The Exile of the Gael
IT is sweet to rejoice for a day,—
For a day that is reached at last!
It is well for wanderers in new lands,
Slow climbers toward a lofty mountain pass,
Yearning with hearts and eyes strained ever upward,
To pause, and rest, on the summit,—
To stand between two limitless outlooks,—
Behind them, a winding path through familiar pains and ventures;
Before them, the streams unbridged and the vales untraveled.
What shall they do nobler than mark their passage,
With kindly hearts, mayhap for kindred to follow?
What shall they do wiser than pile a cairn
With stones from the wayside, that their tracks and names
Be not blown from the hills like sand, and their story be lost forever?
'Hither,' the cairn shall tell, 'Hither they came and rested!'
'Whither?' the searcher shall ask, with questioning eyes on their future.
Hither and Whither! O Maker of Nations! Hither and Whither the sea speaks,
Heaving; the forest speaks, dying; the Summer whispers,
Like a sentry giving up the watchword, to the muffled Winter.
Hither and Whither! the Earth calls wheeling to the Sun;
And like ships on the deep at night, the stars interflash the signal.
Hither and Whither, the exiles' cairn on the hill speaks,—
Yea, as loudly as the sea and the earth and the stars.
The heart is earth's exile: the soul is heaven's;
And God has made no higher mystery for stars.
Hither—from home! sobs the torn flower on the river:
Wails the river itself as it enters the bitter ocean;
Moans the iron in the furnace at the premonition of melting;
Cries the scattered grain in Spring at the passage of the harrow.
In the iceberg is frozen the rain's dream of exile from the fields;
The shower falls sighing for the opaline hills of cloud;
And the clouds on the bare mountains weep their daughter-love for the sea.
Exile is God's alchemy! Nations he forms like metals,—
Mixing their strength and their tenderness;
Tempering pride with shame and victory with affliction;
Meting their courage, their faith and their fortitude,—
Timing their genesis to the world's needs!
'What have ye brought to our Nation-building, Sous of the Gael?
What is your burden or guerdon from old Innisfail?
Here build we higher and deeper than men ever built before;
And we raise no Shinar tower, but a temple forevermore.
What have ye brought from Erin your hapless land could spare?
Her tears, defeats, and miseries? Are these, indeed, your share?
Are the mother's caoine and the banshee’s cry your music for our song?
Have ye joined our feast with a withered wreath and a memory of wrong?
With a broken sword and treason-flag, from your Banba of the Seas?
O, where in our House of Triumph shall hang such gifts as these?'
O, Soul, wing forth! what answer across the main is heard?
From burdened ships and exiled lips,—write down, write down the word!
'No treason we bring from Erin — nor bring we shame nor guilt!
The sword we hold may be broken, but we have not dropped the hilt!
The wreath we bear to Columbia is twisted of thorns, not bays;
And the songs we sing are saddened by thoughts of desolate days.
But the hearts we bring for Freedom are washed in the surge of tears;
And we claim our right by a People's fight outliving a thousand years!'
'What bring ye else to the Building?'
'O, willing hands to toil;
Strong natures tuned to the harvest-song, and bound to the kindly soil;
Bold pioneers for the wilderness, defenders in the field,—
The sons of a race of soldiers who never learned to yield.
Young hearts with duty brimming—as faith makes sweet the due;
Their truth to me their witness they cannot be false to you!'
'What send ye else, old Mother, to raise our mighty wall?
For we must build against Kings and Wrongs a fortress never to fall?'
'I send you in cradle and bosom, wise brain and eloquent tongue,
Whose crowns should engild my crowning, whose songs for me should be sung.
O, flowers unblown, from lonely fields, my daughters with hearts aglow,
With pulses warm with sympathies, with bosoms pure as snow,—
I smile through tears as the' clouds unroll—my widening river that runs!
My lost ones grown in radiant growth—proud mothers of free-born sons!
My seed of sacrifice ripens apace! The Tyrant's cure is disease:
My strength that was dead like a forest is spread beyond the distant seas!'
'It is well, aye well, old Erin! The sons you give to me
Are symbolled long in flag and song—your Sunburst on the Sea!
All mine by the chrism of Freedom, still yours by their love's belief;
And truest to me shall the tenderest be in a suffering mother's grief.
Their loss is the change of the wave to the cloud, of the dew to the river and main;
Their hope shall persist through the sea, and the mist, and thy streams shall be filled again.
As the smolt of the salmon go down to the sea, and as surely come back to the river,
Their love shall be yours while your sorrow endures, for God guardeth His right forever! '
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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The Peace Autumn
THANK God for rest, where none molest,
And none can make afraid;
For Peace that sits as Plenty's guest
Beneath the homestead shade!
Bring pike and gun, the sword's red scourge,
The negro's broken chains,
And beat them at the blacksmith's forge
To ploughshares for our plains.
Alike henceforth our hills of snow,
And vales where cotton flowers;
All streams that flow, all winds that blow,
Are Freedom's motive-powers.
Henceforth to Labor's chivalry
Be knightly honors paid;
For nobler than the sword's shall be
The sickle's accolade.
Build up an altar to the Lord,
O grateful hearts of ours!
And shape it of the greenest sward
That ever drank the showers.
Lay all the bloom of gardens there,
And there the orchard fruits;
Bring golden grain from sun and air,
From earth her goodly roots.
There let our banners droop and flow,
The stars uprise and fall;
Our roll of martyrs, sad and slow,
Let sighing breezes call.
Their names let hands of horn and tan
And rough-shod feet applaud,
Who died to make the slave a man,
And link with toil reward.
There let the common heart keep time
To such an anthem sung
As never swelled on poet's rhyme,
Or thrilled on singer's tongue.
Song of our burden and relief,
Of peace and long annoy;
The passion of our mighty grief
And our exceeding joy!
A song of praise to Him who filled
The harvests sown in years,
And gave each field a double yield
To feed our battle-years!
A song of faith that trusts the end
To match the good begun,
Nor doubts the power of Love to blend
The hearts of men as one!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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The Patriot's Game
I.
TEAR down the crape from the column! Let the shaft stand white and fair!
Be silent the wailing music—there is no death in the air!
We come not in plaint or sorrow—no tears may dim our sight:
We dare not weep o'er the epitaph we have not dared to write.
Come hither with glowing faces, the sire, the youth, and the child;
This grave is a shrine for reverent hearts and hands that are undefiled:
Its ashes are inspiration; it giveth us strength to bear,
And sweepeth away dissension, and nerveth the will to dare.
In the midst of the tombs a Gravestone—and written thereon no word!
And behold! at the head of the grave, a gibbet, a torch, and a sword!
And the people kneel by the gibbet, and pray by the nameless stone
For the torch to be lit, and the name to be writ, and the sword's red work to be done!
II.
With pride and not with grief
We lay this century leaf
Upon the tomb, with hearts that do not falter:
A few brief, toiling years
Since fell the nation's tears,
And lo, the patriot's gibbet is an altar!
The people that are blest
Have him they love the best
To mount the martyr's scaffold when they need him;
And vain the cords that bind
While the nation's steadfast mind,
Like the needle to the pole, is true to freedom!
III.
Three powers there are that dominate the world-
Fraud, Force, and Right—and two oppress the one:
The bolts of Fraud and Force like twins are hurled—
Against them ever standeth Right alone.
Cyclopian strokes the brutal allies give:
Their fetters massive and their dungeon walls;
Beneath their yoke, weak nations cease to live,
And valiant Right itself defenseless falls!
Defaced is law, and justice slain at birth;
Good men are broken—malefactors thrive;
But, when the tyrants tower o'er the earth,
Behind their wheels strong right is still alive!
Alive, like seed that God's own hand has sown—
Like seed that lieth in the lowly furrow,
But springs to life when wintry winds are blown:
To-day the earth is gray—'tis green to-morrow.
The roots strike deep despite the rulers' power,
The plant grows strong with summer sun and rain,
Till autumn bursts the deep red-hearted flower,
And freedom marches to the front again!
While slept the right, and reigned the dual wrong,
Unchanged, unchecked, for half a thousand years,
In tears of blood we cried, 'O Lord, how long!'
And even God seemed deaf to Erin's tears.
But, when she lay all weak and bruised and broken,
Her white limbs seared with cruel chain and thorn—
As bursts the cloud, the lightning word was spoken,
God's seed took root—His crop of men was born!
With one deep breath began the land's progression:
On every field the seeds of freedom fell:
Burke, Grattan, Flood, and Curran in the session—
Fitzgerald, Sheares, and Emmet in the cell!
Such teachers soon aroused the dormant nation—
Such sacrifice insured the endless fight:
The voice of Grattan smote wrong's domination—
The death of Emmet sealed the cause of right!
IV.
Richest of gifts to- a, nation! Death with the living crown!
Type of ideal manhood to the people's heart brought down!
Fount of the hopes we cherish—test of the things we do;
Gorgon's face for the traitor—talisman for the true!
Sweet is the love of a woman, and sweet is the kiss of a child;
Sweet is the tender strength, and the bravery of the mild;
But sweeter than all, for embracing all, is the young life's peerless price—
The young heart laid on the altar, as a nation's sacrifice.
How can the debt be canceled? Prayers and tears we may give—
But how recall the anguish of hearts that have ceased to live?
Flushed with the pride of genius—filled with the strength of life—
Thrilled with delicious passion for her who would be his wife—
This was the heart he offered—the upright life he gave—
This is the silent sermon of the patriot's nameless grave.
Shrine of a nation's honor—stone left blank for a name
Light on the dark horizon to guide us clear from shame
Chord struck deep with the keynote, telling us what can save—
'A nation among the nations,' or forever a nameless grave.
Such is the will of the martyr—the burden we still must bear;
But even from death he reaches the legacy to share:
He teaches the secret of manhood—the watchword of those who aspire—
That men must follow freedom though it lead through blood and fire;
That sacrifice is the bitter draught which freemen still mast quaff—
That every patriotic life is the patriot's epitaph.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Victory
I.
Before those golden altar-lights we stood,
Each one of us remembering his own dead.
A more than earthly beauty seemed to brood
On that hushed throng, and bless each bending head.
Beautiful on that gold, the deep-sea blue
Of those young seamen, ranked on either side,
Blent with the khaki, while the silence grew
Deep, as for wings--Oh, deep as England's pride.
Beautiful on that gold, two banners rose--
Two flags that told how Freedom's realm was made,
One fair with stars of hope, and one that shows
The glorious cross of England's long crusade;
Two flags, now joined, till that high will be done
Which sent them forth to make the whole world one.
II.
There were no signs of joy that eyes could see.
Our hearts were all three thousand miles away.
There were no trumpets blown for victory.
A million dead were calling us that day.
And eyes grew blind, at times; but grief was deep,
Deeper than any foes or friends have known;
For Oh, my country's lips are locked to keep
Her bitterest loss her own, and all her own.
Only the music told what else was dumb,
The funeral march to which our pulses beat;
For all our dead went by, to a muffled drum
We heard the tread of all those phantom feet.
Yes. There was victory! Deep in every soul.
We heard them marching to their unseen goal.
III.
There, once again, we saw the Cross go by,
The Cross that fell with all those glorious towers,
Burnt black in France or mocked on Calvary,
Till--in one night--the crosses rose like flowers,
Legions of small white crosses, mile on mile,
Pencilled with names that had outfought all pain,
Where every shell-torn acre seems to smile--
_Who shall destroy the cross that rose again?_
Out of the world's Walpurgis, where hope perished,
Where all the forms of faith in ruin fell,
Where every sign of heaven that earth had cherished
Shrivelled among the lava-floods of hell,
The eternal Cross that conquers might with right
Rose like a star to lead us through the night.
IV.
How shall the world remember? Men forget:
Our dead are all too many even for Fame!
Man's justice kneels to kings, and pays no debt
To those who never courted her acclaim.
Cheat not your heart with promises to pay
For gifts beyond all price so freely given.
Where is the heart so rich that it can say
To those who mourn, 'I will restore your heaven'?
But these, with their own hands, laid up their treasure
Where never an emperor can break in and steal,
Treasure for those that loved them past all measure
In those high griefs that earth can never heal,
Proud griefs, that walk on earth, yet gaze above,
Knowing that sorrow is but remembered love.
V.
Love that still holds us with immortal power,
Yet cannot lift us to His realm of light;
Love that still shows us heaven for one brief hour
Only to daunt the heart with that sheer height;
Love that is made of loveliness entire
In form and thought and act; and still must shame us
Because we ever acknowledge and aspire,
And yet let slip the shining hands that claim us.
O, if this Love might cloak with rags His glory,
Laugh, eat and drink, and dwell with suffering men,
Sit with us at our hearth, and hear our story,
This world--we thought--might be transfigured then.
'But Oh,' Love answered, with swift human tears,
'All these things have I done, these many years.'
VI.
'This day,' Love said, 'if ye will hear my voice;
I mount and sing with birds in all your skies.
I am the soul that calls you to rejoice.
And every wayside flower is my disguise.
'Look closely. Are the wings too wide for pity?
Look closely. Do these tender hues betray?
How often have I sought my Holy City?
How often have ye turned your hearts away?
'Is there not healing in the beauty I bring you?
Am I not whispering in green leaves and rain,
Singing in all that woods and seas can sing you?
Look, once, on Love, and earth is heaven again.
'O, did your Spring but once a century waken,
The heaven of heavens for this would be forsaken.'
VII.
There's but one gift that all our dead desire,
One gift that men can give, and that's a dream,
Unless we, too, can burn with that same fire
Of sacrifice; die to the things that seem;
Die to the little hatreds; die to greed;
Die to the old ignoble selves we knew;
Die to the base contempts of sect and creed,
And rise again, like these, with souls as true.
Nay (since these died before their task was finished)
Attempt new heights, bring even their dreams to birth:--
Build us that better world, Oh, not diminished
By one true splendor that they planned on earth.
And that's not done by sword, or tongue, or pen,
There's but one way. God make us better men.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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The Union
You that have gathered together the sons of all races,
And welded them into one,
Lifting the torch of your Freedom on hungering faces
That sailed to the setting sun;
You that have made of mankind in your own proud regions
The music of man to be,
How should the old earth sing of you, now, as your legions
Rise to set all men free?
How should the singer that knew the proud vision and loved it,
In the days when not all men knew,
Gaze through his tears, on the light, now the world has approved it;
Or dream, when the dream comes true?
How should he sing when the Spirit of Freedom in thunder
Speaks, and the wine-press is red;
And the sea-winds are loud with the chains that are broken asunder
And nations that rise from the dead?
Flag of the sky, proud flag of that wide communion,
Too mighty for thought to scan;
Flag of the many in one, and that last world-union
That kingdom of God in man;
Ours was a dream, in the night, of that last federation,
But yours is the glory unfurled--
The marshalled nations and stars that shall make one nation
One singing star of the world.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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Christmas Hymn
O CHRIST, born on the holy day,
I have no gift to give my King;
No flowers grow by my weary way;
I have no birthday song to sing.
How can I sing Thy name and praise,
Who never saw Thy face divine;
Who walk in darkness all my days,
And see no Eastern stars a-shine?
Yet, when their Christmas gifts they bring,
How can I leave Thy praise unsung?
How stay from homage to the King,
And hold a silent, grudging tongue?
Lord, I found many a song to sing,
And many a humble hymn of praise
For Thy great Miracle of Spring,
The wonder of the waxing days.
When I beheld Thy days and years,
Did I not sing Thy pleasant earth?
The moons of love, the years of tears,
The mysteries of death and birth?
Have I not sung with all my soul
While soul and song were mine to yield,
Thy lightning crown, Thy cloud-control,
The dewy clover of Thy field?
Have I not loved Thy birds and beasts,
Thy streams and woods, Thy sun and shade;
Have I not made me holy feasts
Of all the beauty Thou hast made?
What though my tear-tired eyes, alas!
Won never grace Thy face to see?
I heard Thy footstep on the grass,
Thy voice in every wind-blown tree.
No music now I make or win,
Yet, Lord, remember I have been
The lover of Thy world, wherein
I found nought common or unclean.
Grown old and blind, I sing no more,
Thy saints in heaven sing sweet and strong,
Yet take the songs I made of yore
For echoes to Thy birthday song.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Song Of The Standard
Maiden most beautiful, mother most bountiful, lady of lands,
Queen and republican, crowned of the centuries whose years are thy sands,
See for thy sake what we bring to thee, Italy, here in our hands.
This is the banner thy gonfalon, fair in the front of thy fight,
Red from the hearts that were pierced for thee, white as thy mountains are white,
Green as the spring of thy soul everlasting, whose life-blood is light.
Take to thy bosom thy banner, a fair bird fit for the nest,
Feathered for flight into sunrise or sunset, for eastward or west,
Fledged for the flight everlasting, but held yet warm to thy breast.
Gather it close to thee, song-bird or storm-bearer, eagle or dove,
Lift it to sunward, a beacon beneath to the beacon above,
Green as our hope in it, white as our faith in it, red as our love.
Thunder and splendour of lightning are hid in the folds of it furled;
Who shall unroll it but thou, as thy bolt to be handled and hurled,
Out of whose lips is the honey, whose bosom the milk of the world?
Out of thine hands hast thou fed us with pasture of colour and song;
Glory and beauty by birthright to thee as thy garments belong;
Out of thine hands thou shalt give us as surely deliverance from wrong.
Out of thine eyes thou hast shed on us love as a lamp in our night,
Wisdom a lodestar to ships, and remembrance a flame-coloured light;
Out of thine eyes thou shalt shew us as surely the sun-dawn of right.
Turn to us, speak to us, Italy, mother, but once and a word,
None shall not follow thee, none shall not serve thee, not one that has heard;
Twice hast thou spoken a message, and time is athirst for the third.
Kingdom and empire of peoples thou hadst, and thy lordship made one
North sea and south sea and east men and west men that look on the sun;
Spirit was in thee and counsel, when soul in the nations was none.
Banner and beacon thou wast to the centuries of storm-wind and foam,
Ages that clashed in the dark with each other, and years without home;
Empress and prophetess wast thou, and what wilt thou now be, O Rome?
Ah, by the faith and the hope and the love that have need of thee now,
Shines not thy face with the forethought of freedom, and burns not thy brow?
Who is against her but all men? and who is beside her but thou?
Art thou not better than all men? and where shall she turn but to thee?
Lo, not a breath, not a beam, not a beacon from midland to sea;
Freedom cries out for a sign among nations, and none will be free.
England in doubt of her, France in despair of her, all without heart -
Stand on her side in the vanward of ages, and strike on her part!
Strike but one stroke for the love of her love of thee, sweet that thou art!
Take in thy right hand thy banner, a strong staff fit for thine hand;
Forth at the light of it lifted shall foul things flock from the land;
Faster than stars from the sun shall they fly, being lighter than sand.
Green thing to green in the summer makes answer, and rose-tree to rose;
Lily by lily the year becomes perfect; and none of us knows
What thing is fairest of all things on earth as it brightens and blows.
This thing is fairest in all time of all things, in all time is best -
Freedom, that made thee, our mother, and suckled her sons at thy breast;
Take to thy bosom the nations, and there shall the world come to rest.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Ireland - 1882
'ISLAND of Destiny! Innisfail!' they cried, when their weary eyes
First looked on thy beauteous bosom from the amorous, ocean rise.
'Island of Destiny! Innisfail!' we cry. dear land, to thee,
As the sun of thy future rises and reddens the western sea!
Pregnant as earth with its gold and gems and its metals strong and fine,
Is thy soul with its ardors and fancies and sympathies divine.
Mustard seed of the nations! they scattered thy leaves to the air,
But the ravisher pales at the harvest that flourishes everywhere.
Queen in the right of thy courage! manacled, scourged, defamed,
Thy voice in the teeth of the bayonets the right of a race proclaimed.
'Bah!' they sneered from their battlements, 'her people cannot unite;
They are sands of the sea, that break before the rush of our ordered might!'
And wherever the flag of the pirate flew, the English slur was heard,
And the shallow of soul re-echoed the boast of the taunting word.
But we—O sun, that of old was our god, we look in thy face to-day,
As our Druids who prayed in the ancient time, and with them we proudly say:
'We have wronged no race, we have robbed no land, we have never oppressed the weak!'
And this in the face of Heaven is the nobler thing to speak.
We can never unite—thank God for that! in such unity as yours,
That strangles the rights of others, and only itself endures
As the guard of a bloodstained spoil and the red-eyed watch of the slave;
No need for such robber-union to a race free-souled and brave.
The races that band for plunder are the mud of the human stream,
The base and the coward and sordid, without an unselfish gleam.
It is mud that unites; but the sand is free—ay, every grain is free,
And the freedom of individual men is the highest of liberty.
It is mud that coheres; but the sand is free, till the lightning smite the shore,
And smelt the grains to a crystal mass, to return to sand no more.
And so with the grains of our Irish sand, that flash cleareyed to the sun,
Till a noble Purpose smites them and melts them into one.
While the sands are free, O Tyrants! like the wind are your steel and speech;
Your brute-force crushes a legion, but a soul it can never reach.
Island of Destiny! Innisfail? for thy faith is the payment near:
The mine of the future is opened, and the golden veins appear.
Thy hands are white and thy page unstained. Reach out for the glorious years,
And take them from Grod as His recompense for thy fortitude and tears.
Thou canst stand by the way ascending, as thy tyrant goes to the base:
The seeds of her death are in her and the signs in her cruel face.
On her darkened path lie the corpses of men, with whose blood her feet are red;
And the curses of ruined nations are a cloud above her head.
O Erin, fresh in the latest day, like a gem from a Syrian tomb,
The burial clay of the centuries has saved thy light in the gloom.
Thy hands may stretch to a kindred world: there is none that hates but one;
And she but hates as a pretext for the rapine she has done.
The night of thy grief is closing, and the sky in the East is red:
Thy children watch from the mountain-tops for the sun to kiss thy head.
O Mother of men that are fit to be free, for their test for freedom borne,
Thy vacant place in the Nations' race awaits but the coming morn!
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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The Feast Of The Gael
St. Patrick’s Day
I.
WHAT a onion of hearts is the love of a mother
When races of men in her name unite!
For love of Old Erin, and love of each other,
The boards of the Gael are full to-night!
Their millions of men have one toast and one topic—
Their feuds laid aside and their envies removed;
From the pines of the Pole to the palms of the Tropic,
They drink: 'The dear Land we have prayed for and loved!'
They are One by the bond of a time-honored fashion;
Though strangers may see but the lights of their feast,
Beneath lies the symbol of faith and of passion
Alike of the Pagan and Christian priest!
II.
When native laws by native kings
At Tara were decreed,
The grand old Gheber worship
Was the form of Erin's creed.
The Sun, Life-giver, was God on high;
Men worshipped the Power they saw;
And they kept the faith as the ages rolled
By the solemn Beltane law.
Each year, on the Holy Day, was quenched
The household fires of the land;
And the Druid priest, at the midnight hour,
Brought forth the flaming brand,—
The living spark for the Nation's hearths,—
From the Monarch's hand it came,
Whose fire at Tara spread the sign—
And the people were One by the flame!
And Baal was God! till Patrick came,
By the Holy Name inspired;
On the Beltane night, in great Tara's sight,
His pile at Slane was fired.
And the deed that was death was the Nation's life,
And the doom of the Pagan bane;
For Erin still keeps Beltane night,
But lights her lamp at Slane!
Though fourteen centuries pile their dust
On the mound of the Druid's grave,
To-night is The Beltane! Bright the fire
That Holy Patrick gave!
To-night is The Beltane! Let him heed
Who studieth creed and race:
Old times and gods are dead, and we
Are far from the ancient place;
The waves of centuries, war, and waste,
Of famine, gallows, and goal,
Have swept our land; but the world to-night
Sees the Beltane Fire of the Gael!
III.
O land of sad fate! like a desolate queen,
Who remembers in sorrow the crown of her glory,
The love of thy children not strangely is seen—
For humanity weeps at thy heart-touching story.
Strong heart in affliction! that draweth thy foes
Till they love thee more dear than thine own generation:
Thy strength is increased as thy life-current flows,—
What were death to another is Ireland's salvation!
God scatters her sons like the seed on the lea,
And they root where they fall, be it mountain or furrow;
They come to remain and remember; and she
In their growth will rejoice in a blissful to-morrow!
They sing in strange lands the sweet songs of their home,
Their emerald Zion enthroned in the billows;
To work, not to weep by the rivers they come:
Their harps are not hanged in despair on the willows.
The hope of the mother beats youthful and strong,
Responsive and true to her children's pulsations,
No petrified heart has she saved from the wrong—
Our Niobe lives for her place 'mong the nations!
Then drink, all her sons—be they Keltic or Danish,
Or Norman or Saxon—one mantle was o'er us;
Let race lines, and creed lines, and every line, vanish—
We drink as the Gael: 'To the Mother that bore us! '
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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When Two Hearts Beat as One
When two hearts beat as one,
the bells ring out tunes of great melody.
The angels bow down and offer their hands
to bring these two hearts to the mountain
where joy and beauty reign in ecstasy.
When two hearts beat as one,
the burden ceases to be a yoke to carry.
New roads are found in the common journey.
The empty ground bursts out with trees
and the river speaks to birds and flowers.
When two hearts beat as one,
eyes are born to see the needs around.
Hands are lifted up, given, extended,
serving others beyond their own habitat
and the new song of love forever lasts.
poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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Erin
“Come, sing a new song to her here while we listen!'
They cry to her sons who sing;
And one sings: ' Mavourneen, it makes the eyes glisten
To think how the sorrows cling,
Like the clouds on your mountains, wreathing
Their green to a weeping gray! '
And the bard with his passionate breathing
Has no other sweet word to say.
'Come sing a new song!' and their eyes, while they're speaking,
Are dreaming of far-off things;
And their hearts are away for the old words seeking,
Unheeding of him who sings.
But he smiles and sings on, for the sound so slender
Has reached the deep note he knows;
And the heart-poem stirred by the word so tender
Out from the well-spring flows.
And he says in his song: '0 dhtar dheelish! the tearful!
She's ready to laugh when she cries!'
And they sob when they hear: 'Sure she's sad when she's cheerful;
And she smiles with the tears in her eyes!'
And he asks them : What need of new poets to praise her?
Her harpers still sing in the past;
And her first sweet old melodies com fort and raise her
To joys never reached by her last.
What need of new hero, with Brian? or preacher,
With Patrick? or soldier, with Conn?
With her dark Ollamh Fohla, what need of a teacher,
Sage, ruler, and builder in one?
What need of new lovers, with Deirdre and Imer?
With wonders and visions and elves
Sure no need at all has romancer or rhymer,
When the fairies belong to ourselves.
What need of new tongues? O, the Gaelic is clearest,
Like Nature's own voice every word;
'Ahagur! Acushla! SavourneenI' the dearest
The ear of a girl ever heard.
They may talk of new causes! Dhar Dhia .' our old one
Is fresher than ever to-day;
Like Erin's green sod that is steaming to God
The blood it has drunk in the fray.
They have scattered her seed, with her blood and hate in it,
And the harvest has come to her here;
Her crown still remains for the strong heart to win it,
And the hour of acceptance is near.
Through ages of warfare and famine and prison
Her voice and her spirit were free:
But the longest night ends, and her name has uprisen:
The sunburst is red on the sea!
What need of new songs? When his country is singing.
What word has the Poet to say,
But to drink her a toast while the joy-bells are ringing
The dawn of her opening day?
'O Bride of the Sea! may the world know your
As well as it knows your tears!
As your past was for Freedom, so be your hereafter;
And through all your coming years
May no weak race be wronged, and no strong robber feared;
To oppressors grow hateful, to slaves more endeared;
Till the world comes to know that the test of a cause
Is the hatred of tyrants, and Erin's applause!'
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Dedication To Joseph Mazzini
Take, since you bade it should bear,
These, of the seed of your sowing,
Blossom or berry or weed.
Sweet though they be not, or fair,
That the dew of your word kept growing,
Sweet at least was the seed.
Men bring you love-offerings of tears,
And sorrow the kiss that assuages,
And slaves the hate-offering of wrongs,
And time the thanksgiving of years,
And years the thanksgiving of ages;
I bring you my handful of songs.
If a perfume be left, if a bloom,
Let it live till Italia be risen,
To be strewn in the dust of her car
When her voice shall awake from the tomb
England, and France from her prison,
Sisters, a star by a star.
I bring you the sword of a song,
The sword of my spirit's desire,
Feeble; but laid at your feet,
That which was weak shall be strong,
That which was cold shall take fire,
That which was bitter be sweet.
It was wrought not with hands to smite,
Nor hewn after swordsmiths' fashion,
Nor tempered on anvil of steel;
But with visions and dreams of the night,
But with hope, and the patience of passion,
And the signet of love for a seal.
Be it witness, till one more strong,
Till a loftier lyre, till a rarer
Lute praise her better than I,
Be it witness before you, my song,
That I knew her, the world's banner-bearer,
Who shall cry the republican cry.
Yea, even she as at first,
Yea, she alone and none other,
Shall cast down, shall build up, shall bring home;
Slake earth's hunger and thirst,
Lighten, and lead as a mother;
First name of the world's names, Rome.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Before The Lord We Bow
Before the Lord we bow, the God Who reigns above,
And rules the world below, boundless in power and love.
Our thanks we bring in joy and praise, our hearts we raise
To Heaven's high King.
The nation Thou hast blest may well Thy love declare,
From foes and fears at rest, protected by Thy care.
For this fair land, for this bright day, our thanks we pay,
Gifts of Thy hand.
May every mountain height, each vale and forest green,
Shine in Thy Word's pure light, and its rich fruits be seen!
May every tongue be tuned to praise, and join to raise
A grateful song.
Earth, hear thy Maker's voice, thy great Redeemer own;
Believe, obey, rejoice, and worship Him alone.
Cast down thy pride, thy sin deplore and bow before
The Crucified.
And when in power He comes, O may our native land,
From all its rending tombs, send forth a glorious band.
A countless throng, ever to sing to Heaven's high King
Salvation's song.
poem by Francis Scott Key
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Revisited
The roll of drums and the bugle's wailing
Vex the air of our vales-no more;
The spear is beaten to hooks of pruning,
The share is the sword the soldier wore!
Sing soft, sing low, our lowland river,
Under thy banks of laurel bloom;
Softly and sweet, as the hour beseemeth,
Sing us the songs of peace and home.
Let all the tenderer voices of nature
Temper the triumph and chasten mirth,
Full of the infinite love and pity
For fallen martyr and darkened hearth.
But to Him who gives us beauty for ashes,
And the oil of joy for mourning long,
Let thy hills give thanks, and all thy waters
Break into jubilant waves of song!
Bring us the airs of hills and forests,
The sweet aroma of birch and pine,
Give us a waft of the north-wind laden
With sweethrier odors and breath of kine!
Bring us the purple of mountain sunsets,
Shadows of clouds that rake the hills,
The green repose of thy Plymouth meadows,
The gleam and ripple of Campton rills.
Lead us away in shadow and sunshine,
Slaves of fancy, through all thy miles,
The winding ways of Pemigewasset,
And Winnipesaukee's hundred isles.
Shatter in sunshine over thy ledges,
Laugh in thy plunges from fall to fall;
Play with thy fringes of elms, and darken
Under the shade of the mountain wall.
The cradle-song of thy hillside fountains
Here in thy glory and strength repeat;
Give us a taste of thy upland music,
Show us the dance of thy silver feet.
Into thy dutiful life of uses
Pour the music and weave the flowers;
With the song of birds and bloom of meadows
Lighten and gladden thy heart and ours.
Sing on! bring down, O lowland river,
The joy of the hills to the waiting sea;
The wealth of the vales, the pomp of mountains,
The breath of the woodlands, bear with thee.
Here, in the calm of thy seaward, valley,
Mirth and labor shall hold their truce;
Dance of water and mill of grinding,
Both are beauty and both are use.
Type of the Northland's strength and glory,
Pride and hope of our home and race,--
Freedom lending to rugged labor
Tints of beauty and lines of grace.
Once again, O beautiful river,
Hear our greetings and take our thanks;
Hither we come, as Eastern pilgrims
Throng to the Jordan's sacred banks.
For though by the Master's feet untrodden,
Though never His word has stilled thy waves,
Well for us may thy shores be holy,
With Christian altars and saintly graves.
And well may we own thy hint and token
Of fairer valleys and streams than these,
Where the rivers of God are full of water,
And full of sap are His healing trees!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Eight Years Old
SUN, whom the faltering snow-cloud fears,
Rise, let the time of year be May,
Speak now the word that April hears,
Let March have all his royal way;
Bid all spring raise in winter’s ears
All tunes her children hear or play,
Because the crown of eight glad years
On one bright head is set to-day.
II.
What matters cloud or sun to-day
To him who wears the wreath of years
So many, and all like flowers at play
With wind and sunshine, while his ears
Hear only song on every way?
More sweet than spring triumphant hears
Ring through the revel-rout of May
Are these, the notes that winter fears.
III.
Strong-hearted winter knows and fears
The music made of love at play,
Or haply loves the tune he hears
From hearts fulfilled with flowering May,
Whose molten music thaws his ears
Late frozen, deaf but yesterday
To sounds of dying and dawning years,
Now quickened on his deathward way.
IV.
For deathward now lies winter’s way
Down the green vestibule of years
That each year brightens day by day
With flower and shower till hope scarce fears
And fear grows wholly hope of May.
But we—the music in our ears
Made of love’s pulses as they play
The heart alone that makes it hears.
V.
The heart it is that plays and hears
High salutation of to-day.
Tongue falters, hand shrinks back, song fears
Its own unworthiness to play
Fit music for those eight sweet years,
Or sing their blithe accomplished way.
No song quite worth a young child’s ears
Broke ever even from birds in May.
VI.
There beats not in the heart of May,
When summer hopes and springtide fears,
There falls not from the height of day,
When sunlight speaks and silence hears,
So sweet a psalm as children play
And sing, each hour of all their years,
Each moment of their lovely way,
And know not how it thrills our ears.
VII.
Ah child, what are we, that our ears
Should hear you singing on your way,
Should have this happiness? The years
Whose hurrying wings about us play
Are not like yours, whose flower-time fears
Nought worse than sunlit showers in May,
Being sinless as the spring, that hears
Her own heart praise her every day.
VIII.
Yet we too triumph in the day
That bare, to entrance our eyes and ears,
To lighten daylight, and to play
Such notes as darkness knows and fears,
The child whose face illumes our way,
Whose voice lifts up the heart that hears,
Whose hand is as the hand of May
To bring us flowers from eight full years.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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The Crown Of Empire
Free is the wind that lashes into foam
The fortress waves that gird the Sea-King’s home
And free the war-worn Flag that is our fame
That fear, nor treason, nor the Storm-God’s might,
Nor the leagued banners of the World can shame
When Britain arms for Honour and the Right.
And free the hearts that on this golden day
Bear willing witness to the Sea-King’s sway:
From world-wide realms washed by the world-wide sea
They turn, O Throne of Freedom, unto Thee.
Homeward they turn from many a lonely place,
Maker of Nations, Mother of the Race,
Homeward to Thee, where, in this solemn hour
Of mightiest Empire, Thou hast called once more
A Royal Son to wield Imperial power
And wear the crown that Saxon Alfred wore—
Sceptre and orb that a great Queen laid down,
Lustrous with wisdom, foremost in renown,
Whilst o’er them shone, all glittering gems above,
The Star of Duty and the Pearl of Love.
Europe is here, and Asia: and the West
Lifts ’mid the throng its dauntless Eagle’s crest.
Lo! They are gathered—prince and peer and lord,
And great ambassadors of mighty States,
And utmost Nations—not with naked sword,
But to do Britain honour in her gates.
The splendour of this large, historic hour,
This dazzling pageant of Imperial power,
Surrounds a King whose proudest boast shall be
The hearts that hail him Emperor of the Free.
O Sire August, within these Abbey walls
To thee the sacred dust of Britain calls
To rule the realm that shook the strength of Spain,
And struck th’ accursèd fetter from the slave—
That tore from Europe’s neck the Despot’s chain,
And, for a pledge of Freedom, o’er the wave
Has set its Flag forever—not alone—
The fairest face that ever graced a throne,
Queen of our Hearts, is with Thee as we sing:—
“An Empire’s love is their’s: God Save the King!”
Unbar your ocean-guarded gates, make wide
Your streets, Imperial City of our Pride!
Hark, with the voice of millions, rolling deep,
The world salutes thee on this Royal morn.
Strong as thine island-rock when surges sweep
Thy throne stands steadfast; round it there is born
The silent vow that prince and peasant make
Ere they go down to death for Freedom’s sake,
And, dying, know sons of their sons will be
As swift to guard the Sceptre of the Sea.
O Pillars of an Empire dwarfing Rome,
From the four corners of the world you come.
The strong Sea-Lion calls around his throne
His ancient heirs, his war-worn younger sons.
Bring Heath and Vine from hills of Southern stone.
And Myrtle, where the twining rata runs,—
Wreaths from our Empire-Garden, where, between
The purple Thistle and the Shamrock green,
The snow-white Lotus by the Maple shows,
The yellow Wattle by the English Rose.
This is a Southern Song blown oversea
From mighty States now linked in unity,—
From that far island continent that lies
Gigantic on the waters, throned, apart,
Robed with the splendour of Australian skies—
First to draw sword, when, with a single heart,
From every frontier line of Empire rose
New Britains armed to meet Britannia’s foes,
Whose voices thunder, as the joy-bells ring
Loud from ten thousand spires: “God Save the King!”
poem by George Essex Evans
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When the Great Gray Ships Come In
To eastward ringing, to westward winging, o’er mapless miles of sea,
On winds and tides the gospel rides that the furthermost isles are free,
And the furthermost isles make answer, harbor, and height, and hill,
Breaker and beach cry, each to each, “’Tis the Mother who calls! Be still!”
Mother! new-found, beloved, and strong to hold from harm,
Stretching to these across the seas the shield of her sovereign arm,
Who summoned the guns of her sailor sons, who bade her navies roam,
Who calls again to the leagues of main, and who calls them this time home!
And the great gray ships are silent, and the weary watchers rest;
The black cloud dies in the August skies, and deep in the golden west
Invisible hands are limning a glory of crimson bars,
And far above is the wonder of a myriad wakened stars!
Peace! As the tidings silence the strenuous cannonade,
Peace at last! is the bugle blast the length of the long blockade,
And eyes of vigil weary are lit with the glad release,
From ship to ship and from lip to lip it is “Peace! Thank God for peace.”
Ah, in the sweet hereafter Columbia still shall show
The sons of these who swept the seas how she bade them rise and go,—
How, when the stirring summons smote on her children’s ear,
South and North at the call stood forth, and the whole land answered, “Here!”
For the soul of the soldier’s story and the heart of the sailor’s song
Are all of those who meet their foes as right should meet with wrong,
Who fight their guns till the foeman runs, and then, on the decks they trod,
Brave faces raise, and give the praise to the grace of their country’s God!
Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be strong and free,
To carry the hearts of a people to the uttermost ends of sea,
To see the day steal up the bay where the enemy lies in wait,
To run your ship to the harbor’s lip and sink her across the strait:—
But better the golden evening when the ships round heads for home,
And the long gray miles slip swiftly past in a swirl of seething foam,
And the people wait at the haven’s gate to greet the men who win!
Thank God for peace! Thank God for peace, when the great gray ships come in!
poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1898)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Black Muddy River
When the last rose of summer pricks my finger,
And the hot sun chills me to the bone,
When I cant hear the song for the singer,
And I cant tell my pillow from a stone,
I will walk alone by the black muddy river,
And sing me a song of my own,
I will walk alone by the black muddy river,
And sing me a song of my own.
When the last bolt of sunshine hits the mountain,
And the stars start to splatter in the sky,
When the moon hits the southwest horizon,
With the scream of an eagle on the fly,
I will walk alone by the black muddy river,
And listen to the ripples as they moan,
I will walk alone by the black muddy river,
And sing me a song of my own.
Black muddy river, roll on forever,
I dont care how deep or wide, if youve got another side,
Roll muddy river, roll muddy river, black muddy river, roll.
When it seems like the night will last forever,
And theres nothing left to do but count the years,
When the strings of my heart begin to sever,
And stones fall from my eyes instead of tears,
I will walk alone, by the black muddy river,
And dream me a dream of my own,
I will walk alone, by the black muddy river,
And sing me a song of my own, sing me a song of my own.
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hearts
Hearing - talking - yes I - love you
Set your heart sail on the river
Look around you as you drift downstream hearing
Pouring souls into the ocean talking
Take account of all youve seen love you
One people - together
Freedom for today
So easy the future
So see the childrens way
Love me
Teach me
Know me
One people - together
Freedom for today
Tomorrow forever
So see the peoples way
Many moons cascade one river
They light from side to side
As we cross in close proximity
Like rivers our hearts entwine
How we talk - how we teach our children
How we move - we direct our eyes
All the senses tuned discovery
As and as and when our hearts decide
Be ready now - be ye circle
Be the central force ye life
As the game extends the cycle
Be ready to move
One hearts for love hearts
Ones for giving sailing down the river
Two hearts are better hearts
Than one throwing out a line
I hearing it hearts
I living it
I believe in it sharing out your fortunes
Two hearts are better hearts
Than one in and out of time
Hearing - talking - yes I - love you
One hearts for love hearts
Ones for giving sailing down the river
Two hearts are better hearts
Than one throwing out a line
I hearing it hearts
I living it
I believe in it sharing out your fortunes
I loving it
Two hearts are better hearts
Than one in and out of time
Who would believe you - wise men do
Days that we knew it clear with you
You sing the answers question time
Now it you need me let our hearts entwine
Let our hearts entwine
Hearts - sailing down the river
Hearts - throwing out a line
I hearing it - I living it - I believe in it - I loving it
Hearts
Two hearts will always be
In and out of time
One hearts for love hearts
Ones for giving sailing down the river
Two hearts are better hearts
Than one throwing out a line
I hearing it hearts
I living it
I believe in it sharing out your fortunes
I loving it
Two hearts are better hearts
Than one in and out of time
As we flow down lifes rivers
I see the star glow - one by one
All angels of the magic constellation
Be singing us now
song performed by by Yes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hearts
Hearing - talking - yes I - love you
Set your heart sail on the river
Look around you as you drift downstream hearing
Pouring souls into the ocean talking
Take account of all youve seen love you
One people - together
Freedom for today
So easy the future
So see the childrens way
Love me
Teach me
Know me
One people - together
Freedom for today
Tomorrow forever
So see the peoples way
Many moons cascade one river
They light from side to side
As we cross in close proximity
Like rivers our hearts entwine
How we talk - how we teach our children
How we move - we direct our eyes
All the senses tuned discovery
As and as and when our hearts decide
Be ready now - be ye circle
Be the central force ye life
As the game extends the cycle
Be ready to move
One hearts for love hearts
Ones for giving sailing down the river
Two hearts are better hearts
Than one throwing out a line
I hearing it hearts
I living it
I believe in it sharing out your fortunes
Two hearts are better hearts
Than one in and out of time
Hearing - talking - yes I - love you
One hearts for love hearts
Ones for giving sailing down the river
Two hearts are better hearts
Than one throwing out a line
I hearing it hearts
I living it
I believe in it sharing out your fortunes
I loving it
Two hearts are better hearts
Than one in and out of time
Who would believe you - wise men do
Days that we knew it clear with you
You sing the answers question time
Now it you need me let our hearts entwine
Let our hearts entwine
Hearts - sailing down the river
Hearts - throwing out a line
I hearing it - I living it - I believe in it - I loving it
Hearts
Two hearts will always be
In and out of time
One hearts for love hearts
Ones for giving sailing down the river
Two hearts are better hearts
Than one throwing out a line
I hearing it hearts
I living it
I believe in it sharing out your fortunes
I loving it
Two hearts are better hearts
Than one in and out of time
As we flow down lifes rivers
I see the star glow - one by one
All angels of the magic constellation
Be singing us now
song performed by by Yes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Twas One of Those Dreams
'TWAS one of those dreams, that by music are brought,
Like a bright summer haze, o'er the poet's warm thought --
When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on,
And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone.
The wild notes he heard o'er the water were those
He had taught to sing Erin's dark bondage and woes,
And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o'er
From Dinis' green isle, to Glena's wooded shore.
He listen'd -- while, high o'er the eagle's rude nest,
The lingering sounds on their way loved to rest;
And the echoes sung back from their full mountain quire,
As if loath to let song to enchanting expire.
It seem'd as if every sweet note that died here
Was again brought to life in some airier sphere,
Some heaven in those hills, where the soul of the strain
That had ceased upon earth was awaking again!
Oh forgive, if, while listening to music, whose breath
Seem'd to circle his name with a charm against death,
He should feel a proud spirit within him proclaim,
"Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of Fame:
"Even so, though thy memory should now die away,
'Twill be caught up again in some happier day,
And the hearts and the voices of Erin prolong,
Through the answering Future, thy name and thy song."
poem by Thomas Moore
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