Poems (Ford)/The Enchanted Cave

THE ENCHANTED CAVE.

Amid the bleak, heath-covered hills of the West,
Oft swept by the wild ocean-blast,
That seems, as it shrieks round the peasant's rude shed,
A cry o'er the graves of the past,
The cottagers tell, in the long winter nights,
The tale of a slumber-chained band,
Who rest in their armor, awaiting the call
To strike off the chains of their land.

For ages they've slept, while their country has groaned,
Bowed down by the weight of her woes,
But still is unuttered the magical word
Whose spell is to break their repose;
Though heroes have struggled and martyrs have bled,
Still Erin must suffer and weep,
Until, from the depths of that wild rocky cave,
These warriors are roused from their sleep.

The peasant's dark eyes often flash with delight
To hear that quaint legend of yore,
And fondly he hopes for the time when that word
Will peal o'er his ocean-girt shore;
For when from the heart of the nation it bursts,
Each hillside and valley and glen
Will leap into life, like that magical cave,
With myriads of steel-girded men.

Where'er in the wide world that call shall be heard,
O'er prairie and forest and wave,
If there the true heart of a Celt can be found,
There too is a magical cave,
Where, from the dull sleep of inaction, shall rise
Stern warriors, trusty and strong,
To strike for their country, and pour out their blood
To wash off the stains of her wrong.

That watchword is "Freedom,"—Oh, once let it ring
Out o'er the blue waves of the sea,
From people united to conquer or die,
And soon shall our country be free.
Her fetters shall burst with a crash at the sound;
The strength of her tyrants shall fail;
Then, henceforth let "Union and Liberty" be
The cry of the sons of the Gael.