TO THE HOME OF MY FATHERS

Posted by Jim on June 24, 2019

By John Hughes Archbishop NY

Does Freedom yet breathe in the bard’s rustic number?

Can his harp, by the genius of liberty strung,

Be mute, while the land where his forefathers slumber

Is bleeding in bondage, and bleeding unsung?

Is no Washington near thee, thou captive of ages

To marshal thy brave ones and lead them to war?

Is no Franklin arrayed in the list of thy sages?

In that of thy heroes, no young Bolivar?

Thy sons must forsake thee, if worth bids them cherish

A hope on the records of glory to shine.

Does not Wellington reign ?

Had not Emmet to perish? The laurel is England’s; the cypress is thine.

But weep not, poor Erin, though Emmet is wanting;

His spirit still lives in the hearts of the brave.

There are bosoms behind, as devotedly panting

For the breath of the free or the boon of the grave.

And Hope tells my heart that a day will be given,

When the chain shall be loosed and their sorrows re¬ dressed ;

When thou shalt go forth in the pride of thy even,

As free as the zephyrs that sport on thy breast.

Oh, then shall thy harp, which has slumbered in sadness,

Feel the pulse of fair Freedom that erst made it thrill;

Then the bard shall awake it in accents of gladness,

And sweep its wild chords on thy ever-green hill.

And, oh, when the last scene of Nature is closing,

When this spirit of mine shall burst forth and be free,

How calm could I rest, on thy bosom reposing,

Thou home of my fathers! Green Isle of the sea!