The Exile's Devotion

If I forswear the art divine
That glorifies the dead,
What comfort then can I call mine,
What solace seek instead?
For from my birth our country's fame
Was life to me, and love;
And for each loyal Irish name
Some garland still I wove.

I'd rather be the bird that sings
Above the martyr's grave,
Than fold in fortune's cage my wings
And feel my soul a slave;
I'd rather turn one simple verse
True to the Gaelic ear,
Than sapphic odes I might rehearse
With senates listening near.

Oh, native land! dost ever mark,
When the world's din is drown'd
Betwixt the daylight and the dark,
A wandering solemn sound
That on the western wind is borne
Across thy dewy breast?
It is the voice of those who mourn
For thee, in the far West.

For them and theirs I oft essay
Thy ancient art of song,
And often sadly turn away,
Deeming my rashness wrong;
For well I ween, a loving will
Is all the art I own:
Ah me! could love suffice for skill,
What triumphs I had known!

My native land! my native land!
Live in my memory still!
Break on my brain, ye surges grand!
Stand up, mist-cover'd hill!
Still on the mirror of the mind
The scenes I love, I see:
Would I could fly on the western wind,
My native land, to thee!