O’Neill
in Rome
I
Where
yellow Tiber’s waters flow,
Within
the seven-hilled city’s bound
An
aged chief, with footsteps slow,
Moves
sadly o’er the storied ground;
Or,
from his palace window-panes,
Looks
out upon the matchless dome,
The
ruins grand, the glorious fanes,
That
stud the soil of holy Rome,
But
oh! for Ireland far away –
For
Ireland in the western sea!
The
chieftain’s heart is there to-day,
And
there, in truth, he fain would be.
II
On
every side the sweet bells ring,
And
faithful people bend in pray’r;
Sweet
hymns, that angel choirs might sing,
And
loud hosannas fill the air,
His
place is with the princely crowd,
Amidst
the noblest and the best;
His
large white head is lowly bowed,
His
hands are clasped before his breast,
But
oh! for Ireland far away –
For
Ireland dear, with all her ills –
For
Mass in fair Tyrone to-day,
Amid
the circling Irish hills!
III
Kind
friends are round him, pious freres,
And
pastors of Christ’s mystic fold;
The
holy Pope, ‘mid many cares,
For
him has blessings, honours gold.
Grave
fathers, speaking words of balm,
Bid
him forget the by-gone strife,
And
spend resigned, in holy calm,
The
years that close a noble life.
But
oh! for Ireland! there again
The
grand old chieftain fain would be,
‘Midst
glittering spears, on hill or plain,
To
charge for Faith and Liberty!
IV
His
fellow-exiles, men who bore
With
him the brunt of many a fight,
Talk
past and future chances o’er,
Around
his table grouped at night.
While
speeds each tale of grief or glee,
With
tears their furrowed cheeks are wet,
And
oft they rise and vow to see
A
glorious day in Ireland yet.
And
oh! for Ireland o’er the main –
For
Ireland, where they yet shall be,
Since
Irish braves in France and Spain
Have
steel and gold to set her free!
V
He
sits, abstracted, by the board –
Old
scenes are pictured in his brain –
Benburb,
Armagh, the Yellow-Ford,
He
fights and wins them o’er again.
Again
he sees fierce Bagenal fall,
Sees
craven Essex basely yield,
Meets
armoured Segrave, gaunt and tall,
And
leaves him lifeless on the field.
But
oh! for Ireland, there once more,
To
rouse the true men of the land,
And
proudly bear from shore to shore
The
banner of the Blood-red Hand!
VI
And
when the wine within plays,
Bold,
hopeful words the chief will speak;
He
draws his shining sword, and says,
“The
King of England deems me weak –
Ah!
would the Englishman were nigh
That
hates me most, my deadliest foe,
To
cross his blade with mine, and try
If
this right arm be weak or no!
But
oh for Ireland! where good swords
And
forceful arms are needed most,
To
fall on England’s cruel hordes,
And
sweep them from the Irish coast.
VII
Years
come and go, but while they roll,
His
limbs grow weak, his eyes grow dim;
The
hopes die out that buoyed his soul –
War’s
mighty game is closed for him.
Before
him from the earth have passed
Friends,
kinsmen, comrades true and brave,
And
well he knows he nears at last
His
place of rest – a foreign grave.
But
oh! for Ireland far away,
For
Irish love and holy zeal –
Oh!
for a grave in Irish clay
To
wrap the heart of Hugh O’Neill!
By
T.D. Sullivan, printed in C.P.Meehan, The Fate and Fortunes of Hugh
O’Neill, Earl of Tyrone, and Rory O’Donel, Earl of Tyrconnell, their
flight from Ireland and their death in exile, (3rd ed., Dublin,
1886), pp 397-9.
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