Public ledger. [volume] (Memphis, Tenn.) 1865-1893, 1879-03-17

king of Laghoniah, Dermot, son of
Morrogh, for it was thy sacrilegious
voice that called the stranger to thine
aid, against a brave and generous
rival, thy brother too Thou
broughtest foreign swords to pierce
thy mothers bosom. Shame upon thy
name forever
But Ireland fell not ingloriously
into this profound abyss of woe.
Many of her dauntless children shed
their hearts warm blood to save her.
Many times the braggart foe have fed
before her conQuering sword. Often
times the cry of victory has been
echoed from hill to hill and from
mountain to mountain again. The
voice of the people has often roared
as the ocean before the coming temp
est. Then Albion, thy naughty
Lordlings, thy faithless, corrupt min
istry, thine avaricious tradesmen, and
thy mercenary soldiers have groaned
for they already saw in fancy affrighted
dream tho long silent harp of Erin
upon tho summit Of London tower ac-
companyiug chant Of death
Oh Albion what hast thou done with
thy sister, the beautiful, brave Erin
Thou hast torn her long fair hair, hast
marred her lovely countenance, hast
drunk her streaming gore, hast rev
elled in her tears, hast laughed at
her wailing Of distress, hast looked
with frozen bosom on her despair.
And when forgetful of your crimes,
your cruelty, with piteous cries she
has prayed for mercy, bitter words of
hatred have been theresponse, and you
have added links to the long CALLING
chain with which her swollen limbs
are tortured Thou hast been deaf
to the voice of woe that has pene-
trated the remotest nations Of the
earth, and gloating like Lucifer
amidst the sulphurous glare in which
he is enveloped, thou hast demanded
more luxury, more gold-gold for thy
noble lords, thy naughty peers, whose
consciences are costly as the spices of
Arabia or the jewels of 0phar-gold,
gold for those who already totter over
the yawning gulf of TOphat upon a
slippery mount of gold Behold Al
bion, thou shalt be hurled from thy
triumphal car, like the impious An
tiochus, thou shalt be stricken from
the race like Heliodore, thou shalt
weep isolated and alone in the bosom
of the ocean like Venice, who was
once proud and merciless too The
Lord will take pity upon those whom
thou hast stricken, the tempest of his
wrath will overtake thee, thou wilt be
overwhelmed by the tumultuous
waves of sorrow, mysterious terror
will seize upon thy soul, and thou
wilt be more powerless than the
down blown from the swans bosom,
or the withered petals of the eglan-
tine. None will weep for thee, no
voice ascend to an angry heaven in
thy behalf lf-but in trumpet tones
thou wilt hear, through all thy sun
less day, thy starless nights, all over
the world, on hill, in valley, in the
cayerns of the earth, on the waste OF
waters, voice Of reproach saying,
"Oh Albion, what hast thou done
with thy sister, the beautiful, the
brave Erin? ?"
Pardon, oh Lord if words of Bit
terness flow from the poets mouth,
whose thoughts are like waves, en-
ragged by the torrents rolling into and
convulsing the calm silvery Shannon.
! The poet loves his tender mother, his
weeping woeful mother, whose patient
heart is almost riven asunder, whose
mlserles are too great for mortal
strength. Yet, oh Lord, | will not
doubt thy justice and thy mercy
Thou wilt have mercy upon the mer-
eiful. Then let Albion prosper, but
| let Erin be free The genius, the
soul of Ireland cries TO thee with
generous enthusiasm, let England be
| happy, be blest, be saved !! But our
Father who art in heaven, have pity
upon patient, resigned Ireland. Let
her tears of anguish be weighed in
the balance of thy justice, Amen
And now thou mother of saints, of
martyrs, Of heroes, beloved Emerald
isle, the bard who thus chants in the
quiet Of evening thy wrongs and thy
hope pleads to hear upon the still
breath that salutes his brow thine an
swering tones. Upon tho strand of
Antrim, visit him with visions of fu-
ture prosperity - como to bless his
faith, his DEVOTION Come mothor
mine, onfold me in thy fond embrace,
and kneeling together on this hal
lowed shore We will pray for all thy
tortured children III The minstrel
slept-and 10, the prayed-for vision
came Her chained hands clasping
to her bosom the sacred sign Of sal
vation, SO beautiful, so sublime is her
woe. A ray of holy hope illuming
those eyes of celestial blue, upturned,
as if seeking a refuge in heaven, the
breeze gently lifting from her snowy
bosom, the long silken locks of yellow
hair, the exhausted ocean spray, just
touching the folds of her stainless
white robe, the pallor of her cheek
attesting her long agony, her bosom
heaving with sighs of anguish Il A
holy awe stole over the bard, and as
one in trance sublime he exclaimed
in tones that echoed through the won
dering world, Come, spirit of free
dom, come blend thy mellow voice
with the strings Of this faithful harp,
and as the sun descends behind yon
ancient hills we'll chant aloud our
fervent hymn. Ye sainted zephyrs,
watt upon your huttering wings to the
remotest verge Of creation, and up to
heavens gates the burden of our
song, Ireland, Ireland-great God
have mercy on and succor ireland I "
The empress Of Austria had her