Thus has the seraph twice redeem'd his fate,
And roamed a mortal through this low estate;
Again obedient to divine command,
His final incarnation is at hand.
THE PROPHECY.
Scarce shall yon sun five times renew the year,
Ere Erin's guardian Angel shall appear,
Not as a priest, in holy garb arrayed;
Not as a patriot, by his cause betray'd,
Shall he again assume a mortal guise,
And tread the earth, an exile from the skies.
But like the lightning from the welkin hurl'd,
His eye shall light, his step shall shake the world!
Ye sons of Erin! from your slumbers start!
Feel ye no vengeance burning in your heart?
Are ye but scions of degenerate slaves?
Shall tyrants spit upon your fathers' graves?
Is all the life-blood stagnant in your veins?
Love ye no music but the clank of chains?
Hear ye no voices ringing in the air,
That chant in chorus wild, Prepare, prepare!
Hark! on the winds there comes a prophet sound,—
The blood of Abel crying from the ground,—
Pealing in tones of thunder through the world,
"Arm! Arm! The Flag of Erin is unfurl'd!"
On some bold headland do I seem to stand,
And watch the billows breaking 'gainst the land;
Not in lone rollers do their waters poor,
But the vast ocean rushes to the shore.
So flock in millions sons of honest toil,
From ev'ry country, to their native soil;
Exiles of Erin, driven from her sod,
By foes of justice, mercy, man, and God!
Ærial chariots spread their snowy wings,
And drop torpedoes in the halls of kings.
On every breeze a thousand banners fly,
And Erin's seraph swells the battle-cry:—
"Strike! till the Unicorn shall lose the crown!
Strike! till the Eagle tears the Lion down!
Strike! till proud Albion bows her haughty head!
Strike! for the living and the martyr'd dead!
Strike! for the bones that fill your mothers' graves!
Strike! till your kindred are no longer slaves!
Strike! till fair Freedom on the world shall smile!
For God! for Truth! and for the Emerald Isle!"
