"First as a Saint, in majesty divine, The world shall know thee by this potent sign: From yonder soil, where pois'nous reptiles dwell, Thy voice shall snake and slimy toad expel. Next as a Martyr, pleading in her cause, Thy blood shall flow to build up Albion's laws. Last as a Prophet and a Bard combined, Rebellion's fires shall mould thy patriot mind. In that great day, when Briton's strength shall fail, And all her glories shiver on the gale; When winged chariots, rushing through the sky, Shall drop their faggots, blazing as they fly, Thy form shall tower, a hero 'midst the flames, And add one more to Erin's deathless names!" Exiles of Erin! gathered here in state, Such is the story of your country's fate. Six thousand years in strife have rolled away, Since Erin sprang from billowy surf and spray; In that drear lapse, her sons have never known One ray of peace to gild her crimson zone. Cast back your glance athwart the tide of years, Behold each billow steeped with Erin's tears, Inspect each drop that swells the mighty flood, Its purple globules smoke with human blood! Come with me now, and trace the seraph's path, That has been trodden since his day of wrath. Lo! in the year when Attila the Hun Had half the world in terror overrun, On Erin's shore there stood a noble youth, The breath of honor and the torch of truth. His was the tongue that taught the Celtic soul Christ was its Saviour, Heaven was its goal! His was the hand that drove subdued away, The venom horde that lured but to betray; His were the feet that sanctified the sod, Erin redeemed, and gave her back to God! The gray old Earth can boost no purer fame Than that whose halos gild ST. PATRICK'S name! Twelve times the centuries builded up their store Of plots, rebellions, gibbets, tears and gore; Twelve times centennial annivers'ries came, To bless the seraph in St. Patrick's name. In that long night of treach'ry and gloom, How many myriads found a martyr's tomb! Beside the waters of the dashing Rhone In exile starved the bold and blind TYRONE. Beneath the glamour of the tyrant's steel Went out in gloom the soul of great O'NEILL. What countless thousands, children of her loin, Sank unanneal'd beneath the bitter Boyne! What fathers fell, what mothers sued in vain, In Tredah's walls, on Wexford's gory plain, When Cromwell's shaven panders slaked their lust, And Ireton's fiends despoiled the breathless dust! Still came no seraph, incarnate in man, To rescue Erin from the bandit clan. Still sad and lone, she languished in her chains, That clank'd in chorus o'er her martyrs' manes.