Y. S.
ERIN WAKING.
BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.
Light streams through a rift in the cloud
That hangs over green Innisfail—
While voices of millions are shouting aloud
The satraps of Tyranny quail:
The collar of Shame hath been worn
Through ages of folly and wo—
Too long hath thy neck, O Hibernia! borne
The yoke of a merciless foe,
Whose creatures, while Perfidy sharpened the dart,
Like vultures have crimsoned their beaks in thy heart.
Hot winds from the waste of Despair
On thy blood-bedewed shamrock have breathed,
But the leaves, growing verdant in Liberty's air,
Again round her brow shall be wreathed:
And chisel of Art on the stone
Shall name of that martyr engrave
Who prayed for a sepulchre, noteless and lone,
While foot of one heart-broken slave
Polluted the green of that beautiful shore,
By steel-harnessed champions trodden of yore.
Gone forth hath the gathering word,
And under Hesperian skies
Fond exiles the call of their mother have heard,
And homeward are turning their eyes:
They send o'er the murmuring brine
In answer a shout of applause,
And drops, that give warmth to their bosoms, like wine,
Are ready to shed in a cause
That cannot march on with a faltering stride
While Truth wears a buckler, and God is a guide.