  BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.Light streams through a rift in the cloud That hangs over green Innisfail— While voices of millions are shouting aloud The satraps of Tyranny quail: The collar of Shame hath been worn Through ages of folly and wo— Too long hath thy neck, O Hibernia! borne The yoke of a merciless foe, Whose creatures, while Perfidy sharpened the dart, Like vultures have crimsoned their beaks in thy heart. Hot winds from the waste of Despair On thy blood-bedewed shamrock have breathed, But the leaves, growing verdant in Liberty's air, Again round her brow shall be wreathed: And chisel of Art on the stone Shall name of that martyr engrave Who prayed for a sepulchre, noteless and lone, While foot of one heart-broken slave Polluted the green of that beautiful shore, By steel-harnessed champions trodden of yore. Gone forth hath the gathering word, And under Hesperian skies Fond exiles the call of their mother have heard, And homeward are turning their eyes: They send o'er the murmuring brine In answer a shout of applause, And drops, that give warmth to their bosoms, like wine, Are ready to shed in a cause That cannot march on with a faltering stride While Truth wears a buckler, and God is a guide. Land of the valiant! at last The brow of thy future is bright; In return for a shadowed and comfortless past Is dawning an era of light: The Lion of Britain in vain Is baring his teeth for the fray— Thy children have sworn that dishonoring stain Shall be wiped from thy forehead away: The bones of thy martyrs have stirred in the tomb, And glimmers the starlight of Hope through the gloom. Invaders thy valor have rued— To deeds that will aye be admired Bear witness, Clontarf! where the Dane was subdued, And Bryan, the dauntless, expired: Thy sons on the scaffold have died, The block hath been soaked with their gore, And long ago banished thy splendor and pride; But idle it seems to deplore— Unbending resolve to blot out thy disgrace, In hearts of the brave, to regret should give place. The Genius of Erin from earth, Uprising, hath broken the bowl, Whose tide to a black-crested viper gave birth, That long dimmed the light of her soul; And millions of high-hearted men Who thus can wild passion restrain, Though driven for refuge to cavern and den, Will arm for the conflict again— And, venturing all on the hazardous cast, Prove victors, though worn and outnumbered, at last. Thou isle, on the breast of the sea Like an emerald gracefully set, Though feet shod with iron have trampled on thee, A brightness belongs to thee yet: In bondage thy magical lyre Hath thrilled a wide world with its strains, And thine eloquent sons have awakened a fire That fast is dissolving thy chains:— The Saxon is watching the issue in fear— He knows that thy day of redemption draws near. |
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