Poems (Ford)/Erin's Lost and Dead
ERIN'S LOST AND DEAD.
Oh, sad, sad art thou, Erin, my loved, my native land;
A plaintive voice is breathing around thy wave-washed strand:
Thy ancient glories faded, thy children from thee fled,
Oh, many hearts are mourning thy loved, thy lost and dead.
A plaintive voice is breathing around thy wave-washed strand:
Thy ancient glories faded, thy children from thee fled,
Oh, many hearts are mourning thy loved, thy lost and dead.
Where are the many loved ones who braved the bounding wave,
Beyond the stormy ocean to find a home or grave?
Some sleep beneath the billows, and many a young, bright head
Is bowed in bitter weeping for Erin's lost and dead.
Beyond the stormy ocean to find a home or grave?
Some sleep beneath the billows, and many a young, bright head
Is bowed in bitter weeping for Erin's lost and dead.
A wreath of gloom the ivy is weaving, day by day,
Above her ancient altars and round her ruins gray;
Unscared the wild birds nestle where festal boards were spread,
And flit among the silent halls of Erin's noble dead.
Above her ancient altars and round her ruins gray;
Unscared the wild birds nestle where festal boards were spread,
And flit among the silent halls of Erin's noble dead.
Where are the proud, the noble, who trod her verdant plains,
Bold hearts that never rested beneath oppression's chains?
Where'er the war-cry "Freedom" was raised, they nobly bled,—
The stainless soul of honor marked Erin's valiant dead.
Bold hearts that never rested beneath oppression's chains?
Where'er the war-cry "Freedom" was raised, they nobly bled,—
The stainless soul of honor marked Erin's valiant dead.
Gaunt famine crushed down thousands upon the sacred sod
Where golden plenty flourished beneath the smile of God;
A hard and cruel step-dame deprived the poor of bread,
And drained the very life-blood of Erin's lost and dead.
Where golden plenty flourished beneath the smile of God;
A hard and cruel step-dame deprived the poor of bread,
And drained the very life-blood of Erin's lost and dead.
Like Niobe, she mourneth her fallen household band,
Her arm too weak to shield them, or stay the slayer's hand;
A fearful weight of sorrow has bowed her queenly head,
And tears rain down in silence above her loved and dead.
Her arm too weak to shield them, or stay the slayer's hand;
A fearful weight of sorrow has bowed her queenly head,
And tears rain down in silence above her loved and dead.
Oh, mournful mother, Erin! thy heart is grieving sore
To see thy children scattered on many a foreign shore!
But countless sainted heros, who for thy weal have bled,
Still slumber in thy bosom: they are not lost, though dead!
To see thy children scattered on many a foreign shore!
But countless sainted heros, who for thy weal have bled,
Still slumber in thy bosom: they are not lost, though dead!
Not lost,—for from their ashes a flame shall yet arise
To light the march of Freedom along our western skies,
And call the wandering exile to rest his weary head
Where bloom unfading laurels o'er Erin's glorious dead.
To light the march of Freedom along our western skies,
And call the wandering exile to rest his weary head
Where bloom unfading laurels o'er Erin's glorious dead.
May Time, that bringeth changes, as seasons roll away,
Restore again to Erin the light of Freedom's day!
But, oh! the beams of Freedom, on vale and mountain shed,
Can ne'er bring back to Erin her loved, her lost, and dead.
Restore again to Erin the light of Freedom's day!
But, oh! the beams of Freedom, on vale and mountain shed,
Can ne'er bring back to Erin her loved, her lost, and dead.