'Twas not that mildness ruled the day,
And penal codes were voted down;
And fair the question, fair the play
From chair and pulpit, bench and crown;
While forgery disdain'd to vie
With slander in the dextrous lie.
But more. As harlots aim to link
A sister's ruin with their own
So thou, my England, couldst not drink
The "cup of devils" quite alone,
But needs must press it on a shore
The rival of thy light before.
And Erin loathed it. There's a prayer
That kept her then, and triumphs still.
'Twill take thee more than hate may dare
To break the Patrick in her will:
Though treachery was the lurking sin
That sold the soil thou couldst not win.
And what, at last, has hate achieved?
For her, thy victim, such a name
As points—and must, to be believed—
To thy long parallel of shame:
The Isle of Martyrs—peerless gem
In Rome's thick-rubied diadem.
Nor this alone. Not vainly fled
Her patriot sons thy cruel hand;
Not vainly to the West were led,
Where the great future's chosen land
O'er thralless ocean beacon'd fair,
To find God's mission waiting there.
Thus, England, has thy baffled rage
But spread the faith it sought to slay:
And lo! the nations see thee wage
The bigot's combat ev'n to-day!
They cry: "Her very pride is o'er:
The lion in her wakes no more!"
Fool-doubly fool! Art thou so strong
No mightier arm can lay thee low?
If patient heaven has linger'd long,
This hour thy last—for weal or woe:
And what 'twere penance to accord,
Wilt thou but forfeit to the sword?
Enough. My heart is too much thine
To curse thee, though I blush to own:
Too fondly prized thee as a shrine,
Too proudly hailed thee as a throne:
And, turning from the bitter truth,
Finds sweetness in the dream of youth.
For memory gathers in that dream
A fragrance as of morning dew:
The freshness of the grove and stream,
When Nature woo'd me first, and knew
So well to draw me to her breast,
And wed me to her love's unrest.
And if henceforth I twine my wreath
To crown the land where now I sing,
Content to pray in peace beneath
The shadow of her eagle's wing;
'Tis not that charms of clime and scene
Estrange me from thy gentler mien.