To Ireland poem – Alfred Austin

“What ails you, Sister Erin, that your face

Is, like your mountains, still bedewed with tears?

As though some ancient sorrow or disgrace,

Some unforgettable wrong from far-off years,

Done to your name or wreaked upon your race,

Broods in your heart and shadows all your mind;

So that no change of Season, nor the voice

Of hopeful Time, who bids the sad rejoice,

Can lift your gloom, but you, to kind unkind,

Keep moaning with the wave, and wailing with the wind.

“Come let us sit upon yon cliff, we twain,

Whence we may gaze across your soft green Isle,

Girt by the strong immeasurable main,

That, see! looks up, and sweetens to a smile;

And you shall talk to me of all your pain,

Through deep blue eyes and dark unbraided tresses

Hooded by wimple that your own hands weaved

When you and Winter last together grieved,

While far beneath our feet the fast foam presses

Round bluff, and creek, and bay, and seabird-sung-to nesses.”

Then half withholding, yielding half, her gaze,

She smoothed her kirtle under her, and clasped

Her hands about her knees, as one who prays,

Watching the clambering billows as they grasped

At slippery rocks where wild-goats may not graze,

Then fell back foiled, shivered to spray and smoke.

And I could see the warm blood of her race

Crimson beneath her weather-beaten face:

As though her heart would break, her voice would choke,

In accents harsh with hate, and brimmed with sobs, she spoke.

“They came across the sea with greed of spoil,

And drove me hither and thither from fen to foam,

Reaving and burning, till the blackened soil

Waxed bitter-barren as the brine they clomb,

Sterile to seed and thankless unto toil.

Harried and hunted, fleeing through the land,

I hid among the caves, the woods, the hills,

Where the mist curdles and the blind gust shrills,

Suckling my hate and sharpening my brand,

My heart against their heart, my hand against their hand.

“And ever as I fled, they ever pursued.

They drove away my cattle and my flocks,

And left me, me a Mother! to claw for food

‘Mong ocean-boulders and the brackish rocks

Where sea-hogs wallow and gorged cormorants brood;

Unroofed my hut, set the sere thatch aflame,

Scattered my hearth-fire to the wintry air,

Made what was bare before stretch yet more bare,

I waxing wilder more they strove to tame,

To force and guile alike implacably the same.

“They would not suffer me to weep or pray:

Upon the altar of my Saints they trod;

They banned my Faith, they took my Heaven away,

And tried to rob me of my very God!

And, when I sued them leave me where I lay,

And get them hence, still, still they would not go.

They reft the spindle from my famished hands,

My kith and kin they drove to other lands,

Widowed and orphaned me! And now you know

Why all my face is wet, and all my voice is woe!”

I crept a little nearer, and I laid

My hand on hers, and fondled it with mine;

And, “Listen, dear Sister Erin,” soft I said,

“Not to the moaning of the salt-sea brine,

Nor to the melancholy crooning made

By thoughts attuned to Sorrow’s ancient song,

But to the music of a mellower day.

Forgive! Forget! lest harsher lips should say,

Like your turf fire, your rancour smoulders long.

Now let Oblivion strew Time’s ashes o’er this wrong.

“The robber bands that filled the Isle with groans

Were long since clamped and prisoned in their graves:

The flesh hath dried and shrivelled from their bones,

Their wild war-standards rotted from their staves;

Their name is nought. ‘Tis thus that Time atones

For all the griefs man fastens on his kind.

The days were dire, his passions swift and fell:

His very Heaven was but a sterner Hell.

His love was thraldom, hatred black and blind,

As headstrong as the wave, as wayward as the wind.

“Nor did alone you suffer. You too dealt

Full many a stroke, too fierce to be subdued

Till you had made the fangs of vengeance felt.

Mercy and truce you spurned, and fed the feud

Of Celt with Saxon, Saxon against Celt,

Till lust enforced whatever law forbade.

Nay! do not linger on that painful dream,

But turn and smile! as when a silvery gleam

Dimples your loughs that whilom seemed so sad,

And runs along the wave, and glistens and is glad!

“We own our fault the greater, so we now

For balance of that wrong would make amends.

Lift the low wimple from your clouded brow,

Give me your gaze, and say that we are friends;

And be your mountains witness of that vow,

Your dewy dingles white with blossoming sloe,

Your tawny torrents tumbling to the sea:

For You are far the fairest of the Three,

And we can never, never, let you go,

Long as your warm heart beats, long as your bright eyes glow.

“The Triune Flag, none now save Tyrants dread,

That with Imperial peace protects the world,

Hath by the sinewy sons you bore and bred

Round the wide globe been carried and unfurled.

Where danger greatest, they it was who led,

And stormed death rather than be backward driven.

Now, gaze no more across the western main,

Whose barren furrows hope still ploughs in vain.

Turn Eastward, where, through clouds by sunrise riven,

England holds out her hand, and craves to be forgiven.

“Live your own life, but ever at our side!

Have your own Heaven, but blend your prayer with ours!

Remain your own fair self, to bridegroom bride,

Veiled in your mist and diamonded with showers,

We twain love-linked whom nothing can divide!

Look up! From Slievemore’s brow to Dingle’s shore,

From Inagh’s lake to Innisfallen’s Isle

And Garriffe’s glen, the land is one green smile!

The dolphins gambol and the laverocks soar:

Lift up your heart and live, enthralled to grief no more!”