Or if, perchance, a younger man thou art,
  Whose ardent soul in throbbings doth aspire,
Come weal, come woe, to play the patriot’s part
  In the bright footsteps of thy glorious sire
If all the pleasures of life’s youthful time
  Thou hast abandoned for the martyr’s cell,
Do thou repent thee of thy hideous crime,
  “Cease to do evil—­learn to do well!”

Or art thou one whom early science led
  To walk with Newton through the immense of heaven,
Who soared with Milton, and with Mina bled,
  And all thou hadst in freedom’s cause hast given? 
Oh! fond enthusiast—­in the after time
  Our children’s children of thy worth shall tell—­
England proclaims thy honesty a crime,
  “Cease to do evil—­learn to do well!”

Or art thou one whose strong and fearless pen
  Roused the Young Isle, and bade it dry its tears,
And gathered round thee ardent, gifted men,
  The hope of Ireland in the coming years? 
Who dares in prose and heart-awakening rhyme,
  Bright hopes to breathe and bitter truths to tell? 
Oh! dangerous criminal, repent thy crime,
  “Cease to do evil—­learn to do well!”

“Cease to do evil”—­ay! ye madmen, cease! 
  Cease to love Ireland—­cease to serve her well;
Make with her foes a foul and fatal peace,
  And quick will ope your darkest, dreariest cell. 
“Learn to do well”—­ay! learn to betray,
  Learn to revile the land in which you dwell
England will bless you on your altered way
  “Cease to do evil—­learn to do well!”

105.  This inscription is on the front of Richmond Penitentiary, Dublin, in which O’Connell and the other political prisoners were confined in the year 1844.

THE LIVING LAND.

We have mourned and sighed for our buried pride,[106]
  We have given what nature gives,
A manly tear o’er a brother’s bier,
  But now for the Land that lives! 
He who passed too soon, in his glowing noon,
  The hope of our youthful band,
From heaven’s blue wall doth seem to call
  “Think, think of your Living Land! 
I dwell serene in a happier scene,
  Ye dwell in a Living Land!”

Yes! yes! dear shade, thou shalt be obeyed,
  We must spend the hour that flies,
In no vain regret for the sun that has set,
  But in hope for another to rise;
And though it delay with its guiding ray,
  We must each, with his little brand,
Like sentinels light through the dark, dark night,
  The steps of our Living Land. 
She needeth our care in the chilling air—­
  Our old, dear Living Land!

Yet our breasts will throb, and the tears will throng
  To our eyes for many a day,
For an eagle in strength and a lark in song
  Was the spirit that passed away. 
Though his heart be still as a frozen rill,
  And pulseless his glowing hand,
We must struggle the more for that old green shore
  He was making a Living Land. 
By him we have lost, at whatever the cost,
  She must be a Living Land!