New loves may come with duties, but the first
Is deepest yet,--the mother's breath and smiles;
Like that kind face and breast where I was nursed
Is my poor land, the Niobe of isles.
JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.
* * * * *
BLESS THE DEAR OLD VERDANT LAND.
Bless the dear old verdant land!
Brother, wert thou born of it?
As thy shadow life doth stand
Twining round its rosy band.
Did an Irish mother's hand
Guide thee in the morn of it?
Did a father's first command
Teach thee love or scorn of it?
Thou who tread'st its fertile breast,
Dost thou feel a glow for it?
Thou of all its charms possest.
Living on its first and best,
Art thou but a thankless guest
Or a traitor foe for it,
If thou lovest, where's the test?
Wilt thou strike a blow for it?
Has the past no goading sting
That can make thee rouse for it?
Does thy land's reviving spring,
Full of buds and blossoming,
Fail to make thy cold heart cling,
Breathing lover's vows for it?
With the circling ocean's ring
Thou wert made a spouse for it.
Hast thou kept as thou shouldst keep
Thy affections warm for it,
Letting no cold feeling creep
Like an ice-breath o'er the deep,
Freezing to a stony sleep
Hopes the heart would form for it,
Glories that like rainbows peep
Through the darkening storm for it?
Son of this down-trodden land,
Aid us in the fight for it.
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