Wilmington Expositor

The author of the following rich poetry and patriotic sentiment must pardon an old friend for telling tales out of school; it is too creditable an offspring to be permitted to traverse Europe and return to the place of its nativity covered with honors, parentless and without a name. To our former associate James G. Brooks, now of the Winchester Republican, the honor belongs of introducing the young patriot to life and liberty.-Eds. Craftsman.

From the Dublin Morning Register.

IRELAND.

"Mox se se attolet in auras."

I

Wake, Emerald Isle of the wave,
Of the lovely, the gallant, the brave:
Fair land of the lofty in mind,
Break the chains that are round thee entwined!
Once more let the flag be unfurled,
Once more let thy triumphs resound through the world.
In gladness, in honor and fame,
Which hath witnessed the night of thy shame:
Hath the sun of thy freedom eternally set?
No! its beacon shall guide thee to victory yet.

II

Thy night of oppression shall end,
And the star of thy hope shall ascend;
The dawn of thy glory shall rise,
Thy bards shall awaken the song,
To its zenith again, in the skies:
The breezes of heaven shall waft it along,
"The Emerald Island is free;"
And the exile who wanders far over the main,
Across the blue waves of the sea;
Shall lift up his voice and unite in the strain.

III

Why waves not thy banner O'Neal?
Let thy war cry resound like the thunderbolt's peal;
There is rust on the sword of thy fathers!
When the storm in its mightiness gathers,
Why still doth the desert weed wave
Where the minstrel of yore sang the praise of the brave
O'er the desolate halls of O'Connor,
Let O'Neal's and O'Connor's awake in their might,
Their glory, their pride, and their honor?
And strike for green Erin, or freedom and right!

IV

Yes, desolate land! thou shalt wake
To the proud march of glory again;
The storm of thy vengeance shall break
Like the hurricane's wrath o'er the main!
Then when battle is rending the sky,
The day star of freedom shall brighten the sky,
And tyranny quakes on the throne,
Then the scenes of thy annals shall equal again,
And triumph and fame be thy own;
Clontarf's purple wave, and red Ossory's plain!

V

What echo reounds on the hills?
What flame lights the heaven afar?
'Tis the war cry of Erin that thrills!
'Tis the bale-fire enkindled by war!
There is rushing of man and of steed;
There is clangor of hoof and of sword:
Wild battle is urging his courser in speed,-
The vial of ruin is poured!
Hosts sink in that slumber which wakes no more,
And the flowers of earth empurpled with gore!

VI

But the clouds in their rage pass along,
The thunders are lulled into sleep;
Say, what is that proud and melodious song
Which floats o'er the breast of the deep?
'Tis the anthem of triumph, which tells
That Erin has burst from her shame;
That the morning glory her darkness dispels,
And heralds the day of her fame;
Her sons have not bled round her banner in vain,
For Erin, green Erin, is freedom's again!