Poems (Procter)/An Appeal

by Adelaide Anne Procter

For works with similar titles, see An Appeal.

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 beheldCan 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 warmMan 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:— 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 trustWho calls us all His children, Yet knows we are but dust.

Then leave them the kind tending Which helped their childish year;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.