POETRY.
TO THE COMING IRISH POET.
Out of the shadows, out of the long past, Lifting that past up on thy haughty rhyme, Wakening those silenced voices, heard at last ; .
Fierce with the tumults of eight hundred years, Loud with their cries of echoing strife and scorn; Soft with their woes; child of their hopes and fears, Poet we look for, come; awake! be born!
Our little life fills out its little round, Our little pipes play on their puny strains.
We grope, we fumble on the dusky ground, Still searching, hoping, for some scattered grains. Stammering weak ditties on an alien strand, Babbling poor plaintive notes, which sink forlorn, We sport; we toy. The theme demands thy hand.
Poet we look for, come; awake ! be born !
Sing as thou must. Sing in what tongue thou wilt, So thou make plain that tale to every ear, Uplifting all its sorrow, pity, guilt, For friends and foes, or friends once foes, to hear; Till every shore washed by the encircling sea, From eve's first portal to the gates of morn, Echoes that voice, and takes its tone from thee. Poet we look for, come ; awake ! be born! E. L.
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