To John O'Mahony

Immemorial Holy Land! At thine hand, thy sons await Any fate: they understand Thee, the all compassionate.

Be it death for thee, they grieve Nought, to leave the fight aside: Thou their pride, they undeceive Death, by death unterrified.

Mother, dear and fair to us, Ever thus to be adored! Is thy sword grown timorous, Mother of misericord?

For thy dead is grief on thee? Can it be, thou dost repent, That they went, thy chivalry, Those sad ways magnificent?

What, and if their heart's blood flow? Gladly so, with love divine, Since not thine the overthrow, They thy fields incarnadine.

Hearts afire with one sweet flame, One loved name, thine host adores: Conquerors, they overcame Death, high Heaven's inheritors.

For their loyal love, nought less, Than the stress of death, sufficed: Now with Christ, in blessedness, Triumph they, imparadised.

Mother, with so dear blood stained! Freedom gained through love befall Thee, by thraldom unprofaned, Perfect and imperial!

Still the ancient voices ring: Faith they bring, and fear repel. Time shall tell thy triumphing, Victress and invincible!