Fulfilled, for glory of the battle won?

Hast thou no prophet left?

Is all thy Druid wizardry undone,

And thou of thy foreknowledge quite bereft?

Nay! but the power of faith is prophecy,

Vision, and certainty:

Faith, that hath walked the waves, and mountains cleft.

As haunting Tirnanoge within the sea,

So hid within the Eyes of God thy fate
Lies dreaming: and when God shall bid it be,
Ah, then the fair perfection of thy state!
Bravely the gold and silver bells shall chime,
When thou art wed with peace:

Far to the desert of their own sad clime

Shall fly the ill Angels, when God bids them cease.
Thine shall be only a majestic joy,

No evil can destroy:

The sorrows of thy soul shall have release.

Thy blood of martyrs to the martyrs' Home

Cries from the earth: the altar of high Heaven
Is by their cries besieged and overcome:
The Rainbow Throne and flaming Spirits Seven
Know well the music of that agony,

That surge of a long sigh,

That voice of an unresting misery,

That ardor of anguish unto the Most High.

Thou from thy wronged earth pleadest with the Just,

Whose loving mercy must

Hear, and command thy death in life to die.

Golden allies are thine, bright souls of Saints,

Glad choirs of intercession for the Gael:

Their flame of prayer ascends, their stream of plaints

Flows to the wounded feet, for Inisfail.

Victor, the Angel of thy Patrick, pleads;

Mailed Michael with his sword.

.

Kneels there, the champion of thy bitter needs,
Prince of the shining armies of the Lord:

And there, Star of the Morning and the Sea,
Mary pours prayers for thee:

And unto Mary be thy prayers outpoured.

O Rose! O Lily! O Lady full of grace!

O Mary Mother!

Glory of Angels!

O Mary Maid! hear thou.
Pity, and turn thy face,

Praying thy Son, even as we pray thee now,
For thy dear sake to set thine Ireland free:
Pray thou thy little Child!

Ah! who can help her, but in mercy He?
Pray then, pray thou for Ireland, Mother mild!
O Heart of Mary! pray the Sacred Heart:

His, at Whose word depart

Sorrows and hates, home to Hell's waste and wild.

Lionel Johnson [1867-1902]

TO THE DEAD OF '98

God rest you, rest you, rest you, Ireland's dead! Peace be upon you shed,

Peace from the Mercy of the Crucified,

You, who for Ireland died!

Soft fall on you the dews and gentle airs

Of interceding prayers,

From lowly cabins of our ancient land,

Yours yet, O Sacred Band!

God rest you, rest you: for the fight you fought

Was His; the end you sought,

His; from His altar fires you took your flame,

Hailing His Holy Name.

Triumphantly you gave yourselves to death:

And your last breath

Was one last sigh for Ireland, sigh to Him,

As the loved land grew dim.

And still, blessed and martyr souls! you pray

In the same faith this day:

From forth your dwelling beyond sun and star, Where only spirits are,

Your prayers in a perpetual flight arise,

To fold before God's Eyes

Their tireless wings, and wait the Holy Word
That one day shall be heard.

Not unto us, they plead, Thy goodness gave

Our mother to enslave;

To us Thou gavest death for love of her:

Ah, what death lovelier?

But to our children's children give to see
The perfect victory!

Thy dead beseech thee: to Thy living give
In liberty to live!

Lionel Johnson [1867-1902]

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD

WHO fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?
Who blushes at the name?
When cowards mock the patriot's fate,
Who hangs his head for shame?
He's all a knave, or half a slave,
Who slights his country thus;
But a true man, like you, man,
Will fill your glass with us.

We drink the memory of the brave,
The faithful and the few-
Some lie far off beyond the wave,
Some sleep in Ireland, too;
All, all are gone-but still lives on
The fame of those who died;
All true men, like you, men,
Remember them with pride.

Some on the shores of distant lands
Their weary hearts have laid,
And by the stranger's heedless hands
Their lonely graves were made;

But, though their clay be far away

Beyond the Atlantic foam,

In true men, like you, men,

Their spirit's still at home.

The dust of some is Irish earth;
Among their own they rest;

And the same land that gave them birth
Has caught them to her breast;
And we will pray that from their clay
Full many a race may start
Of true men, like you, men,
To act as brave a part.

They rose in dark and evil days
To right their native land;
They kindled here a living blaze
That nothing shall withstand.
Alas! that Might can vanquish Right-
They fell and passed away;

But true men, like you, men,
Are plenty here to-day.

Then here's their memory-may it be

For us a guiding light,

To cheer our strife for liberty,

And teach us to unite.

Through good and ill, be Ireland's still,

Though sad as theirs your fate;

And true men be you, men,

Like those of Ninety-Eight!

John Kells Ingram [1823-1907]

CUSHLA MA CHREE

DEAR Erin, how sweetly thy green bosom rises!
An emerald set in the ring of the sea!

Each blade of thy meadows my faithful heart prizes,

Thou queen of the west! the world's cushla ma chree!

Thy gates open wide to the poor and the stranger-
There smiles hospitality hearty and free;

Thy friendship is seen in the moment of danger,

And the wanderer is welcomed with cushla ma chree.

Thy sons they are brave; but, the battle once over,
In brotherly peace with their foes they agree;
And the roseate cheeks of thy daughters discover
The soul-speaking blush that says cushla ma chree.
Then flourish forever, my dear native Erin!
While sadly I wander an exile from thee;
And, firm as thy mountains, no injury fearing,
May heaven defend its own cushla ma chree!

John Philpot Curran [1750-1817]

THE GREEN LITTLE SHAMROCK OF IRELAND

THERE'S a dear little plant that grows in our isle,
'Twas Saint Patrick himself sure that set it;
And the sun on his labor with pleasure did smile,
And with dew from his eye often wet it.

It thrives through the bog, through the brake, and the mireland;

And he called it the dear little shamrock of Ireland

The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock,
The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland!

This dear little plant still grows in our land,
Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin,

Whose smiles can bewitch, whose eyes can command,
In each climate that they may appear in;

And shine through the bog, through the brake, and the mireland,

Just like their own dear little shamrock of Ireland.

The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock,
The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland!

This dear little plant that springs from our soil,
When its three little leaves are extended,
Denotes on one stalk we together should toil,

And ourselves by ourselves be befriended;