Classic and Contemporary Poetry
HAVE WE DONE WELL FOR IRELAND?, by JANE FRANCESCA WILDE Poet's Biography First Line: O country, writhing in thy chain Last Line: To soothe thee -- fated ireland! Alternate Author Name(s): Speranza; Elgee, Jane Francesca; Wilde, William Robert Wills, Mrs. Subject(s): Ireland; Irish | ||||||||
O COUNTRY, writhing in thy chain With fierce, wild efforts to be free, Not seeing that with every strain The bonds close firmer over thee; Or grasping blindly in thy hate The temple pillars of the State, To hurl them down on friend and foe, Crushed in one common overthrow -- Can none of all thy Poet band Preach nobler aims, loved Ireland? As David drove with magic chords The Evil Spirit back to night; As Moses by his mighty words Led Egypt's bondmen up to light; Hast thou no Poet, strong to calm Thy troubled soul with holy psalm? Or trusted Chief, who, safely on Across the fatal Rubicon, Could lead thee with pure heart and hand To Freedom -- my own Ireland? By those doomed men, in dull despair Slow wasting in a dungeon's gloom; By all youth's fiery heart can dare Quenched in the prison's living tomb -- By the corroding felon chain, That tortures with Promethean pain Of vultures gnawing at the core Of their lost lives for evermore -- I ask you, People of our Land, Have ye done well for Ireland? By History traced on dungeon walls, By scaffolds, chains, and exiles' tears, Slow marking, as the shadow falls, The mournful sequence of the years; By genius crushed and progress barred, By noble aspirations marred, Till with a smouldering fire's life They burn in deadly hate and strife -- I ask you, Rulers of our Land, Have ye done well for Ireland? O Men! these men are brothers too, Tho' frenzied by a fatal dream, Their living souls were meant to do Some noble work in God's great scheme, Perchance to hew down, branch and root, The tree that bore such bitter fruit; But, left unguided in the Right, They grope out blindly in the night Of their dark passions; striking down Their Country's proud hopes with their own. But now, ye say, the Land hath rest -- Aye, with the death weights on her eyes; And fettered arms across her breast, And mail'd hands stifling down her cries. So rests a corpse within the grave O'er which the charnal grasses wave. Oh, better far some kindly word To stay the vengeance-lifted sword, Or Love, with queenly, outstretched hand, To soothe thee -- fated Ireland! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SIGHTSEERS by PAUL MULDOON THE DREAM SONGS: 290 by JOHN BERRYMAN AN IRISH HEADLAND by ROBINSON JEFFERS THE GIANT'S RING: BALLYLESSON, NEAR BELFAST by ROBINSON JEFFERS IRELAND; WRITTEN FOR THE ART AUTOGRAPH DURING IRISH FAMINE by SIDNEY LANIER THE EYES ARE ALWAYS BROWN by GERALD STERN THE FAMINE YEAR by JANE FRANCESCA WILDE A LAMENT by JANE FRANCESCA WILDE A REMONSTRANCE; ADDRESSED TO D. FLORENCE M'CARTHY, M.R.I.A. by JANE FRANCESCA WILDE |
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