The word went forth-the word of woe
The judgment-thunders pealed;
The fiery earthquake blazed below;
Its doom was sealed.

Now on his halls of ivory

Lie giant weed and ocean slime, Burying from man's and angel's eye The land of crime.

D

HENRY GRATTAN CURRAN
(1800-1876)

A LAMENT1

From the Irish of John O'Neachtan.

ARK source of my anguish! deep wound of a land

Whose young and defenseless the loss will deplore;

The munificent spirit, the liberal hand,

Still stretched the full bounty it prompted to pour.

The stone is laid o'er thee! the fair glossy braid,
The high brow, the light cheek with its roseate

glow;

The bright form, and the berry that dwelt and could

fade

On these lips, thou sage giver, all, all are laid low.

Like a swan on the billows, she moved in her grace, Snow-white were her limbs, and with beauty replete, And time on that pure brow had left no more trace Than if he had sped with her own fairy feet.

1 This poem is a lament for Mary D'Este, Queen of James II. She died at St. Germain, April 26, 1718. Her son, called James Francis Edward, was the Chevalier De St. George, so much beloved by the Irish.

Whatever of purity, glory, hath ever

Been linked with the name, lovely Mary, was

thine;

Woe, woe, that the tomb, ruthless tyrant, should

sever

The tie which our spirits half broken resign.

Than Cæsar of hosts-the true darling of Rome,

Far prouder was James-where pure spirits are met, The virgin, the saint-though heav'n's radiance illume

Their brows-Erin's wrongs can o'ershadow them yet.

And rank be the poison, the plagues that distil

Through the heart of the spoiler that laid them in dust,

The rapt bard with the glory the nations shall fill, With the fame of his patrons, the generous, the just.

Wherever the beam of the morning is shed,

With its light the full fame of our loved ones hath

shone,

The deep curse of our sorrow shall burst on his head That hath hurled them, the pride of our hearts, from their throne.

The midday is dark with unnatural gloom

And a spectral lament wildly shrieked in the air Tells all hearts that our princess lies cold in the tomb,

Bids the old and the young bend in agony there!

Faint the lowing of kine o'er the seared yellow lawn! And tuneless the warbler that droops on the spray! The bright tenants that flashed through the current are gone,

For the princess we honoured is laid in the clay.

Darkly brooding alone o'er his bondage and shame,
By the shore in mute agony wanders the Gael,
And sad is my spirit, and clouded my dream,
For my king, for the star, my devotion would hail.

What woe beyond this hath dark fortune to wreak ? What wrath o'er the land yet remains to be hurled ? They turn them to Rome! but despairing they shriek, For Spain's flag in defeat and defection is furled.

Though our sorrows avail not, our hope is not lost — For the Father is mighty! the highest remains! The loosed waters rushed down upon Pharaoh's wide

host,

But the billows crouch back from the foot He sustains.

Just Power! that for Moses the wave did'st divide, Look down on the land where thy followers pine; Look down upon Erin, and crush the dark pride

Of the scourge of thy people, the foes of thy shrine.

D

JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN
(1750-1817)

CUSHLA-MA-CHREE1

EAR Erin, how sweetly thy green bosom rises,
An emerald set in the ring of the sea,

Each blade of thy meadows my faithful heart

prizes,

Thou Queen of the West, the world's cushla-machree.'

Thy gates open wide to the poor and the stranger,
There smiles hospitality, hearty and free;
Thy friendship is seen in the moment of danger,
And the wanderer is welcomed with cushla-ma-chree.

Thy sons they are brave, but, the battle once over,
In brotherly peace with their foes they agree,
And the roseate cheeks of thy daughters discover
The soul-speaking flush that says cushla-ma-chree.
Then flourish forever, my dear native Erin,
While sadly I wander an exile from thee,
And firm as thy mountains, no injury fearing,
May Heaven defend its own cushla-ma-chree.

1 Cushla-ma-chree, Pulse of my heart.