ELLEN MARY PATRICK DOWNING (1828-1869)

THE OLD CHURCH AT LISMORE

This poem, inscribed in the manuscript "My Last Verses," was the last written by "Mary" before entering on her novitiate in 1849.

LD Church, thou still art Catholic !-e'en dream they as they may

OLD

That the new rites and worship have swept the old away;

There is no form of beauty raised by Nature, or by

art,

That preaches not God's saving truths to man's adoring heart!

In vain they tore the altar down; in vain they flung

aside

The mournful emblem of the death which our sweet Saviour died;

In vain they left no single trace of saint or angel here

Still angel-spirits haunt the ground, and to the soul appear.

I marvel how, in scenes like these, so coldly they can

pray,

Nor hold sweet commune with the dead who once

knelt down as they ;

Yet not as they, in sad mistrust or sceptic doubt— for, oh,

They looked in hope to the blessed saints, these dead of long ago.

And, then, the churchyard, soft and calm, spread out beyond the scene

With sunshine warm and soothing shade and trees upon its green;

Ah! though their cruel Church forbid, are there no hearts will pray

For the poor souls that trembling left that cold and speechless clay?

My God! I am a Catholic ! I grew into the ways Of my dear Church since first my voice could lisp a word of praise;

But oft I think though my first youth were taught and trained awrong,

I still had learnt the one true faith from Nature and from song!

For still, whenever dear friends die, it is such joy to know

They are not all beyond the care that healed their wounds below,

That we can pray them into peace, and speed them to the shore

Where clouds and cares and thorny griefs shall vex their hearts no more.

And the sweet saints, so meek below, so merciful above;

And the pure angels, watching still with such untiring

love;

And the kind Virgin, Queen of Heaven, with all her mother's care,

Who prays for earth, because she knows what breaking hearts are there!

Oh, let us lose no single link that our dear Church has bound,

To keep our hearts more close to Heaven, on earth's ungenial ground;

But trust in saint and martyr yet, and o'er their hallowed clay,

Long after we have ceased to weep, kneel faithful down to pray.

So shall the land for us be still the Sainted Isle of old, Where hymn and incense rise to Heaven, and holy beads are told;

And even the ground they tore from God, in years of crime and woe,

Instinctive with His truth and love, shall breathe of long ago!

DR. WILLIAM DRENNAN
(1754-1820)

ERIN

HEN Erin first rose from the dark swelling flood

WH

God blessed the green Island, and saw it was
good;

The em'rald of Europe, it sparkled and shone
In the ring of the world the most precious stone.
In her sun, in her soil, in her station thrice blest,
With her back towards Britain, her face to the West,
Erin stands proudly insular on her steep shore,
And strikes her high harp 'mid the ocean's deep roar.

But when its soft tones seem to mourn and to weep,
The dark chain of silence is thrown o'er the deep;
At the thought of the past the tears gush from her eyes
And the pulse of her heart makes her white bosom rise.
Oh! sons of green Erin, lament o'er the time

When religion was war and our country a crime;
When man in God's image inverted his plan,
And molded his God in the image of man;

When the int'rest of State wrought the general woe,
The stranger a friend and the native a foe;
While the mother rejoiced o'er her children oppressed
And clasped the invader more close to her breast;

When with Pale for the body and Pale for the soul, Church and State joined in compact to conquer the whole,

And, as Shannon was stained with Milesian blood, Eyed each other askance and pronounced it was good.

By the groans that ascend from your forefathers' grave
For their country thus left to the brute and the slave,
Drive the demon of Bigotry home to his den,
And where Britain made brutes now let Erin make men.
Let my sons, like the leaves of the shamrock, unite
A partition of sects from one footstalk of right;
Give each his full share of the earth and the sky,
Nor fatten the slave where the serpent would die.

Alas! for poor Erin that some are still seen

Who would dye the grass red from their hatred to Green: Yet, oh! when you're up and they're down, let them

live,

Then yield them that mercy which they would not

give.

Arm of Erin, be strong! but be gentle as brave!
And, uplifted to strike, be as ready to save!
Let no feeling of vengeance presume to defile
The cause or the men of the Emerald Isle.

The cause it is good, and the men they are true,
And the Green shall outlive both the Orange and Blue !
And the triumphs of Erin her daughters shall share
With the full swelling chest and the fair flowing hair.
Their bosom heaves high for the worthy and brave,
But no coward shall rest in that soft-swelling wave.
Men of Erin! awake, and make haste to be blest!
Rise, Arch of the Ocean and Queen of the West!