VIII.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume III, Issue 130, 29 October 1875, Page 6

VIII.

1873-1874. A glorious triumph ! A deathless deed! Shall the hero rest ttnd his work half done ? Is it enough to enfranchise a creed, When a nation's freedom may yet be won ? Is it enough to hang on the wall The broken links of the Catholic chain, "When now one mighty struggle for All May quicken the life in the land again ? May quicken its life—for the land lay dead; No central fire was a heart in its breast — No throbbing veins, with the life-blood red. Ran out like rivers to east or west; Its soul was gone, and had left it clay — Dull clay, to grow "but the grass and the root But harvests for men, ah! where were-they ? And where was the tree for Liberty's fruit ? Kever till then, in victory's hour, Had a conqueror felt a joy so sweet, As when the wand of his well won power O'Connell laid at his couiatry's feet. "No ! not for rue, or for mine alone," The generous victor cried, " have I fought; But to see nay queen again on her throne — Ah ! that was my dream and my guiding thought. " To see my queen again on her throne, Her tresses with lilies and shamrocks twined, Her severed sons to a nation grown, Her hostile hues in one flag combined, Her wisest gathered in grave debate, Her bravest armed to resist the foe — To see my country ' glorious and great,' — To see hei 1' free' —to the fight Igo !" And forth he went to the peaceful fight, And the millions rose at his words of fire, As the lightnings leap from the depths of the night And circle some mighty minster's spire : Ah ! ill had it fared with the hapless land, If the power that had roused could not restrain — If the bolts were not grasped in a glowing hand To be hurled in peels of thunder again. And thus the people followed liis path, As if drawn on by a, magic spell — By the royal hill and the haunted rath, By the hallowed spring and the holy well, By all the shrines that to Erin are dear, Hound which her love like the ivy clings, Still folding in leaves that never grew sere The cell of the saint and the home of kings. And a soul of sweetness came into the land : Once more was the harp of Erin strung; Once more on the notes from some master hand The listening land in its rapture hung. Once more with the golden gloi-y of words "Were the youthful orator's lips inspired, Till he touched the heart to its tenderest chords, And quickened the pulse which his voice had fired. And others divinely dowered to teach — High souls of honor, pure hearts of fire, So startled the world with their rhythmic speech, That it seemed attuned to some unseen lyre. But the king-licst voice Grod ever gave man Words SAveeter still spoke than poet hath sung, For a nation's wail through the numbers ran, And the soul of the Celt exhaled on his tongue. And again the foe has been forced to yield, But the hero at last waxed feeble and old j Yet he scattered the seed in a fruitful field, To wave in good time as a harvest of gold. Then seeking the feet of God's High Priest;, He slept by the soft Ligurian Sea, Leaving a light, like the Star in the East, To lead tlie land that will yet be free.