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O guard ye well the land where I dwell,
Then will I tear from your pennon fair
away I'll flee, for I scorn to see
UNROLL Erin's flag ! fling its folds to the breeze !
Let it float o'er the land, let it wave o'er the seas ; Lift it out of the dust-let it wave as of yore, When its chiefs with their clans stood around it and swore That never, no, never, while God gave them life, And they had an arm and a sword for the strife, That never, no, never, that banner would yield, As long as the heart of a Celt was its shield ;While the hand of a Celt had a weapon to wield, And his last drop of blood was unshed on the field ! Lift it up! wave it high !—'tis as bright as of old ; Not a stain on its green, not a blot on its gold, Though the woes and the wrongs of three hundred long years Have drenched Erin's Sunburst with blood and with tears ; Though the clouds of oppression enshroud it in gloom And around it the thunders of tyranny boom. Look aloft ! look aloft! lo! the cloud's drifting by, There's a gleam through the gloom, there's a light in the sky, 'Tis the Sunburst resplendent—far, flashing on high ; Erin's dark night is waning, her day-dawn is nigh.
Lift it up! lift it up! the old Banner of Green ;
And we'll vow by our heroes, whose spirits have fled,
Lift up the Green Flag ! oh! it wants to go home;
Take it up! take it up! bear it back from afar!
And swear that you'll bear it triumphant or die ;
To join in the march to the land of their birth;
XX,-ADDRESS TO INDEPENDENCE.
SMOLLET. T1 HY spirit, Independence, let me share ; lord of the lion heart and eagle eye !
thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, nor heed the storm that howls along the sky. Thou, guardian genius, thou didst teach my youth pomp and lier tinsel livery to despise; my lips, by thee chastised to early truth, ne'er paid that homage which the heart denies.
Those sculptured halls my feet shall never tread, where varnished Vice and Vanity, combined to dazzle and seduce, their banners spread, and forge vile shackles for the free-born mind : where Insolence his wrinkled front uprears, and all the flowers of spurious fancy blow: and Title his ill-woven chaplet wears—full often wreathed around the miscreant's brow : wherever-dimpling Falsehood, pert and vain, presents her cup of stale profession's froth; and pale Disease, with all his bloated train, torments the sons of gluttony and sloth. In Fortune's ear behold the minion ride, with either India's glittering spoils oppressed : so moves the sumpter-mule, in harnessed pride, that bears the treasure which he cannot taste. For him let venal bards disgrace the bay, and hireling minstrels wake the tinkling string; her sentual snares let faithless Pleasure lay, and all her jingling bells fantastic Folly ring;—disquiet, doubt, and dread shall intervene ; and Nature, still to all her feelings just, in vegeance hang a damp on every scene, shook from the baneful pinions of Disgust.
Nature I'll court in her sequestered haunts, by mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove, or cell ; where the poised lark his evening ditty chants, and health, and peace, and contemplation dwell. There Study shall with Solitude recline, and Friendship pledge me to his fellow-swains; and Toil and l'emperance sedately twine the slender cord that fluttering life sustains; and fearless Poverty shall guard the door; ard Taste unspoiled the frugal table spread ; and Industry supply the humble store ; and Sleep, unbribed, his dews refreshing shed: whitemantled Innocence, ethereal sprite, shall chase far off the goblins of the night; and Independence o'er the day preside :-propitious power ! my patron and my pride.
XXI.-THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.
WHO fears to speak of Ninety-eight :The dust of some is Irish earth ;
Who blushes at the name? When cowards mock the patriot's fate?
Who hangs his head for shame? He's all a knave or half a slave,
Who slights his country thus ; But a true man,
like you, man, Will fill your glass with us.
Among their own they rest;
Has caught them to her breast
Full many a race may start
To act as brave a part.
We drink the memory of the brave,
The faithful and the few
Some sleep in Ireland, too ;
The fame of those who died-
Remember them with pride.
They 'rose in dark and evil days
To right their native land ;
That nothing shall withstand.
They fell and passed away:
Are plenty here to-day.
For us a guiding light,
And teach us to unite.
Though sad as their's your fate;
Like those of Ninety-eight !
Some on the shores of distant lands
weary hearts have laid,
Their lonely graves were made ; But, though their clay be far away
Beyond the Atlantic foamIn true men, like you, men..
Their spirit's still at home!
XXII.—THE BROTHERS (HENRY AND JOHN SHEARS).
A SCENE FROM '98.
IS midnight ; falls the lamplight, dull and sickly,
On a pale and anxious crowd, -
With prayers they dare not speak aloud.
You can see them through the gloom-
Awaiting their death-doom!
All eyes an earnest watch on them are keeping,
Some, sobbing, turn away;
So noble and so loved were they !
As before the Judge they stand-
For they die for Fatherland!
They are pale,—but it is not fear that whitens
On each proud high brow;
Around them, even now.
Was that treason ?-Let them die!
Yet will hearken from on high !
Before them, shrinking, cowering, scarcely human,
The base informer bends ;
While he clasp'd their hands as friends.
Break bread with his young wife,-
Sold the husband's and the father's life!
There is silence in the midnight—eyes are keeping
Troubled watch till forth the Jury come ;
Guilty !" is the fatal, uttered doom.
Came a shadow, sad to see ;
And embraced each other fervently!
Oh! the rudest heart might tremble at such sorrow,
The rudest cheek might blanch at such a scene : Twice the Judge essay'd to speak the word, “Tomorrow,"
Twice faltered, as a woman he had been • To-morrow !”'-Fain the elder would have spoken,
Pray'd for respite, though it is not Death he fears ; But thoughts of home and wife his heart have broken,
And his words are stopped by tears !
But the younger-oh, he spake out bold and clearly :
spare the brother, who more dearly
down! One day, between the sentence and the scaffold ;
One day, between the torture and the crown !
-A hymn of joy is rising from creation ;
Bright the azure of the glorious summer sky;
For the Brothers are led forth to die !
So of old came martyrs to the stake :
For those noble Two are dying for their sake !
Yet none spring forth their bonds to sever :
Ah! methinks, had I been there,
The sword should touch their hair!
From the eping crowd around :-
The noblest heads lie bleeding on the ground !-...
-Years have pass'd since that fatal scene of dying,
Yet, life-like, to this day,
Kept by angels from decay.
Those pale lips yet implore us, from their graves,
Or die, if we can but live as slaves !
XXIII. -O'CONNELL'S HEART.
A. H. DORSEY.
EAR it on tenderly,
Slowly and mournfully!
Bear it on tenderly,
Slowly and mournfully!