TO ERIN

How help take pride in thee, whose golden hair

Of culture trailed the earth for centuries;

Whose throne was freedom and whose realm was peace;

And, in strange lands, whose joy and only care

Were to spread light, and who, not anywhere

Thy charm made headway, planting liberties,

Didst, then, by stealthy step, or creep on knees,

Sow with the lilies, faster-growing tare!

How help love thee, whose hand, raised to the sun,

Glows rosy, and not red with murder's stain?

The angels kiss it. Force can forge no chain

To drag thee false-ward. Like a holy Nun,

Stigmated, how thy faith grows with thy pain—

Aye, till thy Cross, like Constantine's has won.