Romantic Ireland never dies! O’Leary lies in fertile ground, And songs and spears throughout the years Rise up where patriot graves are found. Immortal patriots newly dead And ye that bled in bygone years, What banners rise before your eyes? What is the tune that greets your ears? The young Republic’s banners smile For many a mile where troops convene. O’Connell Street is loudly sweet With strains of Wearing of the Green. The soil of Ireland throbs and glows With life that knows the hour is here To strike again like Irishmen For that which Irishmen hold dear. Lord Edward leaves his resting place And Sarsfield’s face is glad and fierce. See Emmet leap from troubled sleep To grasp the hand of Padraic Pearse! There is no rope can strangle song And not for long death takes his toll. No prison bars can dim the stars Nor quicklime eat the living soul. Romantic Ireland is not old. For years untold her youth will shine. Her heart is fed on Heavenly bread, The blood of martyrs is her wine. THE CATHEDRAL OF RHEIMS (From the French of Émile Verhaeren) He who walks through the meadows of Champagne At noon in Fall, when leaves like gold appear, Sees it draw near Like some great mountain set upon the plain, From radiant dawn until the close of day, Nearer it grows To him who goes Across the country. When tall towers lay Their shadowy pall Upon his way, He enters, where The solid stone is hollowed deep by all Its centuries of beauty and of prayer. Ancient French temple! thou whose hundred kings Watch over thee, emblazoned on thy walls, Tell me, within thy memory-hallowed halls What chant of triumph, or what war-song rings? Thou hast known Clovis and his Frankish train, Whose mighty hand Saint Remy’s hand did keep And in thy spacious vault perhaps may sleep An echo of the voice of Charlemagne. For God thou hast known fear, when from His side Men wandered, seeking alien shrines and new, But still the sky was bountiful and blue And thou wast crowned with France’s love and pride. Sacred thou art, from pinnacle to base; And in thy panes of gold and scarlet glass The setting sun sees thousandfold his face; Sorrow and joy, in stately silence pass Across thy walls, the shadow and the light; Around thy lofty pillars, tapers white Illuminate, with delicate sharp flames, The brows of saints with venerable names, And in the night erect a fiery wall. A great but silent fervour burns in all Those simple folk who kneel, pathetic, dumb, And know that down below, beside the Rhine-- Cannon, horses, soldiers, flags in line-- With blare of trumpets, mighty armies come.