Classic Poem

Through the midnight of despair, I heard one making moan
For her dead, her victors fall'n to gain all battles but her own;
I heard the voice of Ireland, wailing for her dead
With wailing unavailing, and sobbing as she said:
“In vain in many a battle have my heroes fought and bled,
Like water, in vain slaughter, my sons' best blood been shed,
For my house is desolate, discrowned my head!

“In vain my daughters bear their babes—babes with the mournful eyes
Of children without father that hear strange lullabies,
Rocked in their lonely cradles by mothers crooning low,
And weeping o'er their sleeping, sad songs of long ago;
Whose eyes, as they remember, while the wailing night-winds blow,
Their nation's desolation, in their singing overflow
With the overflowing of an ancient woe!”

O Mother, mournful Mother, turn from wailing for thy dead,
Grey Sibyl, still unvanquished, lift up thy dauntless head,
O thou Swan among the nations, enchanted long, so long
That the story of thy glory is a half-forgotten song,
Lift thy voice and bless the living, thy sons who round thee throng!
In the hour of their power they shall right thine ancient wrong;
In thyself is thy salvation, let thy heart be strong!

The Leaf of many Sorrows, wet with thy tears for dew,
Emblem of thy long patience; that hearts, as brave and true
As those united hearts of green, through infamy and scorn,
Through the nation's tribulations, like Saints the cross, have worn,
We'll blazon with the Sunburst, star of thy destined morn,
Set in hope's hue, our ancient blue on royal banners borne;
And green the Shamrock long shall shine, no more forlorn!