But past her heritage of woe and pain,
A far more blest millennium shall reign;
Seedlings of heroes shall her exiles be,
Where'er they find a home beyond the sea;
Bright paragons of beauty and of truth,
Her maidens all shall dazzle in their youth;
And when age comes, to dim the flashing eye,
Still gems of virtue shall they live, and die!
No braver race shall breathe beneath the sun
Than thine, O! Erin, ere the goal be won.
Wherever man shall battle for the right,
There shall thy sons fall thickest in the fight;
Wherever man shall perish to be free,
There shall thy martyrs foremost be!
And O! when thy redemption is at hand,
Soldiers shall swell thy ranks from every land!
Heroes shall flock in thousands to thy shore,
And swear thy soil is FREE FOREVERMORE!
Then shall thy harp be from the willow torn,
And in yon glitt'ring galaxy be borne!
Then shall the Emerald change its verdant crest,
And blaze a Star co-equal with the rest!
The sentence pass'd, the doomsman felt surprise,
For tears were streaming from the seraph's eyes.
"Weep not for Erin," once again he spoke,
"But for thyself, that did'st her doom provoke;
I bear a message, seraph, unto thee,
As unrelenting in its stern decree.
For endless years it is thy fate to stand,
The chosen guardian of the Shamrock land.
Three times, as ages wind their coils away,
Incarnate on yon Island shalt thou stray.
"First as a Saint, in majesty divine,
The world shall know thee by this potent sign:
From yonder soil, where pois'nous reptiles dwell,
Thy voice shall snake and slimy toad expel.
Next as a Martyr, pleading in her cause,
Thy blood shall flow to build up Albion's laws.
Last as a Prophet and a Bard combined,
Rebellion's fires shall mould thy patriot mind.
In that great day, when Briton's strength shall fail,
And all her glories shiver on the gale;
When winged chariots, rushing through the sky,
Shall drop their faggots, blazing as they fly,
Thy form shall tower, a hero 'midst the flames,
And add one more to Erin's deathless names!"
Exiles of Erin! gathered here in state,
Such is the story of your country's fate.
Six thousand years in strife have rolled away,
Since Erin sprang from billowy surf and spray;
In that drear lapse, her sons have never known
One ray of peace to gild her crimson zone.
Cast back your glance athwart the tide of years,
Behold each billow steeped with Erin's tears,
Inspect each drop that swells the mighty flood,
Its purple globules smoke with human blood!
Come with me now, and trace the seraph's path,
That has been trodden since his day of wrath.
Lo! in the year when Attila the Hun
Had half the world in terror overrun,
On Erin's shore there stood a noble youth,
The breath of honor and the torch of truth.
His was the tongue that taught the Celtic soul
Christ was its Saviour, Heaven was its goal!
His was the hand that drove subdued away,
The venom horde that lured but to betray;
His were the feet that sanctified the sod,
Erin redeemed, and gave her back to God!
The gray old Earth can boost no purer fame
Than that whose halos gild St. Patrick's name!
Twelve times the centuries builded up their store
Of plots, rebellions, gibbets, tears and gore;
Twelve times centennial annivers'ries came,
To bless the seraph in St. Patrick's name.
In that long night of treach'ry and gloom,
How many myriads found a martyr's tomb!
Beside the waters of the dashing Rhone
In exile starved the bold and blind Tyrone.
Beneath the glamour of the tyrant's steel
Went out in gloom the soul of great O'Neill.
What countless thousands, children of her loin,
Sank unanneal'd beneath the bitter Boyne!
What fathers fell, what mothers sued in vain,
In Tredah's walls, on Wexford's gory plain,
When Cromwell's shaven panders slaked their lust,
And Ireton's fiends despoiled the breathless dust!
Still came no seraph, incarnate in man,
To rescue Erin from the bandit clan.
Still sad and lone, she languished in her chains,
That clank'd in chorus o'er her martyrs' manes.
At length, when Freedom's struggle was begun
Across the seas, by conq'ring Washington,
When Curran thunder'd, and when Grattan spoke,
The guardian seraph from his slumber woke.
Then guilty Norbury from his vengeance fled,
Fitzgerald fought, and glorious Wolfe Tone bled.
Then Emmet rose, to start the battle-cry,
To strike, to plead, to threaten, and to die!
Immortal Emmet! happier in thy doom,
Though uninscrib'd remains thy seraph tomb,
Than the long line of Erin's scepter'd foes,
Whose bones in proud mausoleums repose;
More noble blood through Emmet's pulses rings
Than courses through ten thousand hearts of kings!