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St. Patrick’s Day Oration by the Rev.
William Burke
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“It is a melancholy, still a pleasing task to unfold the page of years gone by, and to recount the labors of the ‘illustrious dead,’ There is a charm in the days of ‘long ago’ which like sweet toned music steals o’er the heart and evokes the gentlest and most kindly emotions. There is a magic in the cherished remembrance of ‘former times,’ which causes the tear to start to the eye of the patriot, as he contemplates the picture which faithful memory holds up to his admiring gaze. There is in our common nature a feeling of holy reverence for departed greatness, as there is, also, a sentiment of deep affection for the home of our nativity. How sweetly, and with what poetry of soul has Erin’s favored minstrel told us this oft repeated truth, when attuning his muse to the melody of his own ‘late of the Ocean’ he sung
‘Tho’ the last gleam of Erin with sorrow I see, Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me. In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.’
“The love of country is a sentiment implanted in the human bosom by the Deity itself, it is not restricted to any one nation, nor is it confined to any one class of persons; its genial, but powerful influence is experienced and felt by mankind in every grade and under every condition; its magic spell binds the human breast in every clime beneath the Sun, and whether on the frozen coast of the ice bound Labrador, or beneath the scorching Sun of a Southern clime—man true to nature’s inspiration, exclaims
‘This is my own, my native land.’
“The love of God is regarded by the religious world as the most sacred, the most sanctifying, and most salutary principle by which our actions can be directed; and true it is, that it has an influence the most powerful on our relations, born temporal and eternal. It sweetens the bitter chalice of human sorrow, it calms the troubled waters of man’s grief, it elevates him above the pressure of worldly afflictions and renders life’s arduous way of easy ascent to him. Yes, true indeed is it that the ennobling influence of the love of God cheers man in the darksome hour of adversity, as it also stays the wild flights of his too buoyant imagination in the sunny moments of his temporal prosperity. If the ardent votary who worships at religion’s hallowed shrine, if he whose thoughts are ever heavenward and whose hopes are centred in the glories of another Kingdom, if he views, (and justly,) as so sacred, and so powerful in its influence the love of the Deity, shall it be denied to the true soul in which ever glows the fire of patriotic devotion to believe that the love of country, the Amor Patriæ of the Romans, that devotional respect which our natal soil ever demands from us, is secondary only to the pure love of the Deity, in its influence on our lives and on our actions. The principle is common to all mankind, for even ‘the savage loves his native shore,’ and the feeling therewith connected pervades the great family of man, betraying its influence in a thousand various modes. “While nations and people disagree, on almost every topic, love of country is a sentiment common to all, animating every grade in society, giving vigor and vitality to human energy, and directing in a great measure that mighty lever, the human mind, by which Empires have raised their majestic heads on high, and again have tottered to their ignoble bases. Look to France, famed for its political creeds of every hue—behold her under her Kings when san peuz et sans reproche was the proud motto of her heraldry, and in the chivalric deeds which graced many a tilt and tournament, was not the Amor Patriæ high in every soldier’s bosom. Look to her amid the scenes of her ill-omened revolution, but of this not a word, in the temple of Good look to her bending to every will of him, who like the Attila of early days, bore death and devastation in his train; and was not Ma Patrie the watch-word of every enthusiast, and when his banners were unfurled, and his martial flag was waving in the breeze, were not France et sa gloire the talismanic words which nerved every heart and fired every bosom. The gay and lightsome child of sunlit Spain, in whose bosom glows the fire of Valencia’s former Kings. The ardent and enthusiastic sons of Italy, the land of poetry and genius. The brave, intrepid clansmen of Caledonia, the battle-ground of Bruce and Wallace. The high souled sons of Poland, once renowned, but now unhappy, glorious, even in her miseries, for the blood which was shed in the cause of her freedom, and illustrious in this, the day of her sorrows, by the name of her own great Kosciusko—oh, would to Heaven! That she too could with giant strength burst asunder the ignominious shackles which fetter her liberties, and that the young dreams of her patriot hand were realized in her emancipation from that despot who is dreaded at home, but despised by all the world beside. The romantic spirit of Spain, the poetic genius of Italy, the red blood which purpled the waters of the Vistula, the renowned fields of Austerlitz and Marengo, the far famed plains of Culloden—do they not all give evidence of that patriotic spirit which I maintain to be planted in the heart by the Deity itself. And shall the sons of the Emerald Isle, the exiles of Erin, the descendants of those who ever fought and bled for freedom, the fellow countrymen of Montgomery and Jasper, shall they be dead to all those fine sensibilities which the name ‘Inisfall’ is calculated to awaken—shall they be wanting in that devotion which is so sweet to a patriotic soul—is an Irishman’s heart alone incapable of that thrilling sentiment ‘a country’s love’?
‘Oh! No, lying is the tongue that would say so.’
“Wherever he roams, an Irishman loves his native land. Enterprising and bold in adventure does he penetrate the frozen regions of the Artic Ocean. Cold is the climate, and deep are the snows which fall thickly around him, heat nor piercing cold, nor wintry frost can chill the warm current of the Irishman’s emotion as he sings the wild Anthem of his own ‘Erin Go Bragh.’ Is he by fickle fortune placed on India’s wide domain, with its ‘leafy shores and sunbright seas,’ neither the gorgeous pageantry of Eastern scenes nor its balmy breezes, which lull the soul to sweet repose, can chase from his heart the cherished remembrance of Ireland’s lovely fields. Amid the din of battle, when thundering cannons roar, pass but the word ‘Ireland for ever,’ and where is the Irish heart that beats not with still higher enthusiasm as he catches the well remembered words? And in the happy days of peace and security, when all around him breathe quiet and tranquility, is he then forgetful of the land of his fathers? No, no, far from it, like the prophet in holy writ, he exclaims ‘If I forget thee, O! Ireland, may my right hand be forgotten.’ “After recounting the natural beauties of the Emerald Isle, in tones of thrilling interest, the orator, in a strain of religious fervor, dwelt upon the well known truth that the weakness of this world is sometimes taken by unerring wisdom to carry out its mighty designs, and adduced the examples of a Moses—a Joshua—the patriarchs—the prophet—of a Judith—a Sampson—a David—a Solomon, and last, not least, the crowning victories of the Apostolic band under the new dispensation. “While profane history inquires whence have these gifted individuals received these favors, sacred writ’s unerring finger displays the source whence they derived their marvelous blessings, as also the purposes for which they were given, and as in every leaf that falls, in every blossom of the tree, in every fibre of the plant we recognize a Providence, a watchful Providence, so in the lives and acts of those illustrious persons may we find with the pure eye of faith a protecting power which rules, which harmonizes, which gently disposes, and brings sweetly all its designs to a happy termination. How plainly and distinctly, said the reverend orator, may we trace the finger of an ever wakeful power in the life of St. Patrick as connected with the conversion of Ireland. “After a glowing description of Erin’s Green Isle, the orator remarked—one blessing and one only was wanting to render her worthy of that title which she afterwards so justly bore—‘blessed isle of the ocean.’ The light of faith which was enkindled by the God—man had not as yet shed its luster on this Western home. Her bards and her druids chanted, it is true, the praises of her gods, but they were gods made by the hands of men, her pious devotees turned, with feelings of devotion to her sacred wells, but they wanted the efficacy, which a savior’s sufferings have given to the baptismal font—hers was the venerated grove and consecrated oak tree, but the wood was not stained by the redeeming blood of the incarnate Deity. The orator proceeded in a similar strain of enthusiastic devotion, but our limits will not permit us to follow him pari passu. “He alluded to the unsuccessful effort of religious and excellent men, in early days, for the conversion of Ireland. He then asked—by whose teaching was Erin to be converted from paganism to the beautiful simplicity of Christian truth? From whose lips were to fall those sweet sounds of faith, hope and charity, which are, as it were, the mystic pillars, on which the noble temple of Christianity are raised? History answers, and loudly proclaims—from those of St. Patrick. The orator then traced the commission of Ireland’s Saint—then spoke of the Day—a day of union, he said, between all classes of Ireland’s sons’, a day for exhibiting that flow of soul which marks the Irish character, wherever it is to be found. But to the Irishman in America, it should be a day of unalloyed joy, for he can in truth exclaim—I am no longer a bondsman—I tread the land of freedom and independence. “The orator drew a parallel between Joseph and St. Patrick, both torn from the parental roof and sold among strangers. He recounted with the fervor of a Hibernian heart the virtuous deeds of the latter. He then dwelt upon the history of Ireland’s wrongs, from the invasion to the present day—the starving condition of her working classes—her streets crowded with objects of distress, seeking from the charity of strangers that pity which is denied them by the lords of the soil—the result of an odious union. In conclusion, he alluded to Ireland now presenting to an admiring world, the noble spectacle of hundreds of thousands meeting in peaceful agitation and imperatively demanding their just and equal rights, and it requires not, said he, ‘the eye of the prophet to see the light which is now bursting on that land that honors Patrick as the sainted apostle of its religion, and Daniel O’Connell as the regenerator of its liberties.”
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