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Poems. Wilde, Lady, 1826–1896.
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Speranza (Lady Wilde)

Second Edition

Glasgow: Cameron & Ferguson, 88 to 94 West Nile Street.
London: 12 Ave Maria Lane.

page: iii


To Ireland.


  • MY COUNTRY, wounded to the heart,
  • Could I but flash along thy soul
  • Electric power to rive apart
  • The thunder‐clouds that round thee roll,
  • And, by my burning words, uplift
  • Thy life from out Death’s icy drift,
  • Till the full splendours of our age
  • Shone round thee for thy heritage—
  • As Miriam’s, by the Red Sea strand
  • Clashing proud cymbals, so my hand
  • Would strike thy harp,
  • Loved Ireland!


  • She flung her triumphs to the stars
  • In glorious chants for freedom won,
  • While over Pharaoh’s gilded cars
  • The fierce, death‐bearing waves rolled on;
  • I can but look in God’s great face,
  • And pray Him for our fated race,
  • To come in Sinai thunders down,
  • And, with His mystic radiance, crown
  • Some Prophet‐Leader, with command
  • To break the strength of Egypt’s band,
  • And set thee free,
  • Loved Ireland!
page: iv


  • New energies, from higher source,
  • Must make the strong life‐currents flow,
  • As Alpine glaciers in their course
  • Stir the deep torrents ’neath the snow.
  • The woman’s voice dies in the strife
  • Of Liberty’s awakening life;
  • We wait the hero heart to lead,
  • The hero, who can guide at need,
  • And strike with bolder, stronger hand,
  • Though towering hosts his path withstand
  • Thy golden harp,
  • Loved Ireland!


  • For I can breathe no trumpet call,
  • To make the slumb’ring Soul arise;
  • I only lift the funeral‐pall,
  • That so God’s light might touch thine eyes,
  • And ring the silver prayer‐bell clear,
  • To rouse thee from thy trance of fear;
  • Yet, if thy mighty heart has stirred,
  • Even with one pulse‐throb at my word,
  • Then not in vain my woman’s hand
  • Has struck thy gold harp while I stand,
  • Waiting thy rise
  • Loved Ireland!
page: v


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