Poems (Botta)/A Dirge for O'Connell

A DIRGE FOR O’CONNELL.


Throw open, once again, The portals of the tomb; And give, among the glorious dead, Another hero room!

Unclose your shadowy ranks, Illustrious shades, unclose! The valiant Leader, crowned with years, Goes down to his repose.

The champion of Peace, On many a well-fought field, Whose bloodless victories left no stain On his untarnished shield.

A king, though on his brow No jewelled crown might shine; A king, although his patriot blood Flowed from no royal line.

A sovereign o’er that realm, No boundaries can confine; Whose throne was in a nation’s heart; Who reigned by right divine.

A soldier of the Cross, Who bore a stainless brand; The preacher of a new Crusade, To rescue a lost land.

Rome! to thy care is given The heart whose throbs are o’er; Eternal City! to thy charge, Take this one relic more!

And Erin, sad and lorn! Take thou the sacred trust; And let the soil he loved so well, Commingle with his dust.

And Fame, take thou in charge The patriot’s renown; And gather from your amaranth fields, Another fadeless crown!