Poems (Acton)/The Irish Exile's Lament

THE IRISH EXILE'S LAMENT. ——

Erin! the wild harp is hushed on thy mountains,
 The sad wail of sorrow hath deadened its tone,
The hands that could strike on its bright chords are withered,
 And those that are fettered are left thee alone.
Oh! once smiling garden! what blight hath passed o'er thee,
 To sweep the fair flowers of peace from thy soil?
What spell hath been cast o'er the fate of thy children,
 To mingle with tears the hard fruit of their toil?
Erin Mavourneen! light laughter hath wakened
 Around the same hearths that are desolate now;
And they sleep not yet, who remember the halo
 Flung down by contentment on each open brow.
But now is thy cabin-roof shelter no longer
 From poverty's blasts, to the low-drooping head:
And the laughter that rang 'neath that roof, is now echoed,
 By the famine-wrung cry for the then "daily bread."
Oh! woe to the day when that prayer denied it,
 The long-open heart closed to hope's fervent trust;
And they lighted the fierce brand of crime, in their darkness,
 For ever to raze their proud worth, to the dust.
For ever? no! Erin—thy ruins but seem such,
 O er-grown by the rank weeds of faction and woe;
But tear them from round thee, and all thy lost glory
 Will once more break forth from its fetters below.
All praise to the hands that are stretched forth to aid thee
 In wiping the blood-stain from off thy green land;
And pity and scorn for the soul that in silence
 Can look on thy children, a perishing band!
And ye, Erin's sons! quench the false flame that lights ye
 To deeds which 'twere better deep darkness should hide;
For e'en amid sorrow, the cheer of the conscience
 Is worth to the true heart, the whole world beside.
Ah, trust! and bright blessings will yet be above ye,
 And joy, long unknown, may be traced on your brow;
And the cloud's "silver lining" may tell of the sunshine
 To break through the gloom which encircles ye now!
R. A.