The Fenian’s Dream. — Christmas, 1867
THROUGH London’s dull and murky air
The merry Christmas bells
Flung out, in cadence rich and rare,
Their sonorous throbs and swells.
To the half-slumbering town they spoke
Of peace and God’s good-will,
And seemed to chase with pealing stroke
The fiends of hate and ill;
But, ah, how cruelly they broke
Around dark Pentonville!
There, ’twixt the bars, the pale moonbeams,
Half timid, forced their way,
And fell in slender, silvery streams,
Down where the convict lay.
They glanced a moment round the place,
Cold, comfortless, and bare,
Then, in a pitying embrace,
Like angel spirits there,
Caressed the careworn, pallid face,
So wan, and yet so fair.
They seemed to whisper softly while
Around his head they strayed,
For o’er the pale, thin lips a smile,
Half joy, half anguish, played;
As if the tender moonbeams sought
Bright tales of hope to tell,
And the day memories, bitter, wrought
Such fancies to dispel;
And so his two dream guardians fought
Within his lonely cell.
His dream was of the loved old land
He never could forget—
The dungeon’s gloom, the convict’s brand,
Had not subdued it yet;
The land of legend and of lay,
Of mountain, stream, and lake,
Of blossomed heath and sheltering bay,
Of forest, glen, and brake,
Where highland sprite and lowland fay
A home forever make.
The land whose children toil and bleed,
And drudge and starve in vain,
For where the peasant sows the seed,
A stranger reaps the grain.
The Isle of Saints—where knaves and spies
Flourish and thrive apace;
Where fortune must be wooed by lies,
Dishonor, and disgrace;
The true man from such saintdom flies,
And cattle take his place.
Land of the green, and of the gray!
For workhouse, tomb, and jail
Are landmarks on thy soil to-day,
And answer, Innisfail,
Tell us which tint thou seest most,
The old one or the new?
The green of which our poets boast,
Or the more sombre hue?
Few wear the green: a countless host
Have donned the gray for you.
Island of verdure, glorious land!
So rich in fertile plains,
Where Nature gives with bounteous hand,
Yet famine ever reigns;
Where through the mellow ripening corn
The balmiest zephyrs sigh,
Where brighter seems each glowing morn,
More radiant each sky;
Where ’tis misfortune to be born,
And happiness to die.
Poor dreaming boy! he softly smiled
To think he played once more,
A happy, bright, and thoughtless child,
Beside the cabin door—
The dear old straw-thatched cabin, where,
Upon his mother’s knee,
He first had learned to lisp a prayer
For Ireland’s liberty,
And ever pregnant seemed the air
With joyous melody.
His fancy changed: the youthful face
In sternness now was set,
His woes had left no coward trace
Upon his spirit yet;
His cold, thin lips were tightly press’d,
His cheeks were all aglow;
Expanded seemed the hollow chest,
His brows contract, as though
Disturbed and broken was his rest
By some nocturnal foe.
He dreamt that in his native land,
Away from this bleak jail,
He stood within a meadow grand,
A shamrock-spangled vale.
Above the scene the sun-rays bright
In glittering grandeur beamed,
Around him in their golden light
Ten thousand bayonets beamed,
And o’er his head, oh, glorious sight!
Green Erin’s banner streamed.
From town and village, hill and glen,
With clamorous fife and drum,
From mountain brake and lowland fen
The mustering legions come;
The war-worn soldier, bronzed and brown,
Has brought his dinted blade;
While quickly from the neighboring town
Flock in the sons of trade;
The farmer flings his good spade down,
And joins the dense brigade.
The fiery Northmen, in whose veins
Still flows the blood of those
Who on a hundred battle-plains
Have conquered Erin’s foes—
The brave descendants of O’Neill,
A stern and fearless band,
A living wall of sparkling steel
Beneath the old flag stand,
And many a Saxon foe shall feel
Tyrconnell’s vengeful hand.
With Ulster’s columns, side by side,
Are Munster’s squadrons massed,
Like tigers into line they glide,
So noiselessly and fast;
Ah! crimsoned soon will be the green
They bear into the fray,
Through England’s host their sabres keen
Shall carve a corse-strewn way,
And Limerick and Skibbereen
Be well avenged to-day.
Proud Leinster, all your chivalry
To arms electric spring;
High ’mid the battle’s revelry
Your stirring shout shall ring;
And many a foe this day shall rue
Your fierce, impetuous might;
The scenes that gallant Wexford knew
Shall be reversed ere night;
The epitaph to Emmet due
Your gleaming swords shall write.
O’Connor’s soul, grim Connaught, lives
Within your ranks this hour;
Before the strength your hatred gives
Well may the despot cower.
Think of your long, black night of tears,
And say, can you forget
The tyrant’s scorn, his jibes and jeers—
That huge, uncancelled debt,
The wrongs of thrice two hundred years
That scourge your province yet?
Hark to that distant rumbling sound!
See, yonder come the foe;
Now be our arms with victory crowned,
The foreign scum laid low.
The stillness and the calm are o’er,
And many a sulphurous cloud,
Betinged with flame and dripping gore,
Shall form a battle-shroud
For those whose tongues may swell no more
The nation’s slogan loud.
Like hostile torrents armies clash,
And steel now crosses steel,
The lurid flames incessant flash,
And volleyed thunders peal;
But backward reel the alien ranks,
With one exultant cry,
Sweep, Irish heroes, on their flanks,
Not vainly will ye die;
Oh, mighty God of battles, thanks,
The craven red-coats fly!
’Tis o’er; the victory is ours;
And though yon darling flag
May float above our castle towers
A torn and tattered rag,
’Tis still our own; and every fold
Preserved us from the strife,
Each shred around that flag-staff rolled
Unpierced by ball or knife,
Is worth a mine of virgin gold—
Aye, worth a hero’s life.
From slimy cell and dungeon damp
Bring forth our prisoned men;
Gather, ye braves, from every camp,
To cheer them home again.
What though to-day they did not bleed
To share our victory,
We reap the harvest of their seed,
So victors still they be;
From faction they our people freed,
And now our land is free.
Oh, Christmas bells of London, wake
The city with your strain;
Your loudest music cannot break
The felon’s rest again.
His dream is o’er; the moonbeams gone,
Nor left a single ray,
For all that but this moment shone
Retreat before the day;
But that last, loving, pitying one
Has borne his soul away.
“Died in his cell”—and nothing more;
’Twas all his comrades heard;
But of the dream he had before
He died,—oh, not a word!
They found him on the coarse straw bed,
A smile upon his face,
And, “Number 28 found dead,”
Was whispered round the place;
And the jail doctor shook his head
And wondered at the case!