ON THE DOWNFALL OF THE GAEL.
BY HENRY GRATTAN CURRAN.
Weep! weep! for agony and shame
With deepening gloom the Gael invest;
Fall'n is each proud and patriot name.
On which a nation's hope might rest.
What are they now?—a remnant spared.
Writhing from desolation's tread—
Pale pilgrims, who the deep have dared.
And traced the sterile waste outspread.
A shattered bark's disheartened crew
O'er-gazing from the crowded deck;
The sheeted wave that flashes through.
Or bursts above the labouring wreck.
Victims of every changing fate,
These shadows of the Gael of yore,
Whose bonds with worse corrosion eat,
Through breasts that panted free before.
Their power is feebleness—their worth,
Their manly worth, a rankling stain;
Once heroes! now, disastrous dearth.
Their hearts have shriveled to the chain.
Dark shadows round the Gael arise,
Veiling the light of other days;
Like clouds that gathering in the skies.
Obscure the sun's meridian blaze.
The word went forth2—from Boyne to Lein
Echoed the impious sounds away;
But Fians yet in Fail disdain
To bend or brook an alien sway.
The scions of a race of kings
No more the glittering barb may grace;
Bid the swift hawk unfurl his wings,
Or wake the mountain with the chase.
But, while our hearts indignant bleed,
An hour may come,3 o'er Erin's plain,
To bid the inert and drooping steed
Bound with a warrior's weight again.
Our halls the stranger's tread resound,
Or glare white towers upon their site;
The plough hath past each hallowed mound,
Where sages weighed a nation's right.4
Proud Logha's isle no longer now—
'Tis England all5—each taint and blot,
Her plains, her own free mountain's brow.
All blighted, sullied, and forgot.
The Gael no more their native place
Discern, in this degraded land;
Banba no more her sons can trace,6
In failing heart and feeble hand.
An alien race o'erruns her breast,
Endenizened by strange controul;
The stranger is no more her guest,
While exile wrings her children's soul.
See how the spoilers' stem the surge!
O'er Dathi's bark the winds prevail.
She hangs upon the billow's verge,
With groaning plank and shivered sail.
The tempest howls—the writhing wave
Surrounds her, yawning to devour;
Will not her sons unite to save?
Oh! shield her in this perilous hour!
Why, tame ones! can ye not resign
The blood of kings, that through you runs?
Who broke the rule of Balar's line?
Say—are not ye Milesius' sons?
Like those redeemed from Ilium's fall,
To wander o'er the pathless main;
Proud Temor, Tailltean, we recall.
But ne'er shall see their pomp again.
As rose the voice of Israel's wail,
From Egypt breathing to her God;
By dark Bovinda's wave the Gael,
Weep for the fields their fathers' trod.
Maytuire her wakening might arrayed,
And crushed the power of fierce M'Kein;
And he who blessed her reeldng blade,
May rend the links of Erin's chain.
Oh for the ann of Priam's son!
Oh for a Hector's patriot ire!
To wave the Gael to glory on,
To wake their hearts to freedom's fire.
Or would the eternal to our aid
Vouchsafe a Moses' guiding hand,
To liberty our steps to lead.
And marshal Criffan's warrior band.
Dread sov'reign hear, oh hear our cries!
The land thou gav'st—this bright domain
Is ours—those shining walls that rise,
When shall they be our home again?
Or wilt thou in thy wrath fulfil,
The fate O'Cuin's pure prophet spoke;
When through the shades of coming ill,
Columba saw the stranger's yoke?
If God has willed it—and the land
That gave us Irish name and heart,
The Saxon now can bind and brand.
Oh! let us from the shore depart!
But still, oh still one hope remains!
Let's bend before the throne of grace;
The blood that burned in Heber's veins,
May yet approve his Scythian race.