Classic Poem

The hour has struck! at last in heaven
The golden shield an angel smites!
On Erin's altars thunder-riven
A happier destiny alights.
'Tis done that cannot be undone,
The lordlier ages have begun;
The flood that widens as it flows
Is loosed; fulfilled the triple woes!

Once more the Faith uplifts her forehead,
Star-circled, to the starry skies:
Fangless at last, a snake abhorred,
Beneath her foot oppression lies:
Above the waning moon of time
The apparition stands sublime,
From hands immaculate, hands of light,
Down scattering gifts of saintly might.

Long for her martyrs Erin waited:
They came at last. Rejoice this hour,
Ye tonsured heads, or consecrated,
That sank beneath the stony shower!
Thou land for centuries dark and dumb
Arise and shine! thy light is come!
Return; for they are dead their knife
Who raised, and sought the young child's life.

Again the wells of ancient knowledge
Shall cheer the thirsty lip and dry:
Again waste places, fane and college,
The radiance wear of days gone by!
Once more shall rise the minster porch;
Once more shall laugh the village church
O'er plains that yield the autumnal feast
Once more to industry released!

Once more the far sea-tide returneth
And feeds the rivers of the land:
Once more her heart maternal yearneth
With hopes the growth of memories grand.
Immortal longings swell her breast,
Quickened from dust of saints at rest:
Once more six centuries bud and flower
To share the triumph of this hour!

Who was it called thee the forsaken?
A consort judged? a wife put by?
He at whose nod the heavens are shaken,
'Tis He who hails thee from on high.
" I loved thee from of old: I saved:
Upon My palms thy name is graved:
With blood were sealed the bridal vows;
For lo, thy Maker is thy spouse! "

Who, who are those like clouds of morning,
That sail to thee o'er seas of gold?
That fly, like doves, their exile scorning,
To windows known and loved of old?
To thee the isles their hands shall raise;
Thy sons have taught them songs of praise;
And kings rebuild thy wall, or wait
Beside thy never-closing gate.

As from the fig-tree, tempest-wasted
The untimely fruitage falleth crude,
So dropp'd around thee, blighted, blasted,
Age after age, thy sentenced brood.
To thee this day thine own are given:
Yet what are these to thine in heaven?
They left thee in thy years of pain:
Thy cause they pleaded — not in vain.

Those years are o'er: made soft by distance,
Old wars like war-songs soon will seem,
The aggression dire, the wild resistance,
Put on the moonlight of a dream.
Ah, gentle foes! If wholly past —
That Norman foe was friend at last!
Like him, the ill deed redress, recall —
In Erin's heart is room for all.