Has the past no goading sting
    That can make thee rouse for it? 
  Does thy land’s reviving spring,
  Full of buds and blossoming,
  Fail to make thy cold heart cling,
    Breathing lover’s vows for it? 
  With the circling ocean’s ring
    Thou wert made a spouse for it.

  Hast thou kept as thou shouldst keep
    Thy affections warm for it,
  Letting no cold feeling creep
  Like an ice-breath o’er the deep,
  Freezing to a stony sleep
    Hopes the heart would form for it,
  Glories that like rainbows peep
    Through the darkening storm for it?

  Son of this down-trodden land,
    Aid us in the fight for it. 
  We seek to make it great and grand,
  Its shipless bays, its naked strand,
  By canvas-swelling breezes fanned: 
    Oh, what a glorious sight for it,
  The past expiring like a brand
    In morning’s rosy light for it!

  Think, this dear old land is thine,
    And thou a traitor slave of it: 
  Think how the Switzer leads his kine,
  When pale the evening star doth shine;
  His song has home in every line,
    Freedom in every stave of it;
  Think how the German loves his Rhine
    And worships every wave of it!

  Our own dear land is bright as theirs,
    But oh! our hearts are cold for it;
  Awake! we are not slaves, but heirs. 
  Our fatherland requires our cares,
  Our speech with men, with God our prayers;
    Spurn blood-stained Judas gold for it: 
  Let us do all that honor dares—­
    Be earnest, faithful, bold for it!

DENIS FLORENCE MAC CARTHY.

* * * * *

IRELAND.

[1847.]

  They are dying! they are dying! where the golden corn is growing;
  They are dying! they are dying! where the crowded herds are lowing: 
  They are gasping for existence where the streams of life are flowing,
  And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing!

  God of justice!  God of power! 
    Do we dream?  Can it be,
  In this land, at this hour,
    With the blossom on the tree,
  In the gladsome month of May,
  When the young lambs play,
  When Nature looks around
    On her waking children now,
  The seed within the ground,
    The bud upon the bough? 
  Is it right, is it fair,
  That we perish of despair
  In this land, on this soil,
    Where our destiny is set,
  Which we cultured with our toil,
    And watered with our sweat? 
  We have ploughed, we have sown
  But the crop was not our own;
  We have reaped, but harpy hands
  Swept the harvest from our lands;
  We were perishing for food,
  When lo! in pitying mood,
  Our kindly rulers gave
  The fat fluid of the slave,
  While our corn filled the manger
  Of the war-horse of the stranger!