Transcriber's Notes
1.Typographical Errors have been silently corrected.
2.Variations of spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.
3.In the original text, pages numbered v and vi precede pages iii and iv. This anomaly has been corrected in this ebook version.
POEMS BY SPERANZA
(LADY WILDE)
NEW EDITION.,
Dublin: M. H. GILL & SON, LTD.
Printed and Bound
in Ireland
CONTENTS.
DEDICATION.
To Ireland.
I.
MY COUNTRY, wounded to the heart, Could I but flash along thy soul Electric power to rive apart The thunder-clouds that round thee roll, And, by my burning words, uplift Thy life from out Death's icy drift, Till the full splendours of our age Shone round thee for thy heritage— As Miriam's, by the Red Sea strand Clashing proud cymbals, so my hand Would strike thy harp, Loved Ireland!
II.
She flung her triumphs to the stars In glorious chants for freedom won, While over Pharaoh's gilded cars The fierce, death-bearing waves rolled on; I can but look in God's great face, And pray Him for our fated race, To come in Sinai thunders down, And, with His mystic radiance, crown Some Prophet-Leader, with command To break the strength of Egypt's band, And set thee free, Loved Ireland!
III.
New energies, from higher source, Must make the strong life-currents flow, As Alpine glaciers in their course Stir the deep torrents 'neath the snow. The woman's voice dies in the strife Of Liberty's awakening life; We wait the hero heart to lead, The hero, who can guide at need, And strike with bolder, stronger hand, Though towering hosts his path withstand Thy golden harp, Loved Ireland!
IV.
For I can breathe no trumpet call, To make the slumb'ring Soul arise; I only lift the funeral-pall, That so God's light might touch thine eyes, And ring the silver prayer-bell clear, To rouse thee from thy trance of fear; Yet, if thy mighty heart has stirred, Even with one pulse-throb at my word, Then not in vain my woman's hand Has struck thy gold harp while I stand, Waiting thy rise Loved Ireland!
POEMS.
THE BROTHERS.
A SCENE FROM '98.
————"Oh! give me truths, For I am weary of the surfaces, And die of inanition."—Emerson.
I.
'TIS midnight, falls the lamp-light dull and sickly, On a pale and anxious crowd, Through the court, and round the judges, thronging thickly, With prayers none dare to speak aloud. Two youths, two noble youths, stand prisoners at the bar— You can see them through the gloom— In pride of life and manhood's beauty, there they are Awaiting their death doom.
II.
All eyes an earnest watch on them are keeping, Some, sobbing, turn away, And the strongest men can hardly see for weeping, So noble and so loved were they. Their hands are locked together, those young brothers, As before the judge they stand— They feel not the deep grief that moves the others, For they die for Fatherland.
