IF I forswear the art divine That glorifies the dead, What comfort then can I call mine, What solace seek instead? For from my birth our country's fame Was life to me, and love; And for each loyal Irish name Some garland still I wove. I'd rather be the bird that sings Above the martyr's grave, Than fold in fortune's cage my wings And feel my soul a slave; I'd rather turn one simple verse True to the Gaelic ear Than sapphic odes I might rehearse With senates listening near. Oh, native land! dost ever mark, When the world's din is drown'd Betwixt the daylight and the dark, A wandering solemn sound That on the western wind is borne Across thy dewy breast? It is the voice of those who mourn For thee, in the far West. For them and theirs I oft essay Thy ancient art of song, And often sadly turn away, Deeming my rashness wrong; For well I ween, a loving will Is all the art I own: Ah me! could love suffice for skill, What triumphs I had know! My native land! my native land! Live in my memory still! Break on my brain, ye surges grand! Stand up, mist-cover'd hill! Still on the mirror of the mind The scenes I love, I see: Would I could fly on the western wind, My native land, to thee! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FIRESIDE by NATHANIEL COTTON JUST A-RIDIN'! by ELWOOD ADAMS LADY OF CASTLENORE; A.D. 1700 by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH WHEN DEATH HAS LOST THE KEY by KENNETH SLADE ALLING FOR STURDY FEET by A. DOROTHEA BATES |