Part 14

(_From the Irish_)

How great the loss is thy loss to me! A loss to all who had speech with thee:-- On earth can so hard a heart there be As not to weep for the death of Eoghan? Och, ochón! ’tis I am stricken, Unto death the isle may sicken, Thine the soul which all did quicken; --And thou ’neath the sod!

I stood at Cavan o’er thy tomb, Thou spok’st no word through all thy gloom; O want! O ruin! O bitter doom! O great, lost heir of the house of Niall! I care not now whom Death may borrow, Despair sits by me, night and morrow, My life henceforth is one long sorrow; --And thou ’neath the sod!

O child of heroes, heroic child! Thou’dst smite our foe in battle wild, Thou’dst right all wrong, O just and mild! And who lives now--since dead is Eoghan? In place of feasts, alas! there’s crying, In place of song, sad woe and sighing, Alas, I live with my heart a-dying, --And thou ’neath the sod!

My woe, was ever so cruel woe? My heart is torn with rending throe! I grieve that I am not lying low In silent death by thy side, Eoghan! Thou wast skilled all straits to ravel, And thousands broughtst from death and cavil, They journey safe who with thee travel, --And thou with thy God!

_George Sigerson._

SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG

CLXXXIV

THE OLD COUNTRY

Not tasselled palm or bended cypress wooing The languid wind on temple-crownèd heights, Not heaven’s myriad stars in lustre strewing Smooth sapphire bays in hushed Ionian nights, Not the clear peak of dawn-encrimsoned snow, Or plumage-lighted wood, or gilded pile Sparkling amid the imperial city’s glow, Endears our Isle.

Thine the weird splendour of the restless billow For ever breaking over lonely shores, The reedy mere that is the wild-swan’s pillow, The crag to whose torn spire the eagle soars, The moorland where the solitary hern Spreads his grey wings upon the breezes cold, The pink sweet heather’s bloom, the waving fern, The gorse’s gold.

And we who draw our being from thy being, Blown by the untimely blast about the earth, Back in love’s visions to thy bosom fleeing, Droop with thy sorrows, brighten with thy mirth; O, from afar, with sad and straining eyes, Tired arms across the darkness and the foam We stretch to thy bluff capes and sombre skies, Belovèd home!

The nurselings of thy moorlands and thy mountains, Thy children tempered by thy winter gales, Swayed by the tumult of thy headlong fountains That clothe with pasture green thy grassy vales, True to one love in climes’ and years’ despite, We yearn, in our last hour, upon thy breast, When the Great Darkness wraps thee from our sight, To sink to rest!

_George Francis Savage-Armstrong._

GRAVES

CLXXXV

THE SONGS OF ERIN

(‘Music shall outlive all the songs of the birds.’--_Old Irish_)

I’ve heard the lark’s cry thrill the sky o’er the meadows of Lusk, And the first joyous gush of the thrush from Adare’s April Wood; At thy lone music’s spell, Philomel, magic-stricken I’ve stood, When, in Espan afar, star on star trembled out of the dusk.

While Dunkerron’s blue dove murmured love, ’neath her nest I have sighed, And by mazy Culdaff with a laugh mocked the cuckoo’s refrain; Derrycarn’s dusky bird I have heard piping joy hard by pain, And the swan’s last lament sobbing sent over Moyle’s mystic tide.

Yet as bright shadows pass from the glass of the darkening lake, As the rose’s rapt sigh will soon die, when the zephyr is stilled; In oblivion grey sleeps each lay that those birds ever trilled, But the songs Erin sings from her strings shall immortally wake.

_Alfred Perceval Graves._

CASEY

CLXXXVI

THE RISING OF THE MOON

(1798)

‘O, then, tell me, Shawn O’Ferrall, tell me why you hurry so?’ ‘Hush, _ma bouchal_, hush and listen;’ and his cheeks were all aglow: ‘I bear orders from the Captain--get you ready quick and soon; For the pikes must be together at the risin’ o’ the moon.’

‘O, then, tell me, Shawn O’Ferrall, where the gath’rin’ is to be?’ ‘At the old spot by the river, right well known to you and me; One word more--for signal token, whistle up the marchin’ tune, With your pike upon your shoulder, by the risin’ o’ the moon.’

Out from many a mud-wall cabin eyes were watching through that night, Many a manly heart was throbbing for the blessed warning light. Murmurs passed along the valleys, like the banshee’s lonely croon, And a thousand blades were flashing at the rising of the moon.

There, beside the singing river, that dark mass of men was seen-- Far above the shining weapons hung their own beloved Green. ‘Death to every foe and traitor! Forward! strike the marchin’ tune, And hurrah, my boys, for Freedom! ’tis the risin’ o’ the moon!’

Well they fought for poor old Ireland, and full bitter was their fate; (O, what glorious pride and sorrow fills the name of Ninety-Eight!) Yet, thank God, e’en still are beating hearts in manhood’s burning noon, Who would follow in their footsteps at the rising of the moon!

_John Keegan Casey._

ROLLESTON

CLXXXVII

THE DEAD AT CLONMACNOIS

(_From the Irish of Angus O’Gillan_)

In a quiet-water’d land, a land of roses, Stands Saint Kieran’s city fair; And the warriors of Erinn in their famous generations Slumber there

There below the dewy hillside sleep the noblest Of the Clan of Conn, Each beneath his stone with name in branching Ogham And the sacred knot thereon.

There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara, There the sons of Cairbrè sleep-- Battle-banners of the Gael, that in Kieran’s plain of crosses Now their final hosting keep.

And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia, And right many a lord of Breagh; Deep the sod above Clan Creidè and Clan Conaill, Kind in hall and fierce in fray.

Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter In the red earth lies at rest; Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers, Many a swan-white breast.

_Thomas William Rolleston._

HINKSON

CLXXXVIII

SHAMROCK SONG

O the red rose may be fair, And the lily statelier; But my shamrock, one in three, Takes the very heart of me!

Many a lover hath the rose When June’s musk-wind breathes and blows; And in many a bower is heard Her sweet praise from bee and bird.

Through the gold hours dreameth she, In her warm heart passionately, Her fair face hung languid-wise: O her breath of honey and spice!

Like a fair saint virginal Stands your lily silver and tall; Over all the flowers that be Is my shamrock dear to me.

Shines the lily like the sun, Crystal-pure, a cold sweet nun; With her austere lip she sings To her heart of heavenly things.

Gazeth through a night of June To her sister-saint the moon; With the stars communeth long Of the angels and their song.

But when summer died last year Rose and lily died with her; Shamrock stayeth every day, Be the winds or gold or grey.

Irish hills, grey as the dove, Know the little plant I love; Warm and fair it mantles them, Stretching down from throat to hem.

And it laughs o’er many a vale, Sheltered safe from storm and gale; Sky and sun and stars thereof Love the gentle plant I love.

Soft it clothes the ruined floor, Of many an abbey, grey and hoar, And the still home of the dead With its green is carpeted.

Roses for an hour of love, With the joy and pain thereof; Stand my lilies white to see All for prayer and purity.

These are white as the harvest moon, Roses flush like the heart of June; But my shamrock brave and gay, Glads the tired eyes every day.

O the red rose shineth rare, And the lily saintly fair; But my shamrock, one in three, Takes the inmost heart of me!

_Katharine Tynan Hinkson._

JOHNSON

CLXXXIX

WAYS OF WAR

A terrible and splendid trust Heartens the host of Inisfail: Their dream is of the swift sword-thrust, A lighting glory of the Gael.

Croagh Patrick is the place of prayers, And Tara the assembling place: But each sweet wind of Ireland bears The trump of battle on its race.

From Dursey Isle to Donegal, From Howth to Achill, the glad noise Rings: and the heirs of glory fall, Or victory crowns their fighting joys.

A dream! a dream! an ancient dream! Yet, ere peace come to Inisfail, Some weapons on some field must gleam, Some burning glory fire the Gael.

That field may lie beneath the sun, Fair for the treading of an host: That field in realms of thought be won, And armed minds do their uttermost:

Some way, to faithful Inisfail, Shall come the majesty and awe Of martial truth, that must prevail, To lay on all the eternal law.

_Lionel Johnson._

V

CANADA

SMITH

CXC

THE CANADIANS ON THE NILE

O, the East is but West, with the sun a little hotter; And the pine becomes a palm, by the dark Egyptian water: And the Nile’s like many a stream we know, that fills its brimming cup,-- We’ll think it is the Ottawa, as we track the batteaux up! _Pull, pull, pull! as we track the batteaux up! It’s easy shooting homeward, when we’re at the top!_

O, the cedar and the spruce line each dark Canadian river; But the thirsty date is here, where the sultry sunbeams quiver; And the mocking mirage spreads its view, afar on either hand; But strong we bend the sturdy oar, towards the Southern land!

O, we’ve tracked the Rapids up, and o’er many a portage crossing; And it’s often such we’ve seen, though so loud the waves are tossing! Then, it’s homeward when the run is o’er! o’er stream, and ocean deep-- To bring the memory of the Nile, where the maple shadows sleep!

And it yet may come to pass, that the hearts and hands so ready May be sought again to help, when some poise is off the steady! And the Maple and the Pine be matched, with British Oak the while, As once beneath Egyptian suns, the Canadians on the Nile! _Pull, pull, pull! as we track the batteaux up! It’s easy shooting homeward, when we’re at the top!_

_William Wye Smith._

ANDERSON

CXCI

THE DEATH OF WOLFE

‘On with the charge!’ he cries, and waves his sword;-- One rolling cheer five thousand voices swell;-- The levelled guns pour forth their leaden shower, While thund’ring cannons’ roar half drowns the Huron yell.

‘On with the charge!’ with shout and cheer they come;-- No laggard there upon that field of fame. The lurid plain gleams like a seething hell, And every rock and tree send forth their bolts of flame.

On! on! they sweep. Uprise the waiting ranks-- Still as the grave--unmoved as granite wall;-- The foe before--the dizzy crags behind-- They fight, the day to win, or like true warriors fall.

Forward they sternly move, then halt to wait That raging sea of human life now near;-- ‘Fire!’ rings from right to left,--each musket rings, As if a thunder-peal had struck the startled ear.

Again, and yet again that volley flies,-- With deadly aim the grapeshot sweeps the field;-- All levelled for the charge, the bayonets gleam, And brawny arms a thousand claymores fiercely wield.

And down the line swells high the British cheer, That on a future day woke Minden’s plain, And the loud slogan that fair Scotland’s foes Have often heard with dread, and oft shall hear again.

And the shrill pipe its coronach that wailed On dark Culloden moor o’er trampled dead, Now sounds the ‘Onset’ that each clansman knows, Still leads the foremost rank, where noblest blood is shed.

And on that day no nobler stained the sod, Than his, who for his country life laid down; Who, for a mighty Empire battled there, And strove from rival’s brow to wrest the laurel crown.

Twice struck,--he recks not, but still heads the charge, But, ah! fate guides the marksman’s fatal ball:-- With bleeding breast, he claims a comrade’s aid,-- ‘We win,--let not my soldiers see their Leader fall.’

Full well he feels life’s tide is ebbing fast,-- When hark! ‘They run; see how they run!’ they cry. ‘Who run?’ ‘The foe.’ His eyes flash forth one gleam, Then murm’ring low he sighs, ‘Praise God, in peace I die.’

Far rolls the battle’s din, and leaves its dead, As when a cyclone thro’ the forest cleaves;-- And the dread claymore heaps the path with slain, As strews the biting cold the earth with autumn leaves.

The Fleur de Lys lies trodden on the ground,-- The slain Montcalm rests in his warrior grave,-- ‘All’s well’ resounds from tower and battlement, And England’s banners proudly o’er the ramparts wave.

Slowly the mighty warships sail away, To tell their country of an empire won; But, ah! they bear the death-roll of the slain, And all that mortal is of Britain’s noblest son.

With bowèd head they lay their hero down, And pomp and pageant crown the deathless brave;-- Loud salvoes sing the soldier’s lullaby, And weeping millions bathe with tears his honoured grave.

Then bright the bonfires blaze on Albion’s hills,-- And rends the very sky a people’s joy;-- And even when grief broods o’er the vacant chair, The mother’s heart still nobly gives her gallant boy.

And while broad England gleams with glorious light, And merry peals from every belfry ring;-- One little village lies all dark and still, No fires are lighted there--no battle songs they sing.

There in her lonely cot, in widow’s weeds, A mother mourns--the silent tear-drops fall;-- She too had given to swell proud England’s fame, But, ah! she gave the widow’s mite--she gave her all!

_Duncan Anderson._

CURZON

CXCII

THE LOYALISTS

O ye, who with your blood and sweat Watered the furrows of this land,-- See where upon a nation’s brow, In honour’s front, ye proudly stand

Who for her pride abased your own, And gladly on her altar laid All bounty of the outer world, All memories that your glory made.

And to her service bowed your strength, Took labour for your shield and crest; See where upon a nation’s brow, Her diadem ye proudly rest!

_Sarah Anne Curzon._

RAND

CXCIII

THE WHITETHROAT

Shy bird of the silver arrows of song, That cleave our Northern air so clear, Thy notes prolong, prolong, I listen, I hear-- ‘I love--dear--Canada, Canada, Canada!’

O plumes of the pointed dusky fir, Screen of a swelling patriot heart, The copse is all astir And echoes thy part!...

Now willowy reeds tune their silver flutes As the noise of the day dies down; And silence strings her lutes, The Whitethroat to crown....

O bird of the silver arrows of song, Shy poet of Canada dear, Thy notes prolong, prolong, We listen, we hear-- ‘I--love--dear--Canada, Canada, Canada!’

_Theodore Harding Rand._

CHRISTIE

CXCIV

WELCOME HOME

(_July 23, 1885_)

War-worn, sun-scorched, stained with the dust of toil And battle-scarred they come--victorious! Exultingly we greet them--cleave the sky With cheers, and fling our banners to the winds; We raise triumphant songs, and strew their path To do them homage--bid them ‘Welcome Home!’

We laid our country’s honour in their hands And sent them forth undoubting. Said farewell With hearts too proud, too jealous of their fame, To own our pain. To-day glad tears may flow. To-day they come again, and bring their gift-- Of all earth’s gifts most precious--trust redeemed. We stretch our hands, we lift a joyful cry, Words of all words the sweetest--‘Welcome Home!’

O brave true hearts! O steadfast loyal hearts! They come, and lay their trophies at our feet; They show us work accomplished, hardships borne, Courageous deeds, and patience under pain, Their country’s name upheld and glorified, And Peace, dear purchased by their blood and toil. What guerdon have we for such service done? Our thanks, our pride, our praises, and our prayers; Our country’s smile, and her most just rewards; The victor’s laurel laid upon their brows And all the love that speaks in ‘Welcome Home!’

Bays for the heroes: for the martyrs, palms. To those who come not, who ‘though dead yet speak’ A lesson to be guarded in our souls While the land lives for whose dear sake they died-- Whose lives thrice sacred are the price of Peace, Whose memory, thrice belovèd thrice revered, Shall be their country’s heritage, to hold Eternal pattern to her living sons-- What dare we bring? They, dying, have won all. A drooping flag, a flower upon their graves, Are all the tribute left. Already theirs A Nation’s safety, gratitude and tears, Imperishable honour, endless rest.

And ye, O stricken hearted! to whom earth Is dark, though Peace is smiling, whom no pride Can soothe, no triumph-pæan can console-- Ye surely will not fail them--will not shrink To perfect now your sacrifice of love? ’Tis yours to stifle sobs and check your tears, Lest echo of your grief should reach and break Their hard-won joy in Heaven, where God Himself Has met and crowned them, and has said ‘Well done!’

_Annie Rothwell Christie._

PHILLIPPS-WOLLEY

CXCV

THEIR TESTAMENT

Why is it that ye grieve, O, weak in faith, Who turn toward High Heaven upbraiding eyes? Think ye that God will count your children’s death Vain sacrifice?

Half-mast your flags? Nay, fly them at the head! We reap the harvest where we sowed the corn; See, from the red graves of your gallant dead, An Empire born!

Do ye not know ye cannot cure a flaw Unless the steel runs molten-red again: That men’s mere words could not together draw Those who were twain?

Do you not see the Anglo-Saxon breed Grew less than kin, on every continent; That brothers had forgotten, in their greed, What ‘brother’ meant?

Do ye not hear from all the humming wires Which bind the mother to each colony, How He works surely for our best desires To weld the free

With blood of freemen into one Grand Whole, To open all the gates of all the Earth? Do ye not see your Greater Britain’s soul Has come to birth?

Do ye not hear above the sighs--the song From all those outland hearts, which peace kept dumb:-- ‘There is no fight too fierce, no trail too long, When Love cries ‘Come!’’

Can ye beat steel from iron in the sun, Or crown Earth’s master on a bloodless field? As Abram offered to his God his son, Our best _we_ yield.

And God gives answer. In the battle smoke-- Tried in war’s crucible, washed white in tears, The Saxon heart of Greater Britain woke, One for all years.

Lift up your eyes! Your glory is revealed! See, through war’s clouds, the rising of your Sun! Hear ye God’s voice! _Their testament is sealed And ye be one!_

_Clive Phillipps-Wolley._

ROBERTS

CXCVI

CANADA

O Child of Nations, giant-limbed, Who stand’st among the nations now Unheeded, unadored, unhymned, With unanointed brow,--

How long the ignoble sloth, how long The trust in greatness not thine own? Surely the lion’s brood is strong To front the world alone!

How long the indolence, ere thou dare Achieve thy destiny, seize thy fame-- Ere our proud eyes behold thee bear A nation’s franchise, nation’s name?

The Saxon force, the Celtic fire, These are thy Manhood’s heritage! Why rest with babes and slaves? Seek higher The place of race and age.

I see to every wind unfurled The flag that bears the Maple-Wreath; Thy swift keels furrow round the world Its blood-red folds beneath;

Thy swift keels cleave the furthest seas; Thy white sails swell with alien gales; To stream on each remotest breeze The black smoke of thy pipes exhales.

O Falterer, let thy past convince Thy future,--all the growth, the gain, The fame since Cartier knew thee, since Thy shores beheld Champlain!

Montcalm and Wolfe! Wolfe and Montcalm! Quebec, thy storied citadel Attest in burning song and psalm How here thy heroes fell!

O Thou that bor’st the battle’s brunt At Queenston and at Lundy’s Lane,-- On whose scant ranks but iron front The battle broke in vain!--

Whose was the danger, whose the day, From whose triumphant throats the cheers, At Chrysler’s Farm, at Chateauquay, Storming like clarion-bursts our ears?

On soft Pacific slopes,--beside Strange floods that Northward rave and fall-- Where chafes Acadia’s chainless tide-- Thy sons await thy call.

They wait; but some in exile, some With strangers housed, in stranger lands;-- And some Canadian lips are dumb Beneath Egyptian sands.

O mystic Nile! Thy secret yields Before us; thy most ancient dreams Are mixed with far Canadian fields And murmur of Canadian streams.

But thou, my Country, dream not thou! Wake, and behold how night is done; How on thy breast, and o’er thy brow, Bursts the uprising Sun!

_Charles George Douglas Roberts._

CAMPBELL

CXCVII

ENGLAND

England, England, England, Girdled by ocean and skies, And the power of a world, and the heart of a race, And a hope that never dies.

England, England, England, Wherever a true heart beats, Wherever the rivers of commerce flow, Wherever the bugles of conquest blow, Wherever the glories of liberty grow, ’Tis the name that the world repeats.

And ye who dwell in the shadow Of the century’s sculptured piles, Where sleep our century-honoured dead While the great world thunders overhead, And far out miles on miles, Beyond the smoke of the mighty town, The blue Thames dimples and smiles; Not yours alone the glory of old, Of the splendid thousand years, Of Britain’s might and Britain’s right And the brunt of British spears.

Not yours alone, for the great world round Ready to dare and do, Scot and Celt and Norman and Dane, With the Northman’s sinew and heart and brain, And the Northman’s courage for blessing or bane Are England’s heroes too.

North and south and east and west, Wherever their triumphs be, Their glory goes home to the ocean-girt isle Where the heather blooms and the roses smile With the green isle under her lee; And if ever the smoke of an alien gun Should threaten her iron repose, Shoulder to shoulder against the world, Face to face with her foes, Scot and Celt and Saxon are one Where the glory of England goes. And we of the newer and vaster West, Where the great war banners are furled, And commerce hurries her teeming hosts, And the cannon are silent along our coasts, Saxon and Gaul, Canadians claim A part in the glory and pride and aim Of the Empire that girdles the world.

England, England, England, Wherever the daring heart By Arctic floe or torrid strand Thy heroes play their part; For as long as conquest holds the earth, Or commerce sweeps the sea, By orient jungle or western plain, Will the Saxon spirit be.

And whatever the people that dwell beneath, Or whatever the alien tongue, Over the freedom and peace of the world Is the flag of England flung. Till the last great freedom is found, And the last great truth be taught, Till the last great deed be done And the last great battle is fought; Till the last great fighter is slain in the last great fight And the war-wolf is dead in his den, England, breeder of hope and valour and might, Iron mother of men.