Oscar WILDE (1854-1900) was an author, playwright, and wit. (See an example of his mother's fine poetry below). Oscar preached the importance of style in both life and art but attacked Victorian narrow-mindedness and complacency. Wilde was born in Dublin. His full name was Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde. At 20, Wilde left Ireland to study at Oxford University where he distinguished himself as a scholar and wit. He soon became a well-known public figure, but the period of his true achievement did not begin until he published "The Happy Prince and Other Tales" in 1883. In these fairy tales and fables, Wilde found a literary form well-suited to his talents. His only novel, the ingenious "Picture of Dorian Gray" (1890), is an enlarged moral fable. It describes a man whose portrait ages and grows ugly as a reflection of his moral corruption while his actual appearance remains the same. The book seems to show the destructive side of a devotion to pleasure and beauty similiar to Wilde's own. Wilde's plays taken together are his most important works. They often try to educate the idealist to his own weaknesses and to show the need for tolerance and forgiveness. In "The Importance of Being Earnest" (1895), his masterpiece, Wilde unites his own concern with style with society's concern with appearances, ridiculing social hypocrisy. In 1895, at the peak of his career with three plays running at the same time, he was accused of "personal impropriety" with Lord Alfred DOUGLAS by the marquis of Queensberry, Lord Alfred's father. As a result, there was great scandal, hopeless legal disputes, and Wilde was sentenced to two years in prison at hard labor. "The Ballad of Reading Gaol (1898), and a remarkable autobiographical document sometimes called "De Profundis" were written. Wilde left England after his release. Ruined in health, finances, and creative energy, but with his wit intact, he died in France three years later. Do sgríobh Speranza [an Banthighearna Wilde, mathair Oscair] na línte a leanas; tá tuilleadh a filiochta ar fáil ar an lainn ghreasáin so: <http://www.indiana.edu/~letrs/vwwp/wilde/speranza.html>. Do chas sí a roscanna catha ar son a tíre, le croidhe mhisneach. Go mairidh a h-anm trí bhith beatha. Speranza [Lady Wilde, Oscar's mother] wrote the following lines; more of her poetry is available at this site: <http://www.indiana.edu/~letrs/vwwp/wilde/speranza.html>. She sang her war songs on behalf of her country, with a brave heart. . THE ENIGMA. PALE victims, where is your Fatherland? Where oppression is law from age to age, Where the death-plague, and hunger, and misery rage, And tyrants a godless warfare wage 'Gainst the holiest rights of an ancient land. Where the corn waves green on the fair hillside, But each sheaf by the serfs and slavelings tied Is taken to pamper a foreigner's pride-- There is our suffering Fatherland. Where broad rivers flow 'neath a glorious sky, And the valleys like gems of emerald lie; Yet, the young men, and strong men, starve and die, For want of bread in their own rich land. And we pile up their corses, heap on heap, While the pale mothers faint, and the children weep; Yet, the living might envy the dead their sleep, So bitter is life in that mourning land. Oh! Heaven ne'er looked on a sadder scene; Earth shuddered to hear that such woe had been; Then we prayed, in despair, to a foreign queen, For leave to live on our own fair land. We have wept till our faces are pale and wan; We have knelt to a throne till our strength is gone; We prayed to our masters, but, one by one, They laughed to scorn our suffering land; And sent forth their minions, with cannon and steel, Swearing with fierce, unholy zeal, To trample us down with an iron heel, If we dared but to murmur our just demand.-- Know ye not now our Fatherland? What! are there no MEN in your Fatherland, To confront the tyrant's stormy glare, With a scorn as deep as the wrongs ye bear, With defiance as fierce as the oaths they sware, With vengeance as wild as the cries of despair, That rise from your suffering Fatherland? Are there no SWORDS in your Fatherland, To smite down the proud, insulting foe, With the strength of despair give blow for blow Till the blood of the baffled murderers flow On the trampled soil of your outraged land? Are your right arms weak in that land of slaves, That ye stand by your murdered brothers' graves, Yet tremble like coward and crouching knaves, To strike for freedom and Fatherland? Oh! had ye faith in your Fatherland, In God, your Cause, and your own right hand, Ye would go forth as saints to the holy fight, Go in the strength of eternal right, Go in the conquering Godhead's might-- And save or AVENGE your Fatherland!