England's Choice

Yonder where shakes with antic laughter
In elfin moonlight the spoilful sea,
What shall the stars behold hereafter—
Ireland captive or Ireland free?

Tempest or calm for the Mother who bore us,
Age-crowned England—which shall it be?
Reproach or acclaim in the morrow before us?
Ireland captive or Ireland free?

The quick and the dead have joined their voices,
O mighty and proud one, crying to thee—
“Choose—while as yet in thy hands the choice is:
Ireland captive or Ireland free.”
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