But if at last our color should be torn from Ireland’s heart,
  Her sons with shame and sorrow from the dear old isle will part: 
  I’ve heard a whisper of a land that lies beyond the sea,
  Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of freedom’s day. 
  O Erin, must we leave you, driven by a tyrant’s hand? 
  Must we ask a mother’s blessin’ from a strange and distant land? 
  Where the cruel cross of England shall nevermore be seen,
  And where, please God, we’ll live and die still wearin’ of the green.

* * * * *

MY NATIVE LAND.

  It chanced to me upon a time to sail
    Across the Southern ocean to and fro;
  And, landing at fair isles, by stream and vale
    Of sensuous blessing did we ofttimes go. 
  And months of dreamy joys, like joys in sleep,
    Or like a clear, calm stream o’er mossy stone,
  Unnoted passed our hearts with voiceless sweep,
    And left us yearning still for lands unknown.

  And when we found one,—­for ’tis soon to find
    In thousand-isled Cathay another isle,—­
  For one short noon its treasures filled the mind,
    And then again we yearned, and ceased to smile. 
  And so it was from isle to isle we passed,
    Like wanton bees or boys on flowers or lips;
  And when that all was tasted, then at last
    We thirsted still for draughts instead of sips.

  I learned from this there is no Southern land
    Can fill with love the hearts of Northern men. 
  Sick minds need change; but, when in health they stand
    ’Neath foreign skies, their love flies home agen. 
  And thus with me it was:  the yearning turned
    From laden airs of cinnamon away,
  And stretched far westward, while the full heart burned
    With love for Ireland, looking on Cathay!

  My first dear love, all dearer for thy grief! 
    My land, that has no peer in all the sea
  For verdure, vale, or river, flower or leaf,—­
    If first to no man else, thou’rt first to me. 
  New loves may come with duties, but the first
    Is deepest yet,—­the mother’s breath and smiles;
  Like that kind face and breast where I was nursed
    Is my poor land, the Niobe of isles.

JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY.

* * * * *

BLESS THE DEAR OLD VERDANT LAND.

  Bless the dear old verdant land! 
    Brother, wert thou born of it? 
  As thy shadow life doth stand
  Twining round its rosy band. 
  Did an Irish mother’s hand
    Guide thee in the morn of it? 
  Did a father’s first command
    Teach thee love or scorn of it?

  Thou who tread’st its fertile breast,
    Dost thou feel a glow for it? 
  Thou of all its charms possest. 
  Living on its first and best,
  Art thou but a thankless guest
    Or a traitor foe for it,
  If thou lovest, where’s the test? 
    Wilt thou strike a blow for it?