Poems (Ford)/Erin
ERIN.
She sits, a crownless, captive queen, Beside the heaving main;Around her brow a cypress-wreath, And on her limbs a chain;And as the sorrow-laden years Drag wearily along,The mighty ocean sobs to hear Her melancholy song.
She strikes the harp with trembling hand, And, as she sadly sings,Her tears like gems are glittering Among the wailing strings; The quivering chords that yet remain Can only tell of woe;Those breathing strains of triumph high Were broken long ago.
Down through the vistas of the past She sees, with tearful gaze,The glorious light that Freedom shed Around those vanished daysWhen Art and Science, nursling yet, To Britons rude unknown,Were fostered by her generous hand, And sheltered by her throne.
When Learning and Religion roamed, Twin pilgrims, hand in hand,By War's dread fury forced to flee From many a mourning land,They in her arms a refuge sought, And gorgeous shrine and domeSprang up to give the weary ones A shelter and a home.
Then in her radiant loveliness She stood serenely fair;No sorrow bowed her sunny brow, Her heart was free from care;By royal bards her praise was sung In grand and lofty strain; Her hosts were mighty on the land, Her ships upon the main.
But soon a fearful tempest swept Her cloudless morning o'er—The Sea Kings with their savage hordes Came from their frozen shore;They came to plunder and to slay, And fierce and deadly strifeDid Erin wage through many an age For liberty and life.
At last she saw her sunny plains From the invaders free;The spoilers from her shores were hurled Into the yawning sea;Each shrine and hall from ruin rose More fair than it had been,And laurels wreathed the radiant brow Of Ocean's peerless Queen.
Then ages upon ages fled On golden wings away;A flood of splendor Genius shed O'er that unclouded day;Her sages bore to many lands Their stores of precious lore,While pilgrims from far nations sought For wisdom on her shore.
The wily Saxon came at last To curse her sacred soil;His artful snares were round her thrown In many a serpent coil;One base and traitor-hearted son Was found her foes to aid,Like him who in Gethsemane His Lord and Friend betrayed.
Then Erin's robe of green was dyed In many a hero's blood;Unconquered still, where fell the last Another bravely stood,And though whole centuries of wrong And tyranny have passedSince then, each year has found her still Unconquered as the last.
Her language a forbidden sound, Her ancient faith a crime,Her children hunted o'er the seas To many a foreign clime,Her very name a word of scorn— Yet all can not destroyThe chainless soul that, unsubdued, Burns in her kindling eye.
In weary bondage now she sits, Forsaken and alone; Her hoary locks and tattered robe By wild winds rudely blown;But though the night be dark and drear, And hoarse the tempest raves,A glorious light forever gleams Around her heroes' graves.
Her star of hope shines brightly yet, And never shall grow dim;Her song of sorrow soon shall change To a triumphal hymn;From tyranny's dead ashes yet She, phœnix-like, shall soar,In the full blaze of Freedom's light To dwell forevermore.