again walked forth;
But lo! the sky
Showed fleckt with blood, and an alien sun
Glared from the north,
And there stood on high,
Amid his shorn beams, a skeleton!
It was by the stream
Of the castled Maine,
One Autumn eve, in the Teuton's land,
That I dreamed this dream
Of the time and reign
Of Cáhal Mór of the Wine-red Hand!
But lo! the sky
Showed fleckt with blood, and an alien sun
Glared from the north,
And there stood on high,
Amid his shorn beams, a skeleton!
It was by the stream
Of the castled Maine,
One Autumn eve, in the Teuton's land,
That I dreamed this dream
Of the time and reign
Of Cáhal Mór of the Wine-red Hand!
THE WARNING VOICE.
Ye Faithful—ye noble!
A day is at hand
Of trial and trouble,
And woe in the land!
O'er a once greenest path,
Now blasted and sterile,
Its dusk shadows loom—
It cometh with Wrath,
With Conflict and Peril,
With Judgment and Doom!
A day is at hand
Of trial and trouble,
And woe in the land!
O'er a once greenest path,
Now blasted and sterile,
Its dusk shadows loom—
It cometh with Wrath,
With Conflict and Peril,
With Judgment and Doom!
False bands shall be broken,
Dead systems shall crumble,
And the haughty shall hear
Truths never yet spoken,
Though smouldering like flame
Through many a lost year
In the hearts of the Humble;
For hope will expire
As the terror draws nigher,
And, with it, the Shame
Which so long overawed
Men's minds by its might—
And the Powers abroad
Will be Panic and Blight,
And phrenetic Sorrow—
Black Pest all the night,
And Death on the morrow!
Dead systems shall crumble,
And the haughty shall hear
Truths never yet spoken,
Though smouldering like flame
Through many a lost year
97
For hope will expire
As the terror draws nigher,
And, with it, the Shame
Which so long overawed
Men's minds by its might—
And the Powers abroad
Will be Panic and Blight,
And phrenetic Sorrow—
Black Pest all the night,
And Death on the morrow!
Now, therefore, ye True,
Gird your loins up anew!
By the good you have wrought?
By all you have thought,
And suffered, and done!
By your souls! I implore you,
Be leal to your mission—
Remembering that one
Of the two paths before you
Slopes down to Perdition!
To you have been given,
Not granaries and gold,
But the Love that lives long,
And waxes not cold;
And the Zeal that has striven
Against Error and Wrong,
And in fragments had riven
The chains of the strong!
Bide now, by your sternest
Conceptions of earnest
Endurance for others,
Your weaker-souled brothers!
Your true faith and worth
Will be History soon,
And their stature stand forth
In the unsparing Noon!
Gird your loins up anew!
By the good you have wrought?
By all you have thought,
And suffered, and done!
By your souls! I implore you,
Be leal to your mission—
Remembering that one
Of the two paths before you
Slopes down to Perdition!
To you have been given,
Not granaries and gold,
But the Love that lives long,
And waxes not cold;
And the Zeal that has striven
Against Error and Wrong,
And in fragments had riven
The chains of the strong!
Bide now, by your sternest
Conceptions of earnest
Endurance for others,
Your weaker-souled brothers!
98
Will be History soon,
And their stature stand forth
In the unsparing Noon!
You have dreamed of an era
Of Knowledge, and Truth,
And Peace—the true glory!
Was this a chimera?
Not so!—but the childhood and youth
Of our days will grow hoary,
Before such a marvel shall burst on their sight!
On you its beams glow not—
For you its flowers blow not,
You cannot rejoice in its light,
But in darkness and suffering instead,
You go down to the place of the Dead!
To this generation
The sore tribulation,
The stormy commotion,
And foam of the Popular Ocean,
The struggle of class against class;
The Dearth and the Sadness,
The Sword and the War-vest;
To the next, the Repose and the Gladness,
“The Sea of clear glass,”
And the rich Golden Harvest.
Of Knowledge, and Truth,
And Peace—the true glory!
Was this a chimera?
Not so!—but the childhood and youth
Of our days will grow hoary,
Before such a marvel shall burst on their sight!
On you its beams glow not—
For you its flowers blow not,
You cannot rejoice in its light,
But in darkness and suffering instead,
You go down to the place of the Dead!
To this generation
The sore tribulation,
The stormy commotion,
And foam of the Popular Ocean,
The struggle of class against class;
The Dearth and the Sadness,
The Sword and the War-vest;
To the next, the Repose and the Gladness,
“The Sea of clear glass,”
And the rich Golden Harvest.
Know, then, your true lot,
Ye faithful, though few!
Understand your position,
Remember your mission,
And vacillate not,
Whatsoever ensue!
Alter not! Falter not!
Palter not now with your own living souls,
When each moment that rolls
May see Death lay his hand
On some new victim's brow!
Oh! let not your vow
Have been written in sand!
Leave cold calculations,
Of Danger and Plague,
To the slaves and the traitors
Who cannot dissemble
The dastard sensations
That now make them tremble
With phantasies vague!—
The men without ruth—
The hypocrite haters
Of Goodness and Truth,
Who at heart curse the race
Of the sun through the skies;
And would look in God's face
With a lie in their eyes!
To the last do your duty,
Still mindful of this—
That Virtue is Beauty,
And Wisdom, and Bliss;
So, howe'er, as frail men, you have erred on
Your way along Life's throngèd road,
Shall your consciences prove a sure guerdon
And tower of defence,
Until Destiny summon you hence
To the Better Abode!
Ye faithful, though few!
Understand your position,
Remember your mission,
And vacillate not,
Whatsoever ensue!
Alter not! Falter not!
99
When each moment that rolls
May see Death lay his hand
On some new victim's brow!
Oh! let not your vow
Have been written in sand!
Leave cold calculations,
Of Danger and Plague,
To the slaves and the traitors
Who cannot dissemble
The dastard sensations
That now make them tremble
With phantasies vague!—
The men without ruth—
The hypocrite haters
Of Goodness and Truth,
Who at heart curse the race
Of the sun through the skies;
And would look in God's face
With a lie in their eyes!
To the last do your duty,
Still mindful of this—
That Virtue is Beauty,
And Wisdom, and Bliss;
So, howe'er, as frail men, you have erred on
Your way along Life's throngèd road,
Shall your consciences prove a sure guerdon
And tower of defence,
Until Destiny summon you hence
To the Better Abode!
100
A VOICE OF ENCOURAGEMENT—A NEW YEAR'S LAY.
Youths! Compatriots! Friends! Men for the time that is nearing!
Spirits appointed by Heaven to front the storm and the trouble!
You, who in seasons of peril, unfaltering still and unfearing,
Calmly have held on your course, the course of the Just and the Noble!
You, young men, would a man unworthy to rank in your number,
Yet with a heart that bleeds for his country's wrongs and affliction,
Fain raise a voice to, in song, albeit his music and diction
Rather be fitted, alas! to lull to, than startle from, slumber.
Spirits appointed by Heaven to front the storm and the trouble!
You, who in seasons of peril, unfaltering still and unfearing,
Calmly have held on your course, the course of the Just and the Noble!
You, young men, would a man unworthy to rank in your number,
Yet with a heart that bleeds for his country's wrongs and affliction,
Fain raise a voice to, in song, albeit his music and diction
Rather be fitted, alas! to lull to, than startle from, slumber.
Friends! the gloom in our land, in our once bright land, grows deeper.
Suffering, even to death, in its horriblest forms, aboundeth;
Thro' our black harvestless fields, the peasants' faint wail resoundeth.
Hark to it, even now! . . . The nightmare oppressèd sleeper
Gasping and struggling for life, beneath his hideous bestrider,
Sëeth not, drëeth not, sight or terror more fearful or ghastly
Than that poor paralysed slave! Want, Houselessness, Famine, and lastly
Death in a thousand-corpsed grave, that momently waxeth wider.
Suffering, even to death, in its horriblest forms, aboundeth;
Thro' our black harvestless fields, the peasants' faint wail resoundeth.
Hark to it, even now! . . . The nightmare oppressèd sleeper
Gasping and struggling for life, beneath his hideous bestrider,
Sëeth not, drëeth not, sight or terror more fearful or ghastly
Than that poor paralysed slave! Want, Houselessness, Famine, and lastly
Death in a thousand-corpsed grave, that momently waxeth wider.
Worse! The great heart of the country is thrilled and throbbeth but faintly!
Apathy palsieth here—and there, a panic misgiving:
Even the Trustful and Firm, even the Sage and the Saintly,
Seem to believe that the Dead but foreshow the doom of the Living.
Men of the faithfullest souls all but broken-hearted
O'er the dishonoured tombs of the glorious dreams that have perished—
Dreams that almost outshone Realities while they were cherished—
All, they exclaim, is gone! The Vision and Hope have departed!
101
Even the Trustful and Firm, even the Sage and the Saintly,
Seem to believe that the Dead but foreshow the doom of the Living.
Men of the faithfullest souls all but broken-hearted
O'er the dishonoured tombs of the glorious dreams that have perished—
Dreams that almost outshone Realities while they were cherished—
All, they exclaim, is gone! The Vision and Hope have departed!
Worst and saddest! As under Milton's lowermost Tophet
Yawned another yet lower, so for the mourning Million
Still is there deeper woe! Patriot, Orator, Prophet,
Some who a few years agone stood proudly in the Pavilion
Of their land's rights and liberties, gazing abroad thro' its casement
On the fair Future they fondly deemed at hand for their nation,
Now not alone succumb to the change and the Degradation,
But have ceased even to feel them! God! this indeed is abasement!
Yawned another yet lower, so for the mourning Million
Still is there deeper woe! Patriot, Orator, Prophet,
Some who a few years agone stood proudly in the Pavilion
Of their land's rights and liberties, gazing abroad thro' its casement
On the fair Future they fondly deemed at hand for their nation,
Now not alone succumb to the change and the Degradation,
But have ceased even to feel them! God! this indeed is abasement!
Is the last hope then gone? Must we lie down despairing?
No! there is always hope for all who will dare and suffer;
Hope for all who surmount the Hill of Exertion, uncaring
Whether their path be brighter or darker, smoother or rougher;
No! there is always hope for those who, relying with earnest
Souls on God and themselves, take for their motto, “Labour.”
Such see the rainbow's glory where Heaven looms darkest and sternest;
Such in the storm-wind hear but the music of pipe and tabor.
No! there is always hope for all who will dare and suffer;
Hope for all who surmount the Hill of Exertion, uncaring
Whether their path be brighter or darker, smoother or rougher;
No! there is always hope for those who, relying with earnest
Souls on God and themselves, take for their motto, “Labour.”
102
Such in the storm-wind hear but the music of pipe and tabor.
Follow your destiny up! Work! Write! Preach to arouse and
Warn, and watch, and encourage! Dangers, no doubt, surround you—
But for Ten threatening you now, you will soon be appalled by a Thousand
If you forsake the course to which Virtue and Honour have bound you!
Oh, persevere! persevere! Falter not!—faint not!—shrink not!
Hate and Hostility serve but as spurs to the will of the Zealous—
Tho' your foes flourish awhile, and you seem to decline, be not jealous,
“Help from the Son of Man cometh in such an hour as you think not!”
Warn, and watch, and encourage! Dangers, no doubt, surround you—
But for Ten threatening you now, you will soon be appalled by a Thousand
If you forsake the course to which Virtue and Honour have bound you!
Oh, persevere! persevere! Falter not!—faint not!—shrink not!
Hate and Hostility serve but as spurs to the will of the Zealous—
Tho' your foes flourish awhile, and you seem to decline, be not jealous,
“Help from the Son of Man cometh in such an hour as you think not!”
Slavery debases the soul; yea! reverses its primal nature;
Long were our fathers bowed to the earth with fetters of iron—
And, alas! we inherit the failings and ills that environ
Slaves like a dungeon wall and dwarf their original stature.
Look on your countrymen's failings with less of anger than pity;
Even with the faults of the evil deal in a manner half tender;
And like an army encamped before a beleaguered city,
Earlier or later you must compel your foes to surrender!
Long were our fathers bowed to the earth with fetters of iron—
And, alas! we inherit the failings and ills that environ
Slaves like a dungeon wall and dwarf their original stature.
Look on your countrymen's failings with less of anger than pity;
Even with the faults of the evil deal in a manner half tender;
And like an army encamped before a beleaguered city,
Earlier or later you must compel your foes to surrender!
103
Lo, a new year! A year into whose bosom Time gathers
All the past lessons of ages—a mournful but truth-teaching muster;
All the rich thoughts and deeds, and the marvellous lore of our fathers;
All the sunlike experience that makes men wiser and juster.
Hail it with steadfast resolve—thankfully, if it befriend you;
Guardedly, lest it betray—without either Despair or Elation,
Panoplied inly against the sharpest ills it may send you,
But with a high hope still for yourselves and the Rise of your Nation.
All the past lessons of ages—a mournful but truth-teaching muster;
All the rich thoughts and deeds, and the marvellous lore of our fathers;
All the sunlike experience that makes men wiser and juster.
Hail it with steadfast resolve—thankfully, if it befriend you;
Guardedly, lest it betray—without either Despair or Elation,
Panoplied inly against the sharpest ills it may send you,
But with a high hope still for yourselves and the Rise of your Nation.
Omen full, archèd with gloom and laden with many a presage,
Many a portent of woe, looms the Impending Era
Not as of old, by comet—sword, Gorgon, or ghastly Chimera,
Scarcely by lightning and thunder, Heaven to-day sends its message.
Into the secret heart—down thro' the caves of the spirit,
Pierces the silent shaft—sinks the invisible token—
Cloaked in the Hall, the Envoy stands, his mission unspoken,
While the pale, banquetless guests await in trembling to hear it.
Many a portent of woe, looms the Impending Era
Not as of old, by comet—sword, Gorgon, or ghastly Chimera,
Scarcely by lightning and thunder, Heaven to-day sends its message.
Into the secret heart—down thro' the caves of the spirit,
Pierces the silent shaft—sinks the invisible token—
Cloaked in the Hall, the Envoy stands, his mission unspoken,
While the pale, banquetless guests await in trembling to hear it.
104
A HIGHWAY FOR FREEDOM.
I
“My suffering country shall be freed,And shine with tenfold glory!”
So spake the gallant Winkelried,
Renowned in German story.
“No tyrant, even of kingly grade,
Shall cross or darken my way!”
Out flashed his blade, and so he made
For Freedom's course a highway!
II
We want a man like this, with pow'rTo rouse the world by one word;
We want a chief to meet the hour,
And march the masses onward.
But, chief or none, through blood and fire,
My fatherland, lies thy way!
The men must fight who dare desire
For Freedom's course a highway!
III
Alas! I can but idly gazeAround in grief and wonder,
The people's will alone can raise
The people's shout of thunder.
Too long, my friends, you faint for fear,
In secret crypt and by-way;
At last be men! Stand forth and clear
For Freedom's course a highway!
105
IV
You intersect wood, lea, and lawn,With roads for monster waggons,
Wherein you speed like lightning drawn
By fiery iron dragons.
So do. Such work is good, no doubt;
But why not seek some nigh way
For mind as well? Path also out
For Freedom's course a highway.
V
Yes! up! and let your weapons beSharp steel and self-reliance!
Why waste your burning energy
In void and vain defiance,
And phrases fierce but fugitive?
'Tis deeds, not words, that I weigh—
Your swords and guns alone can give
To Freedom's course a highway!
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.
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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.
TO MY NATIVE LAND.
Awake! arise! shake off thy dreams!
Thou art not what thou wert of yore:
Of all those rich, those dazzling beams,
That once illum'd thine aspect o'er
Show me a solitary one
Whose glory is not quenched and gone.
Thou art not what thou wert of yore:
Of all those rich, those dazzling beams,
That once illum'd thine aspect o'er
Show me a solitary one
Whose glory is not quenched and gone.
The harp remaineth where it fell,
With mouldering frame and broken chord;
Around the song there hangs no spell—
No laurel wreath entwines the sword;
And startlingly the footstep falls
Along thy dim and dreary halls.
With mouldering frame and broken chord;
Around the song there hangs no spell—
No laurel wreath entwines the sword;
And startlingly the footstep falls
Along thy dim and dreary halls.
108
When other men in future years,
In wonder ask, how this could be?
Then answer only by thy tears,
That ruin fell on thine and thee;
Because thyself wouldst have it so—
Because thou welcomedst the blow!
In wonder ask, how this could be?
Then answer only by thy tears,
That ruin fell on thine and thee;
Because thyself wouldst have it so—
Because thou welcomedst the blow!
To stamp dishonour on thy brow
Was not within the power of earth;
And art thou agonised, when now
The hour that lost thee all thy worth,
And turned thee to the thing thou art,
Rushes upon thy bleeding heart?
Was not within the power of earth;
And art thou agonised, when now
The hour that lost thee all thy worth,
And turned thee to the thing thou art,
Rushes upon thy bleeding heart?
Weep, weep, degraded one—the deed,
The desperate deed was all thine own:
Thou madest more than maniac speed
To hurl thine honours from their throne.
Thine honours fell, and when they fell
The nations rang thy funeral knell.
The desperate deed was all thine own:
Thou madest more than maniac speed
To hurl thine honours from their throne.
Thine honours fell, and when they fell
The nations rang thy funeral knell.
Well may thy sons be seared in soul,
Their groans be deep by night and day;
Till day and night forget to roll,
Their noblest hopes shall morn decay—
Their freshest flowers shall die by blight—
Their brightest sun shall set at night.
Their groans be deep by night and day;
Till day and night forget to roll,
Their noblest hopes shall morn decay—
Their freshest flowers shall die by blight—
Their brightest sun shall set at night.
The stranger, as he treads thy sod,
And views thy universal wreck,
May execrate the foot that trod
Triumphant on a prostrate neck;
But what is that to thee? Thy woes
May hope in vain for pause or close.
And views thy universal wreck,
May execrate the foot that trod
Triumphant on a prostrate neck;
But what is that to thee? Thy woes
May hope in vain for pause or close.
109
Awake! arise! shake off thy dreams!
'Tis idle all to talk of power,
And fame and glory—these are themes
Befitting ill so dark an hour;
Till miracles be wrought for thee,
Nor fame nor glory shalt thou see.
'Tis idle all to talk of power,
And fame and glory—these are themes
Befitting ill so dark an hour;
Till miracles be wrought for thee,
Nor fame nor glory shalt thou see.
Thou art forsaken by the earth,
Which makes a byword of thy name;
Nations, and thrones, and powers whose birth
As yet is not, shall rise to fame,
Shall flourish and may fall—but thou
Shalt linger as thou lingerest now.
Which makes a byword of thy name;
Nations, and thrones, and powers whose birth
As yet is not, shall rise to fame,
Shall flourish and may fall—but thou
Shalt linger as thou lingerest now.
And till all earthly power shall wane,
And Time's grey pillar, groaning, fall;
Thus shall it be, and still in vain
Thou shalt essay to burst the thrall
Which binds, in fetters forged by fate,
The wreck and ruin of what once was great.
And Time's grey pillar, groaning, fall;
Thus shall it be, and still in vain
Thou shalt essay to burst the thrall
Which binds, in fetters forged by fate,
The wreck and ruin of what once was great.
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?
110
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,
111
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,
112
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,
113
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!
HYMN FOR PENTECOST.
Pure Spirit of the alway-faithful God,
Kindler of Heaven's true light within the soul!
From the lorn land our sainted fathers trod,
Ascends to Thee our cry of hope and dole.
Thee, Thee we praise!
To Thee we raise
Our choral hymn in these awakening days:
O, send us down anew that fire
Which of old lived in David's and Isaiah's lyre.
Kindler of Heaven's true light within the soul!
From the lorn land our sainted fathers trod,
Ascends to Thee our cry of hope and dole.
Thee, Thee we praise!
To Thee we raise
Our choral hymn in these awakening days:
O, send us down anew that fire
Which of old lived in David's and Isaiah's lyre.
Centuries had rolled, and earth lay tombed in sleep,
The nightmare sleep of nations beneath kings;
And far abroad o'er liberty's great deep
Death's angel waved his black and stilling wings.
Then struck Thine hour!
Thou, in Thy power,
But breathedst, and the free stood up, a tower;
And tyranny's thrones and strongholds fell,
And men made jubilee for an abolished hell.
The nightmare sleep of nations beneath kings;
114
Death's angel waved his black and stilling wings.
Then struck Thine hour!
Thou, in Thy power,
But breathedst, and the free stood up, a tower;
And tyranny's thrones and strongholds fell,
And men made jubilee for an abolished hell.
And she, our mother-house, the famed, the fair,
The golden house of light and intellect,
Must she still groan in her intense despair?
Shall she lie prone while Europe stands erect?
Forfend this, Thou
To Whom we vow
Souls even our giant wrongs shall never bow:
Thou wilt not leave our green flag furled,
Nor bear that we abide the byword of the world.
The golden house of light and intellect,
Must she still groan in her intense despair?
Shall she lie prone while Europe stands erect?
Forfend this, Thou
To Whom we vow
Souls even our giant wrongs shall never bow:
Thou wilt not leave our green flag furled,
Nor bear that we abide the byword of the world.
Like the last lamp that burned in Tullia's tomb
Through ages, vainly, with unwaning ray,
Our star of Hope lights but a path of gloom,
Whose false track leads us round and round alway.
But Thou canst ope
A gate from hope
To victory! Thou canst nerve our arms to cope
With looming storm and danger still,
And lend a thunder-voice to the land's lightning-will.
Through ages, vainly, with unwaning ray,
Our star of Hope lights but a path of gloom,
Whose false track leads us round and round alway.
But Thou canst ope
A gate from hope
To victory! Thou canst nerve our arms to cope
With looming storm and danger still,
And lend a thunder-voice to the land's lightning-will.
Descend, then, Spirit of the Eternal King!
To thee, to Him, to His avenging Son,
The Divine God, in boundless trust we cling;
His help once ours, our nationhood is won.
We watch the time
Till that sublime
Event shall thrill the free of every clime.
Speed, mighty Spirit! speed its march,
And thus complete for earth mankind's triumphal arch.
To thee, to Him, to His avenging Son,
The Divine God, in boundless trust we cling;
His help once ours, our nationhood is won.
We watch the time
Till that sublime
Event shall thrill the free of every clime.
Speed, mighty Spirit! speed its march,
And thus complete for earth mankind's triumphal arch.
| Poems of James Clarence Mangan | |