Mother! their grief, to look on thy dear face,
Worn with each weary trace

Of fresh woes, and of old woes unforgot!

And yet great spirits ride thy winds: thy ways
Are haunted and enchanted evermore.
Thy children hear the voices of old days

In music of the sea upon thy shore,

In falling of the waters from thine hills,

In whispers of thy trees:

A glory from the things eternal fills

Their eyes, and at high noon thy people sees
Visions, and wonderful is all the air.

So upon earth they share
Eternity: they learn it at thy knees.

Eternal is our faith in thee: the sun

Shall sooner fall from Heaven, than from our lives
That faith; and the great scars fade one by one,
Ere fade that light in which thy people strives.
Strong in the everlasting righteousness

Triumphs our faith: the fight

Hath holiest hosts to inspire it and to bless;

Thy children lift true faces to the light.
Theirs are the visitations from on high,
Voices that call and cry:

Celestial comfort in the deeps of night.

Charmed upon waters three, forlorn and cold,
The swans, Children of Lir, endured their doom:
From off their white wings flashed the morning gold,
And round their white wings closed the twilight gloom.
Yet on their stormy weird the Christian bell

Broke, and they stirred with dread:

The Coming of the Saints upon them fell;

They woke to joy, and found their white wings fled.

And thou, in these last days, shalt thou not hear

A sound of sacred fear?

God's bells shall ring, and all sad days be dead.

But desolate be the houses of thy foes:
Sorrow encompass them, and vehement wrath
Besiege them: be their hearts cold as the snows:
Let lamentation keen about their path,

The fires of God burn round them, and His night
Lie on their blinded eyes:

And when they call to the Eternal Light,

None shall make answer to their stricken cries.

Mercy and pity shall not know them more:
God shall shut to the door,

And close on them His everlasting skies.

How long? Justice of Very God! How long?
The Isle of Sorrows from of old hath trod
The stony road of unremitting wrong,
The purple winepress of the wrath of God:
Is then the Isle of Destiny indeed
To grief predestinate;

Ever foredoomed to agonize and bleed,
Beneath the scourging of eternal fate?
Yet against hope shall we still hope, and still
Beseech the Eternal Will:

Our lives to this one service dedicate.

Ah, tremble into passion, Harp! and sing.

War song, O Sword! Fill the fair land, great Twain!
Wake all her heavy heart to triumphing:

To vengeance, and armed trampling of the plain!
And you, white spirits on the mountain wind,

Cry between eve and morn!

Cry, mighty Dead! until the people find

Their souls a furnace of desire and scorn.

Call to the hosting upon Tara, call

The tribes of Eire all:

Trump of the Champions! immemorial Horn!

Shall not the Three Waves thunder for their King, The Captain of thy people? Shall not streams Leap from thy mountains' heart, and many a spring Gladden thy valleys, for the joy of dreams

Fulfilled, for glory of the battle won?

Hast thou no prophet left?

Is all thy Druid wizardry undone,

And thou of thy foreknowledge quite bereft?

Nay! but the power of faith is prophecy,

Vision, and certainty:

Faith, that hath walked the waves, and mountains cleft.

As haunting Tirnanoge within the sea,

So hid within the Eyes of God thy fate

Lies dreaming: and when God shall bid it be,
Ah, then the fair perfection of thy state!
Bravely the gold and silver bells shall chime,
When thou art wed with peace:

Far to the desert of their own sad clime

Shall fly the ill Angels, when God bids them cease.
Thine shall be only a majestic joy,

No evil can destroy:

The sorrows of thy soul shall have release.

Thy blood of martyrs to the martyrs' Home

Cries from the earth: the altar of high Heaven
Is by their cries besieged and overcome:
The Rainbow Throne and flaming Spirits Seven
Know well the music of that agony,

That surge of a long sigh,

That voice of an unresting misery,

That ardor of anguish unto the Most High.

Thou from thy wronged earth pleadest with the Just,

Whose loving mercy must

Hear, and command thy death in life to die.

Golden allies are thine, bright souls of Saints,

Glad choirs of intercession for the Gael:

Their flame of prayer ascends, their stream of plaints

Flows to the wounded feet, for Inisfail.

Victor, the Angel of thy Patrick, pleads;

Mailed Michael with his sword

Kneels there, the champion of thy bitter needs,

Prince of the shining armies of the Lord:

And there, Star of the Morning and the Sea,'
Mary pours prayer for thee:

And unto Mary be thy prayers outpoured.

O Rose! O Lily! O Lady full of grace!

O Mary Mother! O Mary Maid! hear thou.
Glory of Angels! Pity, and turn thy face,
Praying thy Son, even as we pray thee now,
For thy dear sake to set thine Ireland free:
Pray thou thy little Child!

'Ah! who can help her, but in mercy He?

Pray then, pray thou for Ireland, Mother mild!
O Heart of Mary! pray the Sacred Heart:
His, at Whose word depart

Sorrows and hates, home to Hell's waste and wild.

Lionel Johnson (1867-1902]

TO THE DEAD OF '98

GOD rest you, rest you, rest you, Ireland's dead! Peace be upon you shed,

Peace from the Mercy of the Crucified,.

You, who for Ireland died!

Soft fall on you the dews and gentle airs

Of interceding prayers,

From lowly cabins of our ancient land,

Yours yet, O Sacred Band!

God rest you, rest you: for the fight you fought

Was His; the end you sought,

His; from His altar fires you took

Hailing His Holy Name.

your flame,

Triumphantly you gave yourselves to death:

And your last breath

Was one last sigh for Ireland, sigh to Him,

As the loved land grew dim.

And still, blessed and martyr souls! you pray

In the same faith this day:

From forth your dwelling beyond sun and star, Where only spirits are,

Your prayers in a perpetual flight arise,

To fold before God's Eyes

Their tireless wings, and wait the Holy Word
That one day shall be heard.

Not unto us, they plead, Thy goodness gave

Our mother to enslave;

To us Thou gavest death for love of her:

Ah, what death lovelier?

But to our children's children give to see
The perfect victory!

Thy dead beseech thee: to Thy living give

In liberty to live!

Lionel Johnson (1867-1902]

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD

WHO fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?
Who blushes at the name?

When cowards mock the patriot's fate,
Who hangs his head for shame?
He's all a knave, or half a slave,
Who slights his country thus;
But a true man, like you, man,
Will fill your glass with us.

We drink the memory of the brave,
The faithful and the few-
Some lie far off beyond the wave,
Some sleep in Ireland, too;
All, all are gone-but still lives on
The fame of those who died;
All true men, like you, men,
Remember them with pride.

Some on the shores of distant lands
Their weary hearts have laid,
And by the stranger's heedless hands
Their lonely graves were made;