ILEFTbehind the green and gracious weald,And climbing stiffly up the steep inclineFound high above each little cloistered field,Above the sombre autumn woods of pine—Where gentle skies are clear and crystalline—The place remote from dense and foolish towns;And there, where all the winds are sharp with brine,I heard the sheep bells ringing on the Downs.The sun hung out of heaven like a shieldEmblazoned o’er with heraldry divine.I suddenly saw, as though with eyes unsealed,A portent sent me for an awful sign,A fairy sea whereon the cold stars shine;And standing on the sward of withered browns,Burnt by the noontide and cropped close and fine,I heard the sheep bells ringing on the Downs.A carillon of delicate music pealedAnd tingled through the steeple of my spine;My soul was filled with loveliness and healed.I know how joy and anguish intertwine—But this shall greatly comfort me as wine,Good wine, comforts a man and sweetly drownsThe many sorrows of this heart of mine—I heard the sheep bells ringing on the Downs.
ILEFTbehind the green and gracious weald,And climbing stiffly up the steep inclineFound high above each little cloistered field,Above the sombre autumn woods of pine—Where gentle skies are clear and crystalline—The place remote from dense and foolish towns;And there, where all the winds are sharp with brine,I heard the sheep bells ringing on the Downs.The sun hung out of heaven like a shieldEmblazoned o’er with heraldry divine.I suddenly saw, as though with eyes unsealed,A portent sent me for an awful sign,A fairy sea whereon the cold stars shine;And standing on the sward of withered browns,Burnt by the noontide and cropped close and fine,I heard the sheep bells ringing on the Downs.A carillon of delicate music pealedAnd tingled through the steeple of my spine;My soul was filled with loveliness and healed.I know how joy and anguish intertwine—But this shall greatly comfort me as wine,Good wine, comforts a man and sweetly drownsThe many sorrows of this heart of mine—I heard the sheep bells ringing on the Downs.
ILEFTbehind the green and gracious weald,And climbing stiffly up the steep inclineFound high above each little cloistered field,Above the sombre autumn woods of pine—Where gentle skies are clear and crystalline—The place remote from dense and foolish towns;And there, where all the winds are sharp with brine,I heard the sheep bells ringing on the Downs.
The sun hung out of heaven like a shieldEmblazoned o’er with heraldry divine.I suddenly saw, as though with eyes unsealed,A portent sent me for an awful sign,A fairy sea whereon the cold stars shine;And standing on the sward of withered browns,Burnt by the noontide and cropped close and fine,I heard the sheep bells ringing on the Downs.
A carillon of delicate music pealedAnd tingled through the steeple of my spine;My soul was filled with loveliness and healed.I know how joy and anguish intertwine—But this shall greatly comfort me as wine,Good wine, comforts a man and sweetly drownsThe many sorrows of this heart of mine—I heard the sheep bells ringing on the Downs.
Prince, old bell-wether of an ancient line,When you’re dead mutton I will weave you crownsOf living laurel—if on you I dine—I heard the sheep bells ringing on the Downs!
Prince, old bell-wether of an ancient line,When you’re dead mutton I will weave you crownsOf living laurel—if on you I dine—I heard the sheep bells ringing on the Downs!
Prince, old bell-wether of an ancient line,When you’re dead mutton I will weave you crownsOf living laurel—if on you I dine—I heard the sheep bells ringing on the Downs!
THEREis a term to every loud dispute,A final reckoning I’m glad to say:Some people end discussion with their boot;Others, the prigs, will simply walk away.But I, within a world of rank decay,Can face its treasons with a flaming hope,Undaunted by faith’s foemen in array—I drain a mighty tankard to the Pope!They do not ponder on the Absolute,But wander in a fog of words astray.They have no rigid creed one can confute,No hearty dogmas riotous and gay,But feebly mutter through thin lips and greyThings foully fashioned out of sin and soap;—But I, until my body rests in clay,I drain a mighty tankard to the Pope!I’ve often thought that I would like to shootThe modernists on some convenient day;Pull out eugenists by their noxious root;The welfare-worker chattering like a jayI’d publicly and pitilessly slayWith blunderbuss or guillotine or rope,Burn at the stake, or boil in oil, or flay—I drain a mighty tankard to the Pope.
THEREis a term to every loud dispute,A final reckoning I’m glad to say:Some people end discussion with their boot;Others, the prigs, will simply walk away.But I, within a world of rank decay,Can face its treasons with a flaming hope,Undaunted by faith’s foemen in array—I drain a mighty tankard to the Pope!They do not ponder on the Absolute,But wander in a fog of words astray.They have no rigid creed one can confute,No hearty dogmas riotous and gay,But feebly mutter through thin lips and greyThings foully fashioned out of sin and soap;—But I, until my body rests in clay,I drain a mighty tankard to the Pope!I’ve often thought that I would like to shootThe modernists on some convenient day;Pull out eugenists by their noxious root;The welfare-worker chattering like a jayI’d publicly and pitilessly slayWith blunderbuss or guillotine or rope,Burn at the stake, or boil in oil, or flay—I drain a mighty tankard to the Pope.
THEREis a term to every loud dispute,A final reckoning I’m glad to say:Some people end discussion with their boot;Others, the prigs, will simply walk away.But I, within a world of rank decay,Can face its treasons with a flaming hope,Undaunted by faith’s foemen in array—I drain a mighty tankard to the Pope!
They do not ponder on the Absolute,But wander in a fog of words astray.They have no rigid creed one can confute,No hearty dogmas riotous and gay,But feebly mutter through thin lips and greyThings foully fashioned out of sin and soap;—But I, until my body rests in clay,I drain a mighty tankard to the Pope!
I’ve often thought that I would like to shootThe modernists on some convenient day;Pull out eugenists by their noxious root;The welfare-worker chattering like a jayI’d publicly and pitilessly slayWith blunderbuss or guillotine or rope,Burn at the stake, or boil in oil, or flay—I drain a mighty tankard to the Pope.
Prince, proud prince Lucifer, your evil swayIs over many who in darkness grope:But as for me, I go another way—I drain a mighty tankard to the Pope!
Prince, proud prince Lucifer, your evil swayIs over many who in darkness grope:But as for me, I go another way—I drain a mighty tankard to the Pope!
Prince, proud prince Lucifer, your evil swayIs over many who in darkness grope:But as for me, I go another way—I drain a mighty tankard to the Pope!
March 2nd, 1918.
IHAVEbeheld above the wooded hillThy tender loveliness, O Morning, break;Beheld the solemn gladness thou dost spillOn eyes not yet awake.But why recall unto the painful dayWild passions sleeping like oblivious kings?The broad day comes and thou dost speed awayWestward on swift wide wings!
IHAVEbeheld above the wooded hillThy tender loveliness, O Morning, break;Beheld the solemn gladness thou dost spillOn eyes not yet awake.But why recall unto the painful dayWild passions sleeping like oblivious kings?The broad day comes and thou dost speed awayWestward on swift wide wings!
IHAVEbeheld above the wooded hillThy tender loveliness, O Morning, break;Beheld the solemn gladness thou dost spillOn eyes not yet awake.
But why recall unto the painful dayWild passions sleeping like oblivious kings?The broad day comes and thou dost speed awayWestward on swift wide wings!
December 23rd, 1917.
IHAVEseen death in many a varied guise,Cruel and tender, rude and beautiful,Looking through windows in a young child’s eyes,Stealing as soft as shadows in a pool,Falling a sudden arrow of dismay,Blown on a bugle with an iron note:The slow and gentle progress of decay,The taking of a strong man by the throat.I have seen flowers wither and the leafOf lusty Summer burn to hectic red.But ah! that splendid death untouched by grief:The sun with glad and golden-visaged headSuperbly standing on his deadly pyre,And sinking in a sea of jewelled fire!
IHAVEseen death in many a varied guise,Cruel and tender, rude and beautiful,Looking through windows in a young child’s eyes,Stealing as soft as shadows in a pool,Falling a sudden arrow of dismay,Blown on a bugle with an iron note:The slow and gentle progress of decay,The taking of a strong man by the throat.I have seen flowers wither and the leafOf lusty Summer burn to hectic red.But ah! that splendid death untouched by grief:The sun with glad and golden-visaged headSuperbly standing on his deadly pyre,And sinking in a sea of jewelled fire!
IHAVEseen death in many a varied guise,Cruel and tender, rude and beautiful,Looking through windows in a young child’s eyes,Stealing as soft as shadows in a pool,Falling a sudden arrow of dismay,Blown on a bugle with an iron note:The slow and gentle progress of decay,The taking of a strong man by the throat.
I have seen flowers wither and the leafOf lusty Summer burn to hectic red.But ah! that splendid death untouched by grief:The sun with glad and golden-visaged headSuperbly standing on his deadly pyre,And sinking in a sea of jewelled fire!
February 10th, 1918.
Whose lives are boundBy sleep and custom and tranquillityHave never foundThat peace which is a riven mysteryWho only shareThe calm that doth this stream, these orchards bless,Breathe but the airOf unimpassioned pagan quietness....Initiate,Pain burns about your head, an aureole,Who hold in stateThe utter joy which wounds and heals the soul.You kiss the RodWith dumb, glad lips, and bear to worlds apartThe peace of GodWhich passeth all understanding in your heart.
Whose lives are boundBy sleep and custom and tranquillityHave never foundThat peace which is a riven mysteryWho only shareThe calm that doth this stream, these orchards bless,Breathe but the airOf unimpassioned pagan quietness....Initiate,Pain burns about your head, an aureole,Who hold in stateThe utter joy which wounds and heals the soul.You kiss the RodWith dumb, glad lips, and bear to worlds apartThe peace of GodWhich passeth all understanding in your heart.
Whose lives are boundBy sleep and custom and tranquillityHave never foundThat peace which is a riven mystery
Who only shareThe calm that doth this stream, these orchards bless,Breathe but the airOf unimpassioned pagan quietness....
Initiate,Pain burns about your head, an aureole,Who hold in stateThe utter joy which wounds and heals the soul.
You kiss the RodWith dumb, glad lips, and bear to worlds apartThe peace of GodWhich passeth all understanding in your heart.
THEguns are silent for an hour; the soundsOf war forget their doom; the work is done—Strong men, uncounted corpses heaped in mounds,Are rotting in the sun.Foul carrion—souls till yesterday!—are theseWith piteous faces in the bloodied mire;But where are now their generous charities?Their laughter, their desire?In each rent breast, each crushed and shattered skullLived joy and sorrow, tenderness and pain,Hope, ardours, passions brave and beautifulAmong these thousands slain!A little time ago they heard the callOf mating birds in thicket and in brake;They wondering saw night’s jewelled curtain fallAnd all the pale stars wake....Bodies most marvellously fashioned, stark,Strewn broadcast out upon the trampled sod—These temples of the Holy Ghost—O hark!—These images of God!Flesh, as the Word became in Bethlehem,Houses to hold their Sacramental Lord:Swiftly and terribly to harvest themSwept the relentless sword!Happy if in your dying you can giveSome symbol of the Eternal Sacrificed,Some pardon to the hearts of those who live—Dying the death of Christ!
THEguns are silent for an hour; the soundsOf war forget their doom; the work is done—Strong men, uncounted corpses heaped in mounds,Are rotting in the sun.Foul carrion—souls till yesterday!—are theseWith piteous faces in the bloodied mire;But where are now their generous charities?Their laughter, their desire?In each rent breast, each crushed and shattered skullLived joy and sorrow, tenderness and pain,Hope, ardours, passions brave and beautifulAmong these thousands slain!A little time ago they heard the callOf mating birds in thicket and in brake;They wondering saw night’s jewelled curtain fallAnd all the pale stars wake....Bodies most marvellously fashioned, stark,Strewn broadcast out upon the trampled sod—These temples of the Holy Ghost—O hark!—These images of God!Flesh, as the Word became in Bethlehem,Houses to hold their Sacramental Lord:Swiftly and terribly to harvest themSwept the relentless sword!Happy if in your dying you can giveSome symbol of the Eternal Sacrificed,Some pardon to the hearts of those who live—Dying the death of Christ!
THEguns are silent for an hour; the soundsOf war forget their doom; the work is done—Strong men, uncounted corpses heaped in mounds,Are rotting in the sun.
Foul carrion—souls till yesterday!—are theseWith piteous faces in the bloodied mire;But where are now their generous charities?Their laughter, their desire?
In each rent breast, each crushed and shattered skullLived joy and sorrow, tenderness and pain,Hope, ardours, passions brave and beautifulAmong these thousands slain!
A little time ago they heard the callOf mating birds in thicket and in brake;They wondering saw night’s jewelled curtain fallAnd all the pale stars wake....
Bodies most marvellously fashioned, stark,Strewn broadcast out upon the trampled sod—These temples of the Holy Ghost—O hark!—These images of God!
Flesh, as the Word became in Bethlehem,Houses to hold their Sacramental Lord:Swiftly and terribly to harvest themSwept the relentless sword!
Happy if in your dying you can giveSome symbol of the Eternal Sacrificed,Some pardon to the hearts of those who live—Dying the death of Christ!
Feast of the Epiphany,January 6th, 1917.
I,JOHN, who once was called by Him in jestBoanerges, the thunder’s son,Who lay in tenderness upon His breast—Now that my days are done,And a great gathering glory fills my sight,Would tell my children e’er I goOf Him I saw with head and hair as whiteAs white wool—white as snow.The face before which heaven and earth did flee,The burnished feet, the eyes of flame,The seven stars bright with awful mystery,And the Ineffable Name!Yet I who saw the four dread horsemen ride,The vials of the wrath of God,Beheld a greater thing: the Lamb’s pure Bride,The golden floors she trod.How Babylon, Babylon was overthrown,And how Euphrates flowed with blood—Ah, but His mercy through the wide world sown,The tree with healing bud!I heard, among the hosts of Paradise,The glad new song that never tires,A Lamb as it had been slain in sacrificeEnthroned amid the choirs.After the utmost woes have taken toll,And ravens plucked the eyes of kings,God’s own strange peace shall come upon the soulOn gentle, dove-like wings.The Dragon cast into the voidless night,God’s city cometh from above,Built by the sword of Michael and his might,But founded in God’s love.
I,JOHN, who once was called by Him in jestBoanerges, the thunder’s son,Who lay in tenderness upon His breast—Now that my days are done,And a great gathering glory fills my sight,Would tell my children e’er I goOf Him I saw with head and hair as whiteAs white wool—white as snow.The face before which heaven and earth did flee,The burnished feet, the eyes of flame,The seven stars bright with awful mystery,And the Ineffable Name!Yet I who saw the four dread horsemen ride,The vials of the wrath of God,Beheld a greater thing: the Lamb’s pure Bride,The golden floors she trod.How Babylon, Babylon was overthrown,And how Euphrates flowed with blood—Ah, but His mercy through the wide world sown,The tree with healing bud!I heard, among the hosts of Paradise,The glad new song that never tires,A Lamb as it had been slain in sacrificeEnthroned amid the choirs.After the utmost woes have taken toll,And ravens plucked the eyes of kings,God’s own strange peace shall come upon the soulOn gentle, dove-like wings.The Dragon cast into the voidless night,God’s city cometh from above,Built by the sword of Michael and his might,But founded in God’s love.
I,JOHN, who once was called by Him in jestBoanerges, the thunder’s son,Who lay in tenderness upon His breast—Now that my days are done,
And a great gathering glory fills my sight,Would tell my children e’er I goOf Him I saw with head and hair as whiteAs white wool—white as snow.
The face before which heaven and earth did flee,The burnished feet, the eyes of flame,The seven stars bright with awful mystery,And the Ineffable Name!
Yet I who saw the four dread horsemen ride,The vials of the wrath of God,Beheld a greater thing: the Lamb’s pure Bride,The golden floors she trod.
How Babylon, Babylon was overthrown,And how Euphrates flowed with blood—Ah, but His mercy through the wide world sown,The tree with healing bud!
I heard, among the hosts of Paradise,The glad new song that never tires,A Lamb as it had been slain in sacrificeEnthroned amid the choirs.
After the utmost woes have taken toll,And ravens plucked the eyes of kings,God’s own strange peace shall come upon the soulOn gentle, dove-like wings.
The Dragon cast into the voidless night,God’s city cometh from above,Built by the sword of Michael and his might,But founded in God’s love.
NOman regarded where God satAmong the rapt seraphic brows,And God’s heart heavy grew thereat,At man’s long absence from His house.Then from the iris-circled throneA strange and secret word is said,And straightway hath an angel flown,On wings of feathered sunlight sped,Through space to where the world shone red.Reddest of all the stars of nightTo the hoar watchers of the spheres,But ashy cold to man’s dim sight,And filled with sins and woes and fearsAnd the waste weariness of years.(No laughter rippled in the grass,No light upon the jewelled sea;The sky hung sullenly as brass,And men went groping tortuously.)But the stern warden of the GateBroke his dread sword upon his knees,And opened wide the fields where waitThe loveless unremembered trees,The sealed and silent mysteries.And the scales fell from man’s eyes,And his heart woke again, as whenAdam found Eve in Paradise;And joy was made complete ... and thenGod entered in and spoke with men.
NOman regarded where God satAmong the rapt seraphic brows,And God’s heart heavy grew thereat,At man’s long absence from His house.Then from the iris-circled throneA strange and secret word is said,And straightway hath an angel flown,On wings of feathered sunlight sped,Through space to where the world shone red.Reddest of all the stars of nightTo the hoar watchers of the spheres,But ashy cold to man’s dim sight,And filled with sins and woes and fearsAnd the waste weariness of years.(No laughter rippled in the grass,No light upon the jewelled sea;The sky hung sullenly as brass,And men went groping tortuously.)But the stern warden of the GateBroke his dread sword upon his knees,And opened wide the fields where waitThe loveless unremembered trees,The sealed and silent mysteries.And the scales fell from man’s eyes,And his heart woke again, as whenAdam found Eve in Paradise;And joy was made complete ... and thenGod entered in and spoke with men.
NOman regarded where God satAmong the rapt seraphic brows,And God’s heart heavy grew thereat,At man’s long absence from His house.
Then from the iris-circled throneA strange and secret word is said,And straightway hath an angel flown,On wings of feathered sunlight sped,Through space to where the world shone red.
Reddest of all the stars of nightTo the hoar watchers of the spheres,But ashy cold to man’s dim sight,And filled with sins and woes and fearsAnd the waste weariness of years.
(No laughter rippled in the grass,No light upon the jewelled sea;The sky hung sullenly as brass,And men went groping tortuously.)
But the stern warden of the GateBroke his dread sword upon his knees,And opened wide the fields where waitThe loveless unremembered trees,The sealed and silent mysteries.
And the scales fell from man’s eyes,And his heart woke again, as whenAdam found Eve in Paradise;And joy was made complete ... and thenGod entered in and spoke with men.
THEradiant feet of Christ now leadThe dancing sunny hours,The ancient Earth is young againWith growing grass and warm white rainAnd hedgerows full of flowers.The lilac and laburnum showThe glory of their bud,And scattered on each hawthorn sprayThe snow-white and the crimson may—The may as red as blood.The bluebells in the deep dim woodsLike fallen heavens lie,And daffodils and daffodilsUpon a thousand little hillsAre waving to the sky.The corn imprisoned in the mouldHas burst its wintry tomb,And on each burdened orchard treeWhich stood an austere calvaryThe apple blossom bloom.The kiss of Christ has brought to lifeThe marvel of the sod.Oh, joy has rent its chrysalisTo flash its jewelled wings, and isA dream of beauty and of bliss—The loveliness of God.
THEradiant feet of Christ now leadThe dancing sunny hours,The ancient Earth is young againWith growing grass and warm white rainAnd hedgerows full of flowers.The lilac and laburnum showThe glory of their bud,And scattered on each hawthorn sprayThe snow-white and the crimson may—The may as red as blood.The bluebells in the deep dim woodsLike fallen heavens lie,And daffodils and daffodilsUpon a thousand little hillsAre waving to the sky.The corn imprisoned in the mouldHas burst its wintry tomb,And on each burdened orchard treeWhich stood an austere calvaryThe apple blossom bloom.The kiss of Christ has brought to lifeThe marvel of the sod.Oh, joy has rent its chrysalisTo flash its jewelled wings, and isA dream of beauty and of bliss—The loveliness of God.
THEradiant feet of Christ now leadThe dancing sunny hours,The ancient Earth is young againWith growing grass and warm white rainAnd hedgerows full of flowers.
The lilac and laburnum showThe glory of their bud,And scattered on each hawthorn sprayThe snow-white and the crimson may—The may as red as blood.
The bluebells in the deep dim woodsLike fallen heavens lie,And daffodils and daffodilsUpon a thousand little hillsAre waving to the sky.
The corn imprisoned in the mouldHas burst its wintry tomb,And on each burdened orchard treeWhich stood an austere calvaryThe apple blossom bloom.
The kiss of Christ has brought to lifeThe marvel of the sod.Oh, joy has rent its chrysalisTo flash its jewelled wings, and isA dream of beauty and of bliss—The loveliness of God.
May 1917.
DEARGod, not only do Thou come at lastWhen death hath filled my heart with dread affright,But when in gathered dark I meet aghastThe mimic death that falls on me at night.The daily dying, when alone I treadThe valley of the shadow, breast the Styx,With shrouded soul and body stiff in bed ...And no companion from the welcome pyx!How should I face disarmed and unawaresThe phantoms of the Pit oblivion brings—My will surrendered, mind unapt for snares,Eyes blinded by the evil, shuddering wings,Did not the sunset stand encoped in goldFor priestly offices, ’mid censers swung,And with anointed thumb and finger holdThe symbolled Godhead to my eager tongue?Then with my body’s trance there doth descendPeace on my eyelids, goodness that shall keepMy wandering feet, and at my side a friendThrough all the winding caverns of my sleep.
DEARGod, not only do Thou come at lastWhen death hath filled my heart with dread affright,But when in gathered dark I meet aghastThe mimic death that falls on me at night.The daily dying, when alone I treadThe valley of the shadow, breast the Styx,With shrouded soul and body stiff in bed ...And no companion from the welcome pyx!How should I face disarmed and unawaresThe phantoms of the Pit oblivion brings—My will surrendered, mind unapt for snares,Eyes blinded by the evil, shuddering wings,Did not the sunset stand encoped in goldFor priestly offices, ’mid censers swung,And with anointed thumb and finger holdThe symbolled Godhead to my eager tongue?Then with my body’s trance there doth descendPeace on my eyelids, goodness that shall keepMy wandering feet, and at my side a friendThrough all the winding caverns of my sleep.
DEARGod, not only do Thou come at lastWhen death hath filled my heart with dread affright,But when in gathered dark I meet aghastThe mimic death that falls on me at night.
The daily dying, when alone I treadThe valley of the shadow, breast the Styx,With shrouded soul and body stiff in bed ...And no companion from the welcome pyx!
How should I face disarmed and unawaresThe phantoms of the Pit oblivion brings—My will surrendered, mind unapt for snares,Eyes blinded by the evil, shuddering wings,
Did not the sunset stand encoped in goldFor priestly offices, ’mid censers swung,And with anointed thumb and finger holdThe symbolled Godhead to my eager tongue?
Then with my body’s trance there doth descendPeace on my eyelids, goodness that shall keepMy wandering feet, and at my side a friendThrough all the winding caverns of my sleep.
August 12th, 1917.
What vengeful rodIs laid upon my bleeding shoulders?What scourge, O God,Makes known my shame to all beholders?Through what vast skiesCrashes Thy wrath like shuddering thunders?. . . . .Before my eyesThou dost display the wonder of wonders!As punishmentTo one whom sin should bind in prison,Hath Mercy sentWord of the crucified arisen!Guilt’s penaltyExacted—past my reeling reason!—Which lays on meLove—as a whip fit for my Treason!
What vengeful rodIs laid upon my bleeding shoulders?What scourge, O God,Makes known my shame to all beholders?Through what vast skiesCrashes Thy wrath like shuddering thunders?. . . . .Before my eyesThou dost display the wonder of wonders!As punishmentTo one whom sin should bind in prison,Hath Mercy sentWord of the crucified arisen!Guilt’s penaltyExacted—past my reeling reason!—Which lays on meLove—as a whip fit for my Treason!
What vengeful rodIs laid upon my bleeding shoulders?What scourge, O God,Makes known my shame to all beholders?
Through what vast skiesCrashes Thy wrath like shuddering thunders?. . . . .Before my eyesThou dost display the wonder of wonders!
As punishmentTo one whom sin should bind in prison,Hath Mercy sentWord of the crucified arisen!
Guilt’s penaltyExacted—past my reeling reason!—Which lays on meLove—as a whip fit for my Treason!
March 3rd, 1918.
NOWart Thou in my house of feeble flesh,O Word made flesh! My burning soul by ThineCaught mystically in a living mesh!Now is the royal banquet, now the wine,The body broken by the courteous HostWho is my humble Guest—a Guest adored—Though once I spat upon, scourged at the post,Hounded to Calvary and slew my Lord!My name is Legion, but separate and alone;Wash, wash, dear Crucified, my Pilate hand!Rejected Stone, be Thou my corner-stone!Like Mary at the cross’s foot I stand;Like Magdalene upon my sins I grieve;Like Thomas do I touch Thee and believe.
NOWart Thou in my house of feeble flesh,O Word made flesh! My burning soul by ThineCaught mystically in a living mesh!Now is the royal banquet, now the wine,The body broken by the courteous HostWho is my humble Guest—a Guest adored—Though once I spat upon, scourged at the post,Hounded to Calvary and slew my Lord!My name is Legion, but separate and alone;Wash, wash, dear Crucified, my Pilate hand!Rejected Stone, be Thou my corner-stone!Like Mary at the cross’s foot I stand;Like Magdalene upon my sins I grieve;Like Thomas do I touch Thee and believe.
NOWart Thou in my house of feeble flesh,O Word made flesh! My burning soul by ThineCaught mystically in a living mesh!Now is the royal banquet, now the wine,The body broken by the courteous HostWho is my humble Guest—a Guest adored—Though once I spat upon, scourged at the post,Hounded to Calvary and slew my Lord!
My name is Legion, but separate and alone;Wash, wash, dear Crucified, my Pilate hand!Rejected Stone, be Thou my corner-stone!Like Mary at the cross’s foot I stand;Like Magdalene upon my sins I grieve;Like Thomas do I touch Thee and believe.
December 16th, 1917.
WHOstanding thrilled in his bewildermentCan tell thy humble ways,The hidden paths on which thy white feet wentThrough all thy lonely days?From what deep root the Lily of the LordTo grace and beauty grew,Or in what fires was tempered the keen swordThat pierced thy bosom through?But we may turn and find within our handsOur souls’ strange bread and wine,The gathered meanings of thy starry landsWhere mystic roses shine.Heaven’s air might grow for us too cold and tense,Her towers far and faint,Did we not know thy sorrowful innocence,Or soldier, singer, saint,Earth’s heroes with earth’s poor not kneel and tellTheir full hearts’ burdeningsTo those dear eyes before which GabrielBent low with folded wings.The soldier shall remember whose the heelThat crushed the serpent’s head,How mighty in thy hand hath been the steelThat dyed thy bosom red.The singer weave for thee a cloak of lightWhere earth’s wild colours run,As God hath crowned thee with the stars of nightAnd clothed thee with the sun.The saint who in a cloister cool and dimHis difficult road hath keptShall think of thee whose body cloistered HimWhen in thy womb He slept.And thou shalt call to thee the poor of earthTo share thy joy with them,And fill them with thy magnitude and mirthIn many a Bethlehem.
WHOstanding thrilled in his bewildermentCan tell thy humble ways,The hidden paths on which thy white feet wentThrough all thy lonely days?From what deep root the Lily of the LordTo grace and beauty grew,Or in what fires was tempered the keen swordThat pierced thy bosom through?But we may turn and find within our handsOur souls’ strange bread and wine,The gathered meanings of thy starry landsWhere mystic roses shine.Heaven’s air might grow for us too cold and tense,Her towers far and faint,Did we not know thy sorrowful innocence,Or soldier, singer, saint,Earth’s heroes with earth’s poor not kneel and tellTheir full hearts’ burdeningsTo those dear eyes before which GabrielBent low with folded wings.The soldier shall remember whose the heelThat crushed the serpent’s head,How mighty in thy hand hath been the steelThat dyed thy bosom red.The singer weave for thee a cloak of lightWhere earth’s wild colours run,As God hath crowned thee with the stars of nightAnd clothed thee with the sun.The saint who in a cloister cool and dimHis difficult road hath keptShall think of thee whose body cloistered HimWhen in thy womb He slept.And thou shalt call to thee the poor of earthTo share thy joy with them,And fill them with thy magnitude and mirthIn many a Bethlehem.
WHOstanding thrilled in his bewildermentCan tell thy humble ways,The hidden paths on which thy white feet wentThrough all thy lonely days?
From what deep root the Lily of the LordTo grace and beauty grew,Or in what fires was tempered the keen swordThat pierced thy bosom through?
But we may turn and find within our handsOur souls’ strange bread and wine,The gathered meanings of thy starry landsWhere mystic roses shine.
Heaven’s air might grow for us too cold and tense,Her towers far and faint,Did we not know thy sorrowful innocence,Or soldier, singer, saint,
Earth’s heroes with earth’s poor not kneel and tellTheir full hearts’ burdeningsTo those dear eyes before which GabrielBent low with folded wings.
The soldier shall remember whose the heelThat crushed the serpent’s head,How mighty in thy hand hath been the steelThat dyed thy bosom red.
The singer weave for thee a cloak of lightWhere earth’s wild colours run,As God hath crowned thee with the stars of nightAnd clothed thee with the sun.
The saint who in a cloister cool and dimHis difficult road hath keptShall think of thee whose body cloistered HimWhen in thy womb He slept.
And thou shalt call to thee the poor of earthTo share thy joy with them,And fill them with thy magnitude and mirthIn many a Bethlehem.
February 4th, 1917.
IFthe last blissful star should fade and wither,If one by oneOrion and the Pleiades Crash and Crumble;The lordly sunBe turned away, a beggar, all his triumphsGone down in doom,Wandering unregarded through the cosmos,None giving him room.Then would I shout defiant to the whirlwinds;Boastingly cry,“Go wreck the world, its towering hills and waters!But I, even I,“Whose body was flung out upon the dungheapWith weeds to rot,Still keep my soul unshaken by the ruinThat harms me not!“True, I have fled from many a shameful battle,Did cringe and cowerBefore my foes, but who can ever rob meOf one great hour?”For joy rang through me like a silver trumpet;About my headThe tiny flowers flapped in the breeze like bannersOf royal red.And suddenly the seven deeps of heavenWere cloven apart,When love stood in your eyes and shone and trembledWithin your heart.
IFthe last blissful star should fade and wither,If one by oneOrion and the Pleiades Crash and Crumble;The lordly sunBe turned away, a beggar, all his triumphsGone down in doom,Wandering unregarded through the cosmos,None giving him room.Then would I shout defiant to the whirlwinds;Boastingly cry,“Go wreck the world, its towering hills and waters!But I, even I,“Whose body was flung out upon the dungheapWith weeds to rot,Still keep my soul unshaken by the ruinThat harms me not!“True, I have fled from many a shameful battle,Did cringe and cowerBefore my foes, but who can ever rob meOf one great hour?”For joy rang through me like a silver trumpet;About my headThe tiny flowers flapped in the breeze like bannersOf royal red.And suddenly the seven deeps of heavenWere cloven apart,When love stood in your eyes and shone and trembledWithin your heart.
IFthe last blissful star should fade and wither,If one by oneOrion and the Pleiades Crash and Crumble;The lordly sun
Be turned away, a beggar, all his triumphsGone down in doom,Wandering unregarded through the cosmos,None giving him room.
Then would I shout defiant to the whirlwinds;Boastingly cry,“Go wreck the world, its towering hills and waters!But I, even I,
“Whose body was flung out upon the dungheapWith weeds to rot,Still keep my soul unshaken by the ruinThat harms me not!
“True, I have fled from many a shameful battle,Did cringe and cowerBefore my foes, but who can ever rob meOf one great hour?”
For joy rang through me like a silver trumpet;About my headThe tiny flowers flapped in the breeze like bannersOf royal red.
And suddenly the seven deeps of heavenWere cloven apart,When love stood in your eyes and shone and trembledWithin your heart.
February 3rd, 1918.
IFI go down to death uncomfortedBy love’s great conquest and its great surrender,Bearing my soul along, unwed, unwed;(Your darling hands’ caresses swift and tenderLacking upon my head, upon my lipsYour lips); and in my heart love unfulfilled,And in my eyes a blind apocalypse,Bereft of all the glory I have willed;I shall go proudly for your dear love’s sake,Triumphant for brief memories, but tragicBecause of those large hopes that fail and breakBeneath Fate’s wizard-wand of cruel magic—But ah, Fate could not touch me if I stoodCompleted by your love’s beatitude!
IFI go down to death uncomfortedBy love’s great conquest and its great surrender,Bearing my soul along, unwed, unwed;(Your darling hands’ caresses swift and tenderLacking upon my head, upon my lipsYour lips); and in my heart love unfulfilled,And in my eyes a blind apocalypse,Bereft of all the glory I have willed;I shall go proudly for your dear love’s sake,Triumphant for brief memories, but tragicBecause of those large hopes that fail and breakBeneath Fate’s wizard-wand of cruel magic—But ah, Fate could not touch me if I stoodCompleted by your love’s beatitude!
IFI go down to death uncomfortedBy love’s great conquest and its great surrender,Bearing my soul along, unwed, unwed;(Your darling hands’ caresses swift and tenderLacking upon my head, upon my lipsYour lips); and in my heart love unfulfilled,And in my eyes a blind apocalypse,Bereft of all the glory I have willed;
I shall go proudly for your dear love’s sake,Triumphant for brief memories, but tragicBecause of those large hopes that fail and breakBeneath Fate’s wizard-wand of cruel magic—But ah, Fate could not touch me if I stoodCompleted by your love’s beatitude!
December 15th, 1917.
IKNOWthe winds are rhythmicalIn unison with your footfall.I know that in your heart you keepThe secret of the woodland’s sleep.You met the blossom-bearing May—Sweet sister!—on the road half way,And she has laid upon your hairThe coloured coronal you wear.But ah! the white wings of the DoveFlutter about the head I love,And on your bosom doth reposeThe beauty of the Mystic Rose,That I must add to poetryA dark and fearful ecstasy;For in the house of joy you blessUnworthiness with holiness.
IKNOWthe winds are rhythmicalIn unison with your footfall.I know that in your heart you keepThe secret of the woodland’s sleep.You met the blossom-bearing May—Sweet sister!—on the road half way,And she has laid upon your hairThe coloured coronal you wear.But ah! the white wings of the DoveFlutter about the head I love,And on your bosom doth reposeThe beauty of the Mystic Rose,That I must add to poetryA dark and fearful ecstasy;For in the house of joy you blessUnworthiness with holiness.
IKNOWthe winds are rhythmicalIn unison with your footfall.I know that in your heart you keepThe secret of the woodland’s sleep.
You met the blossom-bearing May—Sweet sister!—on the road half way,And she has laid upon your hairThe coloured coronal you wear.
But ah! the white wings of the DoveFlutter about the head I love,And on your bosom doth reposeThe beauty of the Mystic Rose,
That I must add to poetryA dark and fearful ecstasy;For in the house of joy you blessUnworthiness with holiness.
LIKEsome good ship that founders in the sea,Like granite towers that crumble into dust,So pass the emblems of thine empery.But O immortal Mother and august,Ardours of English saint and bard and kingBlend simply with thy soul, even as their bonesMingle with English soil. Their spirits singA great song lordly as is a loud wind’s tones.Decayed by gold and ease and loathly pride,We had forgot our greatness and becomeHuckstering empire-builders, and deniedThe excellent name of freedom ... till the drumWoke glory such as met the eyes of Drake,Or Alfred when he saw the heathen break!
LIKEsome good ship that founders in the sea,Like granite towers that crumble into dust,So pass the emblems of thine empery.But O immortal Mother and august,Ardours of English saint and bard and kingBlend simply with thy soul, even as their bonesMingle with English soil. Their spirits singA great song lordly as is a loud wind’s tones.Decayed by gold and ease and loathly pride,We had forgot our greatness and becomeHuckstering empire-builders, and deniedThe excellent name of freedom ... till the drumWoke glory such as met the eyes of Drake,Or Alfred when he saw the heathen break!
LIKEsome good ship that founders in the sea,Like granite towers that crumble into dust,So pass the emblems of thine empery.But O immortal Mother and august,Ardours of English saint and bard and kingBlend simply with thy soul, even as their bonesMingle with English soil. Their spirits singA great song lordly as is a loud wind’s tones.Decayed by gold and ease and loathly pride,We had forgot our greatness and becomeHuckstering empire-builders, and deniedThe excellent name of freedom ... till the drumWoke glory such as met the eyes of Drake,Or Alfred when he saw the heathen break!
Where shall we find thee? In the avariceThat robs our brave adventures? In the shameSpoiling our splendours? In the sacrificeOf tears we wrung from Ireland? Nay, thy nameIs written secretly in kindlinessUpon the patient faces of the poor,In that good anger wherewith thou didst blessOur hearts, when beat upon the shaking doorStrong hands of hell.... Whether before the floodWe sink, or out of agonies rebornLearn once again the meaning of our blood,Laughter and liberty—a sacred scornIs ours irrevocably since we stoodAnd heard the barbarians’ guns across the morn.
Where shall we find thee? In the avariceThat robs our brave adventures? In the shameSpoiling our splendours? In the sacrificeOf tears we wrung from Ireland? Nay, thy nameIs written secretly in kindlinessUpon the patient faces of the poor,In that good anger wherewith thou didst blessOur hearts, when beat upon the shaking doorStrong hands of hell.... Whether before the floodWe sink, or out of agonies rebornLearn once again the meaning of our blood,Laughter and liberty—a sacred scornIs ours irrevocably since we stoodAnd heard the barbarians’ guns across the morn.
Where shall we find thee? In the avariceThat robs our brave adventures? In the shameSpoiling our splendours? In the sacrificeOf tears we wrung from Ireland? Nay, thy nameIs written secretly in kindlinessUpon the patient faces of the poor,In that good anger wherewith thou didst blessOur hearts, when beat upon the shaking doorStrong hands of hell.... Whether before the floodWe sink, or out of agonies rebornLearn once again the meaning of our blood,Laughter and liberty—a sacred scornIs ours irrevocably since we stoodAnd heard the barbarians’ guns across the morn.
December 24th and 26th, 1917.
WHENkindly years have given me graceTo read your spirit through;To see the starlight on your face,Upon your hair the dew;To touch the fingers of your hands,The shining wealth they hold;To find in dim and dreamy landsThat tender dusks enfoldThe ancient sorrows that were sealed,The hidden wells of joy,The secrets that were unrevealedTo one who was a boy.Then to my patient ponderingsWill fruits of solace fall,When I have learned through many Springs,Mighty and mystical,To hear through sounds of brooks and birdsLove in the leafy grove,As in my lyric heart your wordsBestir a lyric love.Then I shall brood, grown good and wise,The truth of fairy tales,And greet romance with gay surpriseIn woods of nightingales.And find, with hoary head and sage,In songs which I have sungThe meanings of the end of age—The rapture of the young!
WHENkindly years have given me graceTo read your spirit through;To see the starlight on your face,Upon your hair the dew;To touch the fingers of your hands,The shining wealth they hold;To find in dim and dreamy landsThat tender dusks enfoldThe ancient sorrows that were sealed,The hidden wells of joy,The secrets that were unrevealedTo one who was a boy.Then to my patient ponderingsWill fruits of solace fall,When I have learned through many Springs,Mighty and mystical,To hear through sounds of brooks and birdsLove in the leafy grove,As in my lyric heart your wordsBestir a lyric love.Then I shall brood, grown good and wise,The truth of fairy tales,And greet romance with gay surpriseIn woods of nightingales.And find, with hoary head and sage,In songs which I have sungThe meanings of the end of age—The rapture of the young!
WHENkindly years have given me graceTo read your spirit through;To see the starlight on your face,Upon your hair the dew;
To touch the fingers of your hands,The shining wealth they hold;To find in dim and dreamy landsThat tender dusks enfold
The ancient sorrows that were sealed,The hidden wells of joy,The secrets that were unrevealedTo one who was a boy.
Then to my patient ponderingsWill fruits of solace fall,When I have learned through many Springs,Mighty and mystical,
To hear through sounds of brooks and birdsLove in the leafy grove,As in my lyric heart your wordsBestir a lyric love.
Then I shall brood, grown good and wise,The truth of fairy tales,And greet romance with gay surpriseIn woods of nightingales.
And find, with hoary head and sage,In songs which I have sungThe meanings of the end of age—The rapture of the young!
February 11th, 1918.
ASHOUTof laughter and of scorn,A million jeering lips and eyes—And in the sight of all men bornThe wildest of earth’s madmen dies!Whose trust was put in empty wordsTo-day is numbered with the dead;To-morrow crows and evil birdsShall pluck those strange eyes from his head!The fellows of this country clownAre scattered (fool beyond belief!),All blown away like thistledown,Except a harlot and a thief.And shall he shatter fates withthese?(He that would neither strive nor cry)Or thunder through the Seven Seas?Or shake the stars down from the sky?Have mercy and humilityBecome unconquerable swords,That Caiaphas must tremblinglyKneel with the world’s imperial lordsBefore this crazy carpenter—This body writhing on a rod—And worship in that bloody hairThe dreadful foolishness of God?A shout of laughter and of scorn,A million jeering lips and eyes—And in the sight of all men bornThe wildest of earth’s madmen dies!
ASHOUTof laughter and of scorn,A million jeering lips and eyes—And in the sight of all men bornThe wildest of earth’s madmen dies!Whose trust was put in empty wordsTo-day is numbered with the dead;To-morrow crows and evil birdsShall pluck those strange eyes from his head!The fellows of this country clownAre scattered (fool beyond belief!),All blown away like thistledown,Except a harlot and a thief.And shall he shatter fates withthese?(He that would neither strive nor cry)Or thunder through the Seven Seas?Or shake the stars down from the sky?Have mercy and humilityBecome unconquerable swords,That Caiaphas must tremblinglyKneel with the world’s imperial lordsBefore this crazy carpenter—This body writhing on a rod—And worship in that bloody hairThe dreadful foolishness of God?A shout of laughter and of scorn,A million jeering lips and eyes—And in the sight of all men bornThe wildest of earth’s madmen dies!
ASHOUTof laughter and of scorn,A million jeering lips and eyes—And in the sight of all men bornThe wildest of earth’s madmen dies!
Whose trust was put in empty wordsTo-day is numbered with the dead;To-morrow crows and evil birdsShall pluck those strange eyes from his head!
The fellows of this country clownAre scattered (fool beyond belief!),All blown away like thistledown,Except a harlot and a thief.
And shall he shatter fates withthese?(He that would neither strive nor cry)Or thunder through the Seven Seas?Or shake the stars down from the sky?
Have mercy and humilityBecome unconquerable swords,That Caiaphas must tremblinglyKneel with the world’s imperial lordsBefore this crazy carpenter—This body writhing on a rod—And worship in that bloody hairThe dreadful foolishness of God?
A shout of laughter and of scorn,A million jeering lips and eyes—And in the sight of all men bornThe wildest of earth’s madmen dies!
THEair is valiant with drumsAnd honourable the skies,When he rides singing as he comesWith solemn, dreamy eyes—Of swinging of the splendid swords,And crashing of the nether lords,When Hell makes onslaught with its hordesIn desperate emprise.He rides along the roads of SpainThe champion of the world,For whom great soldans live againWith Moorish beards curled—But all their spears shall not availWith one who weareth magic mail,This hero of an epic taleAnd his brave gauntlet hurled!Clangour of horses and of armsAcross the quiet fields,Herald and trumpeter, alarmsOf bowmen and of shields;When doubt that twists and is afraidIs shattered in the last crusade,Where flaunts the plume and falls the bladeThe cavalier wields.Although in that eternal causeNo liegemen gather now,Or flowered dames to grant applause,Yet on his naked browThe victor’s laurels interwreath;But he no dower can bequeathBut sword snapped short and empty sheathAnd errantry and vow!Against his foolish innocenceNo man alive can stand,Nor any giant drive him henceWith sling or club or brand—For where his angry bugle blowsThere fall unconquerable foes;Of mighty men of war none knowsTo stay his witless hand.All legendary wars grow tameAnd every tale gives placeBefore the knight’s unsullied nameAnd his romantic face:Yea, he shall break the stoutest barsAnd bear his courage and his scarsBeyond the whirling moons and starsAnd all the suns of space!
THEair is valiant with drumsAnd honourable the skies,When he rides singing as he comesWith solemn, dreamy eyes—Of swinging of the splendid swords,And crashing of the nether lords,When Hell makes onslaught with its hordesIn desperate emprise.He rides along the roads of SpainThe champion of the world,For whom great soldans live againWith Moorish beards curled—But all their spears shall not availWith one who weareth magic mail,This hero of an epic taleAnd his brave gauntlet hurled!Clangour of horses and of armsAcross the quiet fields,Herald and trumpeter, alarmsOf bowmen and of shields;When doubt that twists and is afraidIs shattered in the last crusade,Where flaunts the plume and falls the bladeThe cavalier wields.Although in that eternal causeNo liegemen gather now,Or flowered dames to grant applause,Yet on his naked browThe victor’s laurels interwreath;But he no dower can bequeathBut sword snapped short and empty sheathAnd errantry and vow!Against his foolish innocenceNo man alive can stand,Nor any giant drive him henceWith sling or club or brand—For where his angry bugle blowsThere fall unconquerable foes;Of mighty men of war none knowsTo stay his witless hand.All legendary wars grow tameAnd every tale gives placeBefore the knight’s unsullied nameAnd his romantic face:Yea, he shall break the stoutest barsAnd bear his courage and his scarsBeyond the whirling moons and starsAnd all the suns of space!
THEair is valiant with drumsAnd honourable the skies,When he rides singing as he comesWith solemn, dreamy eyes—Of swinging of the splendid swords,And crashing of the nether lords,When Hell makes onslaught with its hordesIn desperate emprise.
He rides along the roads of SpainThe champion of the world,For whom great soldans live againWith Moorish beards curled—But all their spears shall not availWith one who weareth magic mail,This hero of an epic taleAnd his brave gauntlet hurled!
Clangour of horses and of armsAcross the quiet fields,Herald and trumpeter, alarmsOf bowmen and of shields;When doubt that twists and is afraidIs shattered in the last crusade,Where flaunts the plume and falls the bladeThe cavalier wields.
Although in that eternal causeNo liegemen gather now,Or flowered dames to grant applause,Yet on his naked browThe victor’s laurels interwreath;But he no dower can bequeathBut sword snapped short and empty sheathAnd errantry and vow!
Against his foolish innocenceNo man alive can stand,Nor any giant drive him henceWith sling or club or brand—For where his angry bugle blowsThere fall unconquerable foes;Of mighty men of war none knowsTo stay his witless hand.
All legendary wars grow tameAnd every tale gives placeBefore the knight’s unsullied nameAnd his romantic face:Yea, he shall break the stoutest barsAnd bear his courage and his scarsBeyond the whirling moons and starsAnd all the suns of space!
BESIDEyour bitter waters riseThe Mystic Rose, the Holy Tree,Immortal courage in your eyes,And pain and liberty.The stricken arms, the cloven shields,The trampled plumes, the shattered drum,The swords of your lost battlefieldsTo hopeless battles come.And though your scattered remnants knowTheir shameful rout, their fallen kings,Yet shall the strong, victorious foeNot understand these things:The broken ranks that never break,The merry road your rabble trod,The awful laughter they shall takeBefore the throne of God.
BESIDEyour bitter waters riseThe Mystic Rose, the Holy Tree,Immortal courage in your eyes,And pain and liberty.The stricken arms, the cloven shields,The trampled plumes, the shattered drum,The swords of your lost battlefieldsTo hopeless battles come.And though your scattered remnants knowTheir shameful rout, their fallen kings,Yet shall the strong, victorious foeNot understand these things:The broken ranks that never break,The merry road your rabble trod,The awful laughter they shall takeBefore the throne of God.
BESIDEyour bitter waters riseThe Mystic Rose, the Holy Tree,Immortal courage in your eyes,And pain and liberty.
The stricken arms, the cloven shields,The trampled plumes, the shattered drum,The swords of your lost battlefieldsTo hopeless battles come.
And though your scattered remnants knowTheir shameful rout, their fallen kings,Yet shall the strong, victorious foeNot understand these things:
The broken ranks that never break,The merry road your rabble trod,The awful laughter they shall takeBefore the throne of God.
Patrick Henry Pearse
Executed May 3rd, 1916
R.I.P.
INthis grey morning wrapped in mist and rainYou stood erect beneath the sullen sky,A heart which held its peace and noble pain,A brave and gentle eye!The last of all your silver songs are sung;Your fledgling dreams on broken wings are dashed—For suddenly a tragic sword was swungAnd ten true rifles crashed.By one who walks aloof in English waysBe this high word of praise and sorrow said:He lived with honour all his lovely days,And is immortal, dead!
INthis grey morning wrapped in mist and rainYou stood erect beneath the sullen sky,A heart which held its peace and noble pain,A brave and gentle eye!The last of all your silver songs are sung;Your fledgling dreams on broken wings are dashed—For suddenly a tragic sword was swungAnd ten true rifles crashed.By one who walks aloof in English waysBe this high word of praise and sorrow said:He lived with honour all his lovely days,And is immortal, dead!
INthis grey morning wrapped in mist and rainYou stood erect beneath the sullen sky,A heart which held its peace and noble pain,A brave and gentle eye!
The last of all your silver songs are sung;Your fledgling dreams on broken wings are dashed—For suddenly a tragic sword was swungAnd ten true rifles crashed.
By one who walks aloof in English waysBe this high word of praise and sorrow said:He lived with honour all his lovely days,And is immortal, dead!
TOyou the dreary night’s long agony,The anguish, and the laden heart that brokeIts vase of burning tears, the voiceless cry,—And then the horror of that blinding stroke!To you all this—and yet to you much more.God pressed into the chalice of your painA starry triumph, when the sons you boreWere written on the roll of Ireland’s slain.Let no man touch your glorious heritage,Or pluck one pang of sorrow from your heart,Or stain with any pity the bright pageEmblazoning the holy martyrs’ part.Ride as a queen your splendid destiny,Since death is swallowed up in victory!
TOyou the dreary night’s long agony,The anguish, and the laden heart that brokeIts vase of burning tears, the voiceless cry,—And then the horror of that blinding stroke!To you all this—and yet to you much more.God pressed into the chalice of your painA starry triumph, when the sons you boreWere written on the roll of Ireland’s slain.Let no man touch your glorious heritage,Or pluck one pang of sorrow from your heart,Or stain with any pity the bright pageEmblazoning the holy martyrs’ part.Ride as a queen your splendid destiny,Since death is swallowed up in victory!
TOyou the dreary night’s long agony,The anguish, and the laden heart that brokeIts vase of burning tears, the voiceless cry,—And then the horror of that blinding stroke!To you all this—and yet to you much more.God pressed into the chalice of your painA starry triumph, when the sons you boreWere written on the roll of Ireland’s slain.Let no man touch your glorious heritage,Or pluck one pang of sorrow from your heart,Or stain with any pity the bright pageEmblazoning the holy martyrs’ part.Ride as a queen your splendid destiny,Since death is swallowed up in victory!
DRAWrein; there’s the inn where the lamps show plain—Where we never may drink together again.While the stars are lost in the slate-cold skyLet us drink good ale before we dieIn the wind and bitter rain!Your sword is made ready upon your hip?Then once again, man, in good-fellowship!Though hunted and outlawed and fugitiveWe shall drink together again if we live—Set the tankard to your lip!Honour and death and—how goes the tune?See the clouds rift and disrobe the moon!And a blood-red streak in the sullen skiesAnd—Honour and death and adventure’s eyes—Now spurs—for they’ll be here soon!
DRAWrein; there’s the inn where the lamps show plain—Where we never may drink together again.While the stars are lost in the slate-cold skyLet us drink good ale before we dieIn the wind and bitter rain!Your sword is made ready upon your hip?Then once again, man, in good-fellowship!Though hunted and outlawed and fugitiveWe shall drink together again if we live—Set the tankard to your lip!Honour and death and—how goes the tune?See the clouds rift and disrobe the moon!And a blood-red streak in the sullen skiesAnd—Honour and death and adventure’s eyes—Now spurs—for they’ll be here soon!
DRAWrein; there’s the inn where the lamps show plain—Where we never may drink together again.While the stars are lost in the slate-cold skyLet us drink good ale before we dieIn the wind and bitter rain!
Your sword is made ready upon your hip?Then once again, man, in good-fellowship!Though hunted and outlawed and fugitiveWe shall drink together again if we live—Set the tankard to your lip!
Honour and death and—how goes the tune?See the clouds rift and disrobe the moon!And a blood-red streak in the sullen skiesAnd—Honour and death and adventure’s eyes—Now spurs—for they’ll be here soon!
HIGHup above the wooded ridgeBeams out a round benignant moonUpon the village and the bridgeThrough which the slumberous waters croon.Now polished silver is the mill;And, clad in ghostly mysteries,The church tower glimmers on the hillAmong the sad, abiding trees;And watched by its familiar starSleeps each small house, so still and white—From all the noise and blood of war,O God, how far removed to-night!Unconscious of their destinyHow many drew this air for breath;Here lived and loved ... and now they seeThe terrible, swift shape of death.The bounty of these quiet skies,The tender beauty of these lands,Still sheds a peace upon their eyes,And binds their hearts and nerves their hands.That they who only thought to knowThis valley in the moonlight furled,Have heard immortal trumpets blow,And shake the pillars of the world!
HIGHup above the wooded ridgeBeams out a round benignant moonUpon the village and the bridgeThrough which the slumberous waters croon.Now polished silver is the mill;And, clad in ghostly mysteries,The church tower glimmers on the hillAmong the sad, abiding trees;And watched by its familiar starSleeps each small house, so still and white—From all the noise and blood of war,O God, how far removed to-night!Unconscious of their destinyHow many drew this air for breath;Here lived and loved ... and now they seeThe terrible, swift shape of death.The bounty of these quiet skies,The tender beauty of these lands,Still sheds a peace upon their eyes,And binds their hearts and nerves their hands.That they who only thought to knowThis valley in the moonlight furled,Have heard immortal trumpets blow,And shake the pillars of the world!
HIGHup above the wooded ridgeBeams out a round benignant moonUpon the village and the bridgeThrough which the slumberous waters croon.
Now polished silver is the mill;And, clad in ghostly mysteries,The church tower glimmers on the hillAmong the sad, abiding trees;
And watched by its familiar starSleeps each small house, so still and white—From all the noise and blood of war,O God, how far removed to-night!
Unconscious of their destinyHow many drew this air for breath;Here lived and loved ... and now they seeThe terrible, swift shape of death.
The bounty of these quiet skies,The tender beauty of these lands,Still sheds a peace upon their eyes,And binds their hearts and nerves their hands.
That they who only thought to knowThis valley in the moonlight furled,Have heard immortal trumpets blow,And shake the pillars of the world!