Jane Francesca Wilde

Jane Francesca Wilde Poems

Jane Francesca Wilde Biography

Jane Francesca Agnes, Lady Wilde (born Jane Francesca Elgee in Dublin) was an Irish poet under the pen name "Speranza" and supporter of the nationalist movement; had a special interest on Irish Fairy Tales, which she helped to gather. She married Sir William Wilde on 12 November 1851, and they had three children: William 'Willie' Charles Kingsbury Wilde (1852 – 1899), Oscar Wilde (1854–1900), and Isola Francesca Emily Wilde (1857–1867). Activist Jane was the last of the four children of Charles Elgee (1783–1824) of Wexford, a solicitor, and his wife, Sarah (née Kingsbury, d. 1851). Her great-grandfather was an Italian who had come to Wexford in the 18th century. Lady Wilde, who was the niece of Charles Maturin, wrote for the Young Ireland movement of the 1840s, publishing poems in The Nation under the pseudonym of Speranza. Her works included pro-Irish independence and anti-British writing; she was sometimes known as “Speranza of the Nation”. Charles Gavan Duffy was the editor when "Speranza" wrote commentary calling for armed revolution in Ireland. The authorities at Dublin Castle shut down the paper and brought the editor to court. Duffy refused to name who had written the offending article. "Speranza" reputedly stood up in court and claimed responsibility for the article. The confession was ignored by the authorities. But in any event the newspaper was permanently shut down by the authorities. She was an early advocate of women's rights, and campaigned for better education for women. She invited the suffragist Millicent Fawcett to her home to speak on female liberty. She praised the passing of the Married Women's Property Act of 1883, preventing women from having to enter marriage 'as a bond slave, disenfranchised of all rights over her fortune’. Scandals and death William Wilde was knighted in January 1864, but the family celebrations were short-lived, for in the same year Sir William and Lady Wilde were at the centre of a sensational Dublin court case regarding a young woman called Mary Travers, the daughter of a colleague of Sir William's, who claimed that he had seduced her and who then brought an action against Lady Wilde for libel. Mary Travers won the case and costs of £2,000 were awarded against Lady Wilde. Then, in 1867, their daughter, Isola, died of fever at the age of nine. In 1871 the two illegitimate daughters of Sir William burned to death and in 1876 Sir William himself died. The family discovered that he was virtually bankrupt. Lady Wilde left Dublin for London in 1879, where she joined her two sons, 'Willie', a journalist, and Oscar, who was making a name for himself in literary circles. She lived with her elder son in poverty, supplementing their meagre income by writing for fashionable magazines and books based on the researches of her late husband into Irish folklore. Lady Wilde contracted bronchitis in January 1896 and, dying, asked for permission to see Oscar, who was in prison. Her request was refused. She died at her home, 146 Oakley Street, Chelsea, on 3 February 1896. 'Willie' Wilde, her eldest son, was penniless, and Oscar paid for her funeral, which was held on 5 February at Kensal Green Cemetery in London.[8] A headstone proved too expensive and she was buried anonymously in common ground. A monument, in the form of a Celtic cross, to commemorate Lady Wilde was erected at Kensal Green Cemetery by the Oscar Wilde Society in about 1999. Located at grid square 147 - Cambridge Avenue South (near Canalside) Set back 20 meters from curved path - opposite SQ.148 Jane Wilde was the grandmother of Cyril and Vyvyan Holland, the sons of Oscar Wilde, and of Dorothy Wilde, the daughter of 'Willie'.)

The Best Poem Of Jane Francesca Wilde

The Famine Year

Weary men, what reap ye? - Golden corn for the stranger.
What sow ye? - Human corpses that wait for the avenger.
Fainting forms, hunger-stricken, what see you in the offing?
Stately ships to bear our food away, amid the stranger's scoffing.
There's a proud array of soldiers - what do they round your door?
They guard our masters' granaries from the thin hands of the poor.
Pale mothers, wherefore weeping - Would to God that we were dead;
Our children swoon before us, and we cannot give them bread.

We are wretches, famished, scorned, human tools to build your pride, But God will yet take vengeance for the souls for whom Christ died.
Now is your hour of pleasure - bask ye in the world's caress;
But our whitening bones against ye will rise as witnesses,
>From the cabins and the ditches, in their charred, uncoffin'd masses,
For the Angel of the Trumpet will know them as he passes.
A ghastly, spectral army, before the great God we'll stand,
And arraign ye as our murderers, the spoilers of our land.

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