Thomas Davis, Selections from his Prose and Poetry Part 42

We promised loud, and boasted high, "To break our country's chains, or die;"

And, should we quail, that country's name Will be the synonym of shame.

VII.

Earth is not deep enough to hide The coward slave who shrinks aside; h.e.l.l is not hot enough to scathe The ruffian wretch who breaks his faith.

VIII.

But--calm, my soul!--we promised true Her destined work our land shall do; Thought, courage, patience will prevail!

We shall not fail--we shall not fail!

O'CONNELL'S STATUE.

LINES TO HOGAN.

Chisel the likeness of The Chief, Not in gaiety, nor grief; Change not by your art to stone, Ireland's laugh, or Ireland's moan.

Dark her tale, and none can tell Its fearful chronicle so well.

Her frame is bent--her wounds are deep-- Who, like him, her woes can weep?

He can be gentle as a bride, While none can rule with kinglier pride; Calm to hear, and wise to prove, Yet gay as lark in soaring love.

Well it were, posterity Should have some image of his glee; That easy humour, blossoming Like the thousand flowers of spring!

Glorious the marble which could show His bursting sympathy for woe: Could catch the pathos, flowing wild, Like mother's milk to craving child.

And oh! how princely were the art Could mould his mien, or tell his heart When sitting sole on Tara's hill, While hung a million on his will!

Yet, not in gaiety, nor grief, Chisel the image of our Chief, Nor even in that haughty hour When a nation owned his power.

But would you by your art unroll His own, and Ireland's secret soul, And give to other times to scan The greatest greatness of the man?

Fierce defiance let him be Hurling at our enemy-- From a base as fair and sure As our love is true and pure; Let his statue rise as tall And firm as a castle wall; On his broad brow let there be A type of Ireland's history; Pious, generous, deep and warm, Strong and changeful as a storm; Let whole centuries of wrong Upon his recollection throng-- Strongbow's force, and Henry's wile, Tudor's wrath, and Stuart's guile, And iron Strafford's tiger jaws, And brutal Brunswick's penal laws; Not forgetting Saxon faith, Not forgetting Norman scath, Not forgetting William's word, Not forgetting Cromwell's sword.

Let the Union's fetter vile-- The shame and ruin of our isle-- Let the blood of 'Ninety-Eight And our present blighting fate-- Let the poor mechanic's lot, And the peasant's ruined cot, Plundered wealth and glory flown, Ancient honours overthrown-- Let trampled altar, rifled urn, Knit his look to purpose stern.

Mould all this into one thought, Like wizard cloud with thunder fraught; Still let our glories through it gleam, Like fair flowers through a flooded stream, Or like a flashing wave at night, Bright,--'mid the solemn darkness, bright.

Let the memory of old days Shine through the statesman's anxious face-- Dathi's power, and Brian's fame, And headlong Sarsfield's sword of flame; And the spirit of Red Hugh, And the pride of 'Eighty-Two, And the victories he won, And the hope that leads him on!

Let whole armies seem to fly From his threatening hand and eye.

Be the strength of all the land Like a falchion in his hand, And be his gesture sternly grand.

A braggart tyrant swore to smite A people struggling for their right; O'Connell dared him to the field, Content to die but never yield; Fancy such a soul as his, In a moment such as this, Like cataract, or foaming tide, Or army charging in its pride.

Thus he spoke, and thus he stood, Proffering in our cause his blood.

Thus his country loves him best-- To image this is your behest.

Chisel thus, and thus alone, If to man you'd change the stone.

THE GREEN ABOVE THE RED.

AIR--_Irish Molly O!_

I.

Full often when our fathers saw the Red above the Green, They rose in rude but fierce array, with sabre, pike and _scian_, And over many a n.o.ble town, and many a field of dead, They proudly set the Irish Green above the English Red.

II.

But in the end throughout the land, the shameful sight was seen-- The English Red in triumph high above the Irish Green; But well they died in breach and field, who, as their spirits fled, Still saw the Green maintain its place above the English Red.

III.

And they who saw, in after times, the Red above the Green Were withered as the gra.s.s that dies beneath a forest screen; Yet often by this healthy hope their sinking hearts were fed, That, in some day to come, the Green should flutter o'er the Red.

IV.

Sure 'twas for this Lord Edward died, and Wolfe Tone sunk serene-- Because they could not bear to leave the Red above the Green; And 'twas for this that Owen fought, and Sarsfield n.o.bly bled-- Because their eyes were hot to see the Green above the Red.

V.

So when the strife began again, our darling Irish Green Was down upon the earth, while high the English Red was seen; Yet still we held our fearless course, for something in us said, "Before the strife is o'er you'll see the Green above the Red."

VI.

And 'tis for this we think and toil, and knowledge strive to glean, That we may pull the English Red below the Irish Green, And leave our sons sweet Liberty, and smiling plenty spread Above the land once dark with blood--_the Green above the Red_!

VII.

The jealous English tyrant now has banned the Irish Green, And forced us to conceal it like a something foul and mean; But yet, by Heavens! he'll sooner raise his victims from the dead Than force our hearts to leave the Green, and cotton to the Red!

VIII.

We'll trust ourselves, for G.o.d is good, and blesses those who lean On their brave hearts, and not upon an earthly king or queen; And, freely as we lift our hands, we vow our blood to shed Once and for evermore to raise the Green above the Red.

THE VOW OF TIPPERARY.