Classic Poem

LXI.

" They praised thy steed. With wrath and grief
I felt my heart within me bleed,
That any but an Irish chief
Should press the back of such a steed;
I might to yonder smiling land
The noble beast reluctant lead;
But no! — he'd miss thy guiding hand —
Take back, Mac John, thy noble steed

LXII.

" The praises of thy matchless hound,
Burned in my breast like acrid wine;
I swore no chief on Irish ground
Should own a nobler hound than mine;
'Twas rashly sworn, and must not be —
He'd pine to hear the well-known sound,
With which thou called him to thy knee —
Take back, Mac John, thy matchless hound.

LXIII.

" Mac John, I stretch to your's and you,
This hand beneath God's blessed sun,
And for the wrong that I might do,
Forgive the wrong that I have done;
To-morrow all that we have ta'en
Shall doubly, trebly be restored —
The cattle to the grassy plain,
The goblets to the oaken board.

LXIV.

" My people from our richest meads
Shall drive the best our broad lands hold —
For every steed a hundred steeds,
For every steer a hundred fold —
For every scarlet cloak of state,
A hundred cloaks all stiff with gold;
And may we be with hearts elate
Still older friends as we grow old.

LXV.

" Thou'st bravely won an Irish bride —
An Irish bride of grace and worth —
Oh! let the Irish nature glide
Into thy heart from this hour forth;
An Irish home thy sword has won,
A new-found mother blessed the strife;
Oh! be that mother's fondest son,
And love the land that gives you life!

LXVI.

" Betwixt the Isles and Antrim's coast,
The Scotch and Irish waters blend;
But who shall tell, with idle boast,
Where one begins and one doth end?
" Ah! when shall that glad moment gleam,
When all our hearts such spell shall feel?
And blend in one broad Irish stream,
On Irish ground, for Ireland's weal?

LXVII.

" Love the dear land in which you live,
Live in the land you ought to love;
Take root, and let thy branches give
Fruits to the soil they wave above;
No matter for thy foreign name,
No matter what thy sires have done,
No matter whence or when you came,
The land shall claim you as a son! "

LXVIII.

As in the azure fields on high,
When Spring lights up the April sky —
The thick battalioned dusky clouds
Fly o'er the plain like routed crowds
Before the sun's resistless might! —
Where all was dark, now all is bright —
The very clouds have turned to light,
And with the conquering beams unite! —

LXIX.

Thus o'er the face of John Mac John
A thousand varying shades have gone;
Jealousy, anger, rage, disdain,
Sweep o'er his brow — a dusky train;
But nature, like the beam of spring,
Chaseth the crowd on sunny wing;
Joy warms his heart, hope lights his eye,
And the dark passions routed fly!

LXX.

The hands are clasped — the hound is freed,
Gone is Mac John with wife and steed,
He meets his spearsmen some few miles,
And turns their scowling frowns to smiles: —
At morn the crowded march begins
Of steeds and cattle for the Glynnes —
Well for poor Erin's wrongs and griefs,
If thus would join her severed chiefs!