Province from noble province dwell estranged,
And all old trusts be changed;

And treason teach true men her impious arts.

But yet in their reluctant hands they bore
Laurel, and palm, and crown, and bay: an host,
Heartened by wrath and sorrow more and more,
Strove ever, giving up the mighty ghost;
The field well fought, the song well sung, for sake,
Mother! of thee alone:

Sorrow and wrath bade deathless courage wake,
And struck from burning harps a deathless tone.
With palm and laurel won, with crown and bay,
Went proudly down death's way

Children of Ireland, to their deathless throne.

Proud and sweet habitation of thy dead!
Throne upon throne, its thrones of sorrow filled:
Prince on prince coming with triumphant tread,
All passion, save the love of Ireland, stilled.
By the forgetful waters they forget

Not thee, O Inisfail!

Upon thy fields their dreaming eyes are set,

They hear thy winds call ever through each vale.
Visions of victory exalt and thrill

Their hearts' whole hunger still:
High beats their longing for the living Gael.

Sarsfield is sad there with his last desire;
FitzGerald mourns with Emmet; ancient chiefs
Dream on their saffron-mantled hosts, afire
Against the givers of their Mother's griefs.
Was it for naught, captain asks captain old,
Was it in vain, we fell?

Shall we have fallen like the leaves of gold,

And no green spring wake from the long dark spell? Shall never a crown of summer fruitage come

From blood of martyrdom?

Yet to our faith will we not say farewell!

There the white soul of Davis, there the worn,
Waste soul of Mangan, there the surging soul
Of Grattan, hunger for thy promised morn:
There the great legion of thy martyr roll,
Filled with the fames of seven hundred years,

Hunger to hear the voice,

Sweeter than marriage music in their ears,
That shall bid thee and all thy sons rejoice.
There bide the spirits who for thee yet burn:
Ah! might we but return,

And make once more for thee the martyr choice!

No swordsmen are the Christians! Oisin cried:
O Patrick! thine is but a little race.

Nay, ancient Oisin! they have greatly died
In battle glory and with warrior grace.

Signed with the Cross, they conquered and they fell;
Sons of the Cross, they stand:

The Prince of Peace loves righteous warfare well,

And loves thine armies, O our Holy Land!

The Lord of Hosts is with thee, and thine eyes

Shall see upon thee rise

His glory, and the blessing of His Hand.

Thou hast no fear: with immemorial pride,

Bright as when Oscar ran the morning glades;

The knightly Fenian hunters at his side,

The sunlight through green leaves glad on their blades; The heart in thee is full of joyous faith.

Not in the bitter dust

Thou crouchest, heeding what the coward saith:

But, radiant with an everlasting trust,

Hearest thine ancient rivers in their glee

Sing themselves on to sea,

Thy winds make melody: O joy most just!

Nay! we insult thee not with tears, although
With thee we sorrow: not as for one dead
We mourn, for one in the cold earth laid low.
Still is the crown upon thy sovereign head,

Still is the scepter within thy strong hand,

Still is the kingdom thine:

The armies of thy sons on thy command

Wait, and thy starry eyes through darkness shine. Tears for the dear and dead! For thee, All hail! Unconquered Inisfail!

Tears for the lost: thou livest, O divine!

Thou passest not away: the sternest powers
Spoil not all beauty of thy face, nor mar
All peace of thy great heart, O pulse of ours!
The darkest cloud dims thee not all, O star!
Ancient and proud thy sorrows, and their might
That of the murmuring waves:

They hearten us to fight the unceasing fight,
Filled with the grace, that flows from holy graves.
Sons pass away, and thou hast sons as true

To fight the fight anew:

Thy welfare, all the gain their warfare craves.

Sweet Mother! in what marvellous dear ways
Close to thine heart thou keepest all thine own!
Far off, they yet can consecrate their days
To thee, and on the swift winds westward blown,
Send thee the homage of their hearts, their vow
Of one most sacred care:

To thee devote all passionate power, since thou
Vouchsafest them, O land of love! to bear
Sorrow and joy with thee. Each far son thrills
Toward thy blue dreaming hills,

And longs to kiss thy feet upon them, Fair!

If death come swift upon me, it will be
Because of the great love I bear the Gael!
So sang upon the separating sea

Columba, while his boat sped out of hail,

And all grew lonely. But some sons thou hast, Whose is an heavier lot,

Close at thy side: they see thy torment last,

And all their will to help thee helps thee not.

Mother! their grief, to look on thy dear face,
Worn with each weary trace

Of fresh woes, and of old woes unforgot!

And yet great spirits ride thy winds: thy ways
Are haunted and enchanted evermore.
Thy children hear the voices of old days

In music of the sea upon thy shore,

In falling of the waters from thine hills,

In whispers of thy trees:

A glory from the things eternal fills

Their eyes, and at high noon thy people sees
Visions, and wonderful is all the air.

So upon earth they share

Eternity: they learn it at thy knees.

Eternal is our faith in thee: the sun

Shall sooner fall from Heaven, than from our lives
That faith; and the great stars fade one by one,
Ere fade that light in which thy people strives.
Strong in the everlasting righteousness

Triumphs our faith: the fight

Hath holiest hosts to inspire it and to bless;
Thy children lift true faces to the light.
Theirs are the visitations from on high,
Voices that call and cry:

Celestial comfort in the deeps of night.

Charmed upon waters three, forlorn and cold,
The swans, Children of Lir, endured their doom:
From off their white wings flashed the morning gold,
And round their white wings closed the twilight gloom.
Yet on their stormy weird the Christian bell

Broke, and they stirred with dread:

The Coming of the Saints upon them fell;

They woke to joy, and found their white wings fled.
And thou, in these last days, shalt thou not hear
A sound of sacred fear?

God's bells shall ring, and all sad days be dead.

But desolate be the houses of thy foes:

Sorrow encompass them, and vehement wrath
Besiege them: be their hearts cold as the snows:
Let lamentation keen about their path,

The fires of God burn round them, and His night
Lie on their blinded eyes:

And when they call to the Eternal Light,

None shall make answer to their stricken cries.

Mercy and pity shall not know them more:
God shall shut to the door,

And close on them His everlasting skies.

How long? Justice of Very God! How long?
The Isle of Sorrows from of old hath trod
The stony road of unremitting wrong,
The purple winepress of the wrath of God:
Is then the Isle of Destiny indeed
To grief predestinate;

Ever foredoomed to agonize and bleed,
Beneath the scourging of eternal fate?
Yet against hope shall we still hope, and still
Beseech the Eternal Will:

Our lives to this one service dedicate.

Ah, tremble into passion, Harp! and sing

War song, O Sword! Fill the fair land, great Twain!
Wake all her heavy heart to triumphing:

To vengeance, and armed trampling of the plain!
And you, white spirits on the mountain wind,

Cry between eve and morn!

Cry, mighty Dead! until the people find

Their souls a furnace of desire and scorn.
Call to the hosting upon Tara, call

The tribes of Eire all:

Trump of the Champions! immemorial Horn!

Shall not the Three Waves thunder for their King, The Captain of thy people? Shall not streams Leap from thy mountains' heart, and many a spring Gladden thy valleys, for the joy of dreams