James and Mary Ford, eds. Every Day in the Year. 1902.
April 1The Loss of the Emigrants
By John Boyle OReilly (18441890)
F
And heart-sore envy did they dare to cope;
And mite by mite was saved from earnings scant,
To buy, some future day, the God-sent hope.
Or tilled from year to year the wearied fields,
And in the shadow of the golden crowns
They gasped for sunshine and the health it yields.
With kindly feelings only for the soil,
And for the kindred faces, pinched and wan,
That prayed, and stayed, unwilling, at their toil.
And read His answer in the westering sun
That called them ever as a shining word,
And beckoned seaward as the rivers run.
On German villages and English dales;
Like brooks that grow from many mountain rills
The peasant stream flowed out from Irish vales.
But blended sweetly with the joy to come,
When from full store they spared the rich relief
To gladden all the dear ones left at home.
That barred our lives has swung beneath Thy hand;
Behind our ship now frowns the cruel fate,
Before her smiles the teeming Promised Land!”
How weak we are to read God’s awful lore!
His breath protected on the stormy path,
And dashed them lifeless on the promised shore!
And gave bright vision to the heart of each
His waters bore them where they wished to go,
Then swept them seaward from the very beach!
Their humble toil is o’er,—their rest has come;
A land was promised and a land was given,—
But, oh! God help the waiting ones at home!