Patriots, behold your guerdon. This man found

Erin, his mother, bleeding, chastised, bound,
Naked to imputation, poor, denied,
While alien masters held her house of pride.
And now behold her! Terrible and fair
With the eternal ivy in her hair,
Armed with the  clamorous  thunder, how she stands

Like Pallas’ self, the Gorgon in her hands.
True that her puissance will be easily past,
The vision ended; she herself has cast
Her fate behind her: yet the work not vain
Since that which once has been may be again,

And she this image yet recover, fired
With godlike workings, brain and hands inspired,

So stand, the blush of battle on her cheek,
Voice made armipotent, deeds that loudly speak,

Like some dread Sphinx’ half patent to the eye,

Half veiled in formidable secrecy.
And he who raised her from her forlorn life

Loosening the fountains of that mighty strife,

Where sits he? On what high foreshadowing throne

Guarded by grateful hearts? Beneath this stone

He lies: this guerdon only Ireland gave,

A broken heart and an unhonoured grave.  

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