Poems (Ford)/Lough Neagh

LOUGH NEAGH.
Fair lake, I've stood upon thy shoreIn Erin's glorious spring,When o'er thy azure bosom sweptThe sea-gull's snowy wing,When, folded over earth's broad breast,From the bright wave belowAn emerald mantle stretched, with fringeOf hawthorns' fragrant snow.
Thy placid bosom shows no signOf ages long gone by—It but reflects the varied huesOf Erin's changeful sky; No footprints of the buried raceIn the green vale below,Who lived, loved, died, and left no trace,Thy tranquil waters show.
No sunken towers to greet my sightThy glassy mirror gave,Save where Shane's Castle stood aloneReflected in the wave.Its towers, like hoary sages, raiseTheir heads, with ruin gray,To tell us of a grand old raceForever passed away.
That brave old valiant race who longThe Saxon power withstood—To keep proud Freedom's ark afloatThey freely shed their blood;Now o'er their hallowed dust is heardThe despot's clanking chain—Their moss-grown tombs, their ruined halls,Are all that now remain.
Not all! In Erin's heart of heartsTheir memory still will live,Kept fragrant by the purest tearsA mother's love can give;And on her history's brightest pageTheir deeds, their high renown, Shall shine—our country's northern lights,When tower and hall go down.
The waters break in heavy sobsAgainst the castle's wall,Like spirits of the olden timeCome back to weep its fall;But sobs are Erin's household words—Since tyrants trod her strandShe's shed a flood of tears and bloodMight deluge all the land.
Fair lake, while gazing on thy breastAnd on my country's woe,I've almost wished that far aboveHer mountains thou wouldst flow;Better that Lethe's wave o'er herAnd all her woes should roll,Did not the heavenly light of hopeShine on her tortured soul.
The iron hand that long has heldOur nation in the dust,So often wet with martyrs' blood,At last must turn to rust;One vigorous blow its strength must crush,—Once crushed, 't will rise no moreTo blight the bloom on Erin's cheek,Or curse Lough Neagh's green shore.