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AN APPEAL.

"THE IRISH CHURCH MISSION FOR CONVERTING THE CATHOLICS.'

PARE her, O cruel England !
Thy Sister lieth low;

Chained and oppressed she lieth,
Spare her that cruel blow.

We ask not for the freedom
Heaven has vouchsafed to thee,
Nor bid thee share with Ireland
The empire of the sea;
Her children ask no shelter,
Leave them the stormy sky;
They ask not for thy harvests,
For they know how to die:
Deny them, if it please thee,

A grave beneath the sod:

But we do cry, O England,

Leave them their faith in God!

Take, if thou wilt, the earnings
Of the poor peasant's toil,
Take all the scanty produce
That grows on Irish soil,
To pay the alien preachers

Whom Ireland will not hear,
To pay the scoffers at a Creed
Which Irish hearts hold dear:
But leave them, cruel England,
The gift their God has given,

Leave them their ancient worship,

Leave them their faith in Heaven.

You come and offer Learning, –
A mighty gift, 't is true;
Perchance the greatest blessing
That now is known to you.
But not to see the wonders
Sages of old beheld

Can they peril a priceless treasure,
The Faith their Fathers held;
For in learning and in science
They may forget to pray, -
God will not ask for knowledge
On the great judgment day.

When, in their wretched cabins,
Racked by the fever pain,

And the weak cries of their children
Who ask for food in vain ;
When starving, naked, helpless,

From the shed that keeps them warm
Man has driven them forth to perish,
In a less cruel storm;
Then, then, we plead for mercy,
Then, Sister, hear our cry!
For all we ask, O England,

Is leave them there to die!
Cursed is the food and raiment
For which a soul is sold;
Tempt not another Judas
To barter God for gold.
You offer food and shelter

If they their faith deny:

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What do you gain, O England,
By such a shallow lie?
We will not judge the tempted,
May God blot out their shame,
He sees the misery round them,
He knows man's feeble frame
His pity still may save them,
In His strength they must trust
Who calls us all His children,
Yet knows we are but dust.

Then leave them the kind tending
Which helped their childish years;
Leave them the gracious comfort
Which dries the mourner's tears;
Leave them to that great mother

In whose bosom they were born;
Leave them the holy mysteries
That comfort the forlorn:

And, amid all their trials,

Let the Great Gift abide,
Which you, O prosperous England,
Have dared to cast aside.
Leave them the pitying Angels,
And Mary's gentle aid,

For which earth's dearest treasures
Were not too dearly paid.

Take back your bribes, then, England,

Your gold is black and dim,

And if God sends plague and famine,

They can die and go to Him.

THE JUBILEE OF 1850.

[The titles of the "Island of Saints" and the "Dower of our Lady," though more frequently applied to Ireland, were often given to England in former times.

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LESS God, ye happy Lands,
For your more favored lot:
Our England dwells apart,
Yet O forget her not.

While, with united joy,
This day you all adore,
Remember what she was,

Though her voice is heard no more.

Pray for our desolate land,
Left in her pride and power:
She was the Isle of Saints,
She was Our Lady's Dower.

Look on her ruined Altars;

He dwelleth there no more:
Think what her empty churches
Have been in times of yore;
She knows the names no longer
Of her own sainted dead,

Denies the faith they held,

And the cause for which they bled.

Then pray for our desolate land,
Left in her pride and power:

She was the Isle of Saints,
She was Our Lady's Dower!

Pray that her vast Cathedrals,
Deserted, empty, bare,

May once more echo accents

Of Love, and Faith, and Prayer ;
That the holy sign may bless us,
On wood, and field, and plain,
And Jesus, Mary, Joseph,
May dwell with us again.

Pray, ye more faithful nations,
In this most happy hour :
She was the Isle of Saints,
She was Our Lady's Dower.

Beg of our Lord to give her
The gift she cast aside,
And in His mercy pardon

Her faithlessness and pride:
Pray to her Saints, who worship
Before God's mercy Throne;
Look where our Queen is dwelling,
Ask her to claim her own,

To give her the proud titles
Lost in an evil hour: —
She was the Isle of Saints,
She was Our Lady's Dower.

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