Part 3
With faith like the Hebrew's we'll stem the Red Sea-- God! smite down the Pharaohs--our trust is in Thee; Be it blood of the tyrant or blood of the slave, We'll cross it to Freedom, or find there a grave. Lo! a throne for each worker, a crown for each brow, The palm for each martyr that dies for us now; Spite the flash of their muskets, the roar of their cannon, The assassins of Freedom shall lower their pennon; For the will of a Nation what foe dare withstand? Then Patriots, Heroes, strike! God for our Land!
RUINS.
I.
Shall we tread the dust of ages, Musing, dreamlike, on the past, Seeking on the broad earth's pages For the shadows Time hath cast; Waking up some ancient story, From each prostrate shrine or hall, Old traditions of a glory Earth may never more recall?
II.
Poet thoughts of sadness breathing, For the temples overthrown; Where no incense now is wreathing, And the gods are turned to stone. Wandering by the graves of heroes, Shrouded deep in classic gloom, Or the tombs where Egypt's Pharaohs Wait the trumpet and the doom.
III.
By the city, desert-hidden,[2] Which Judea's mighty king Made the Genii, at his bidding, Raise by magic of his ring; By the Lake Asphaltian wander, While the crimson sunset glow Flings its radiance, as we ponder On the buried towns below.
IV.
By the Cromleach, sloping downward, Where the Druid's victim bled; By those Towers, pointing sunward, Hieroglyphics none have read: In their mystic symbols seeking, Of past creeds and rites o'erthrown, If the truths they shrined are speaking Yet in Litanies of Stone.
V.
By the Temple of the Muses, Where the climbers of the mount Learned the soul's diviner uses From the Heliconian fount. By the banks of dark Illyssus, Where the Parcæ walked of old, In their crowns of white narcissus, And their garments starred with gold.
VI.
By the tomb of queenly Isis, Where her fallen prophets wail, Yet no hand has dared the crisis Of the lifting of the vail. By the altar which the Grecian Raised to God without a name; By the stately shrine Ephesian, Erostratus burned for fame.
VII.
By the Libyan shrine of Ammon, Where the sands are trod with care, Lest we, bending to examine, Start the lion from his lair. Shall we tread the halls Assyrian, Where the Arab tents are set; Trace the glory of the Tyrian, Where the fisher spreads his net?
VIII.
Shall we seek the "Mene, mene," Wrote by God upon the wall, While the proud son of Mandane Strode across the fated hall? Shall we mourn the Loxian's lyre, Or the Pythian priestess mute? Shall we seek the Delphic fire, Though we've lost Apollo's lute?
IX.
Ah! the world has sadder ruins Than these wrecks of things sublime; For the touch of man's misdoings Leaves more blighted tracks than Time. Ancient lore gives no examples Of the ruins here we find-- Prostrate souls for fallen temples, Mighty ruins of the mind.
X.
We had hopes that rose as proudly As each sculptured marble shrine; And our prophets spake as loudly As their oracles divine. Grand resolves of giant daring, Such as Titans breathed of old; Brilliant aims their front uprearing, Like a temple roofed with gold.
XI.
Souls of fire, like columns pointing, Flamelike, upward to the skies; Glorious brows, which God's anointing Consecrated altar-wise. Stainless hearts, like temples olden, None but priest hath ever trod; Hands as pure as were the golden Staves which bore the ark of God.
XII.
Oh! they built up radiant visions, Like an iris after rain; How all Paradise traditions Might be made to live again. Of Humanity's sad story, How their hand should turn the page, And the ancient primal glory, Fling upon this latter age.
XIII.
How with Godlike aspirations, Up the souls of men would climb, Till the fallen, enslavéd nations Trod in rhythmic march sublime; Reaching heights the people knew not, Till their Prophet Leaders led-- Bathed in light that mortals view not, While the spirit life lies dead.
XIV.
How the pallid sons of labour, They should toil, and toil to raise, Till a glory, like to Tabor, Once again should meet earth's gaze. How the poor, no longer keeping Count of life alone by groans, With the strong cry of their weeping, Start the angels on their thrones.
XV.
Ah! that vision's bright ideal, Must it fade and perish thus? Must its fall alone be real? Are its ruins trod by us? Ah! they dreamed an Eldorado, Given not to mortal sight; Yet the souls that walk in shadow, Still bend forward to its light.
XVI.
Earnest dreamers, sooth we blame not If ye failed to reach the goal-- If the glorious Real came not At the strong prayer of each soul. By the path ye've trod to duty, Blessings yet to man may flow, Though the proud and stately beauty Of your structure lieth low.
XVII.
Low as that which Salem mourneth, On Moriah's holy hill; While the heathen proudly scorneth, Yet the wrecks are glorious still: Like the seven columns frowning, On the desert city down; Or the seven cedars crowning Lofty Lebanon.
XVIII.
Poet wanderer, hast thou bent thee O'er such ruins of the soul? Pray to God that some Nepenthe May efface that hour of dole. We may lift the shrine and column, From the dust which Time hath cast; Choral chants may mingle solemn, Once again where silence passed;
XIX.
But the stately, radiant palace, We had built up in our dreams, With Hope's rainbow-woven trellis, And Truth's glorious sunrise beams; Our aims of towering stature, Our aspirations vain, And our prostrate human nature-- Who will raise them up again?
DISCIPLINE.
I.
Close the starry dream-portal, We must tread earth again, Flashes no light immortal Now on life's dreary plain. We must wait, like the Stoic, Brave, enduring, and strong, Till the soul's strength heroic Bends the fetters of wrong.
II.
By the lore life has brought us, We shall fathom man's soul; By the tears sorrow taught us, We shall measure their dole. Guide them on through affliction, All earth's Saviours have trod, Till from life's crucifixion They can soar up to God.
III.
From the heart of man weeding Up each rough brier and thorn, With a hero-pride treading Down the world's shallow scorn; With a saint's self-denying Toiling still for our land; With a Christ-strength defying Earth and Hell's gathered band.
IV.
In the soul's earnest travail Must the God-work be wrought; By the world's woe and cavil, Must the deep heart be taught. Blighted youth, crushed ambition, On the altar must lie; 'Tis the world-old tradition, Thus the Prophet must die.
V.
But this deep lore can only Be learnéd in the gloom, Where the gifted tread, lonely, The Prophet-path of doom: For by life-blood, and brain-sweat, Is the altar-flame fed; And from hearts crushed by pain, yet Must the incense be shed.
VI.
Still, 'tis grand this wild warring, Upon life's battle-field; Fear not the heart's marring If the soul never yield. Fight for God's Truth yet longer, 'Gainst the fierce storms of life, For the strong soul grows stronger By the combat and strife.
THE EXODUS.
I.
"A million a decade!" Calmly and cold The units are read by our statesmen sage; Little they think of a Nation old, Fading away from History's page; Outcast weeds by a desolate sea-- Fallen leaves of Humanity.
II.
"A million a decade!"--of human wrecks, Corpses lying in fever sheds-- Corpses huddled on foundering decks, And shroudless dead on their rocky beds; Nerve and muscle, and heart and brain, Lost to Ireland--lost in vain.
III.
"A million a decade!" Count ten by ten, Column and line of the record fair; Each unit stands for ten thousand men, Staring with blank, dead eye-balls there; Strewn like blasted trees on the sod, Men that were made in the image of God.
IV.
"A million a decade!"--and nothing done; The Cæsars had less to conquer a world; And the war for the Right not yet begun, The banner of Freedom not yet unfurled: The soil is fed by the weed that dies; If forest leaves fall, yet they fertilise.
V.
But ye--dead, dead, not climbing the height, Not clearing a path for the future to tread; Not opening the golden portals of light, Ere the gate was choked by your piled-up dead; Martyrs ye, yet never a name Shines on the golden roll of Fame.
VI.
Had ye rent one gyve of the festering chain, Strangling the life of the Nation's soul; Poured your life-blood by river and plain, Yet touched with your dead hand Freedom's goal; Left of heroes one footprint more On our soil, tho' stamped in your gore--
VII.
We could triumph while mourning the brave, Dead for all that was holy and just, And write, through our tears, on the grave, As we flung down the dust to dust-- "They died for their country, but led Her up from the sleep of the dead."
VIII.
"A million a decade!" What does it mean? A Nation dying of inner decay-- A churchyard silence where life has been-- The base of the pyramid crumbling away: A drift of men gone over the sea, A drift of the dead where men should be.
IX.
Was it for this ye plighted your word, Crowned and crownless rulers of men? Have ye kept faith with your crucified Lord, And fed His sheep till He comes again? Or fled like hireling shepherds away, Leaving the fold the gaunt wolf's prey?
X.
Have ye given of your purple to cover, Have ye given of your gold to cheer, Have ye given of your love, as a lover Might cherish the bride he held dear, Broken the Sacrament-bread to feed Souls and bodies in uttermost need?
XI.
Ye stand at the Judgment-bar to-day-- The Angels are counting the dead-roll, too; Hare ye trod in the pure and perfect way, And ruled for God as the crowned should do? Count our dead--before Angels and Men, Ye're judged and doomed by the Statist's pen.
THE FAITHLESS SHEPHERDS.
"Os habent, et non loquuntur: Oculos habent, et non vident."
Dead!--dead! Ye are dead while ye live; Ye've a name that ye live--but are dead. Neither counsel nor love did ye give, And your lips never uttered a word While swift ruin downward sped, And the plague raged on undisturbed. Not a throb of true life in your veins, Not a pulse in your passionless heart, Not a thought in the dull, cold brains, Of how ye should bear your part, When summoned the strife to brave, For our Country, with Death and the Grave.
Ye have gold for the follies of fashion, And gold for its tinsel glare, But none for the wild, sobbing passion Wrung from the lips of despair. False Shepherds and Guides are ye, For the heart in each bosom is cold As the ice on a frozen sea; And your trappings of velvet and gold Lie heavy and close as a pall, When the steps of the bearers fall On a grave, with measured tread; For ye seem to live--but are dead.
Ye are dead!--ye are dead! stone by stone The temple is crumbling down; It will fall with a crash of doom, For the night deepens dark in its gloom. But ye look on with vacant stare, Like men lying still in the tomb. Stand forth! face the sun, if ye dare, With your cold eyes unwet by a tear, For your Country laid low on your bier, And say--have ye stretched forth a hand To raise up our desolate Land?
She dies--but ye flourish and grow In the midst of the deadly maze: Like the palm springing heavenward?--No, But like weeds in the churchyard fed By the vapours of death below, Breathing round you a poisonous haze. Go!--go! True life is not so-- For decay lies beneath your tread, And the staff in your hand is a reed-- Too weak for your Country's need; For you seem to live--but are dead.
Ye are dead!--ye are dead! Fling the clay On the noble names--noble no more; Leave the sword in the sheath to rust; Let the banners be trailed in the dust; And the memory perish away Of the dead, who are dead evermore; Blot them out from the book writ in gold. Noble neither in deed nor in soul, Are ye worthy to stand in the roll Of the glorified heroes of old?
Has Ireland need of such sons? Floating down with a silken sail, On the crimson tide of her life, that runs With a mournful, ceaseless wail, Like rain pouring down from the eaves. And ye laugh when the strangers deride Her trials, the saddest and sorest, And plunge the sword deep in her side; And no kindly heart sighs or grieves For her branches, all bare as a forest, When the autumn wind scatters the leaves.
Laugh low with your perfumed breath, For the air is heavy with death. But ye hear not the gliding feet Of the Future, that stands at your door; For the roses lie heavy and sweet, And too thick on your marble floor, And the dead soul is dead to his call. And your eyes are heavy with wine; Ye see not the letters of flame, Traced by a hand divine-- The writing of God on the wall-- "Ye are weighed, and found wanting"--Oh, shame! Your life is a gilded lie; And the wide world that doom has read, With a shudder and chill of dread; For the judgment of God is nigh, And the universe echoes the cry-- You've a name that ye live--but are +DEAD+.
WORK WHILE IT IS CALLED TO-DAY.
"No man hath hired us"--strong hands drooping, Listless, falling in idleness down; Men in the silent market-place grouping Round Christ's cross of silent stone. "No man hath hired us"--pale hands twining, Stalwart forms bowed down to sue. "The red dawn is passed, the noon is shining, But no man hath given us work to do."
Then a voice pealed down from the heights of Heaven, Men, it said, of the Irish soil! I gave you a land as a Garden of Eden, Where you and your sons should till and toil; I set your throne by the glorious waters, Where ocean flung round you her mighty bands, That your sails, like those of your Tyrian fathers, Might sweep the shores of a hundred lands.
Power I gave to the hands of your leaders, Wisdom I gave to the lips of the wise, And your children grew as the stately cedars, That shadowed the rivers of Paradise. What have ye done with my land of beauty-- Has the spoiler bereft her of robe and crown? Have my people failed in a people's duty? Has the wild boar trampled my vineyard down?
True, they answered, faint in replying-- Our vines are rent by the wild boar's tusks; The corn on our golden slopes is lying, But our children feed on the remnant husks. Our strong men lavish their blood for others; Our prophets and wise men are heard no more; Our young men give a last kiss to their mothers, Then sail away for a foreign shore.
From wooded valleys and mountain gorges, Emerald meadow and purple glen, Across the foam of the wild sea surges, They flee away like exiled men. Yet, the chant we hear of the new Evangels, Rising like incense from earth's green sod; We--we alone, before worshipping Angels, Idly stand in the Garden of God.
Then the Lord came down from the heights of Heaven, Came down that garden fair to view, Where the weary men waited from morn till even, For some one to give them work to do. Ye have sinned, He said, and the angel lustre Darkened slowly as summer clouds may; Weeds are growing where fruit should cluster, Yet, ye stand idle all the day.
Have ye trod in the furrows, and worked as truly As men who knew they should reap as they sow? Have ye flung in the seed and watched it duly, Day and night, lest the tares should grow? Have ye tended the vine my hand hath planted, Pruned and guided its tendrils fair; Ready with life-blood, if it were wanted, To strengthen the fruit its branches bear?
Have ye striven in earnest, working solely To guard my flock in their native fold? Are your hands as pure, and your hearts as holy, As the saints who walk in the City of Gold? Go! work in my vineyard, let none deceive ye, Each for himself his work must do; And whatever is right shall my Angels give ye, The work and the workman shall have their due.--
Who knoweth the times of the new dispensations? Go on in faith, and the light will come; The last may yet be the first amongst nations, Wait till the end for the final doom. The last may be first! Shall our Country's glory Ever flash light on the path we have trod? Who knows?--who knows?--for our future story Lies hid in the great sealed Book of God.
TO-DAY!
I.
Has the line of the Patriots ended, The race of the heroes failed, That the bow of the mighty, unbended, Falls slack from the hands of the quailed? Or do graves lie too thick in the grass For the chariot of Progress to pass?
II.
Did the men of the past ever falter? The stainless in name and fame. They flung life's best gifts on the altar To kindle the sacrifice flame, Till it rose like a pillar of light Leading up from Egyptian night.
III.
Oh! hearts all aflame, with the daring Of youth leaping forth into life! Have ye courage to lift up, unfearing, The banner fallen low in the strife, From hands faint through life's deepest loss, And bleeding from nails of the cross?
IV.
Can ye work on as they worked--unaided, When all but honour seemed lost? And give to your Country, as they did, All, without counting the cost? For the children have risen since then Up to the height of men.
V.
Now, swear by those pale martyr-faces, All worn by the furrows of tears, By the lost youth no morrow replaces, By all their long-wasted years, By the fires trod out on each hearth, When the Exiles were driven forth;
VI.
By the young lives so vainly given, By the raven hair blanched to grey, By the strong spirits crushed and riven, By the noble aims faded away, By their brows, as the brows of a king, Crowned by the circlet of suffering--
VII.
To strive as they strove, yet retrieving The cause from all shadow of blame, In the Congress of Peoples achieving A place for our nation and name; Not by war between brothers in blood, But by glory made perfect through good.
VIII.
We are blind, not discerning the promise, 'Tis the sword of the Spirit that kills; Give us Light, and the fetters fall from us, For the strong soul is free when it wills. Not our wrongs but our sins make the cloud That darkens the land like a shroud.
IX.
With this sword like an Archangel's gleaming, Go war against Evil and Sin, 'Gainst the falsehood, and meanness, and seeming That stifle the true life within. Your bonds are the bonds of the soul, Strike them off, and you spring to the goal!
X.
O men who have passed through the furnace, Assayed like the gold, and as pure! By your strength can the weakest gain firmness The strongest may learn to endure, When once they have chosen their part, Though the sword may drive home to each heart.
XI.
O Martyrs! The scorners may trample On the broken hearts strewed in their path; But the young race, all flushed by example, Will awake to the duties it hath, And re-kindle your own torch of Truth With the passionate splendours of youth!
A REMONSTRANCE,
ADDRESSED TO D. FLORENCE M'CARTHY, M.R.I.A.[3]
Stand on the heights, O Poet! nor come down Amid the wise old serpents, coiled around The Tree of Knowledge in Academies. The Poet's place is by the Tree of Life, Whose fruit turns men to Gods, and makes them live, Not seeking buried treasure in the tombs. Leave the dim records of a by-gone age To those great Archivists, who flash the torch Of Truth along Time's mouldering records, Illuminating all the fading Past, Like golden letters on an ancient scroll. The Poet soars with eagles, breathes pure ether, Basks in the light that suns the mountain peak, And sings, from spirit altitudes, such strains, That all the toilers in life's rugged furrows Are forced, for once, to lift the bow'd-down head, And look on Heaven. Flashes from Poet's words Electric light, strong, swift, and sudden, like The clash of thunder-clouds, by which men read God's writing legibly on human hearts.
O Poet-Prophets! God hath sent ye forth With lips made consecrate by altar fire, To guide the Future, not to tread the Past; To chaunt, in glorious music, man's great hymn, The watchword of humanity--Advance! Advance in Wisdom, Nobleness, and Truth, High aims, high purposes, and self-control, Which is self-reverence, knowing we shall stand With crownéd angels before God's great throne The Poet nerves the arm to do great deeds, Inspires great thoughts, flings o'er the tears of life The rainbow arch, to save us from despair; Quickens the stagnant energies to act, Bears the advancing banner of the age, Full in the van of all Humanity; And, with a strength, God-given, rolls the stone, As angels may, from off the Sepulchre Where souls lie bound, bidding them rise and live.
O Poet! preach this Gospel once again-- True Life, true Liberty, God's gifts to man; Freedom from servile aims and selfish ends, That swathe and bind the kingly spirit down, Like Egypt's grave-clothes on the royal dead; Scatter the golden grain of lofty thoughts From which spring hero-deeds--that so, in truth, Our Future may be nobler than our Past, In all that makes a nation's life divine-- This is the Poet's mission, therefore--+THINE+.
FRANCE IN '93.
I.
Hark! the onward heavy tread-- Hark! the voices rude-- 'Tis the famished cry for Bread From a wildered multitude. They come! They come! Point the cannon--roll the drum; Thousands wail and weep with hunger-- Faster let your soldiers number. Sword, and gun, and bayonet A famished people's cries have met.
II.
Hark! the onward heavy tread-- Hark! the voices rude-- 'Tis the famished cry for Bread From an armed multitude. They come! They come! Not with meek submission's hum. Bloody trophy they have won, Ghastly glares it in the sun-- Gory head on lifted pike. Ha! they weep not now, but strike.
III.
Ye, the deaf ones to their cries-- Ye, who scorned their agonies-- 'Tis no longer prayers for bread Shriek in your ears the famishéd; But wildly, fiercely, peal on peal, Resoundeth--Down with the Bastile! Can ye tame a people now? Try them--flatter, promise, vow, Swear their wrongs shall be redressed-- But patience--time will do the rest; Swear they shall one day be fed-- Hark! the People--Dead for Dead!
IV.
Calculating statesmen, quail; Proud aristocrat, grow pale; Savage sounds that deathly song: Down with tyrants! Down with wrong! Blindly now they wreak revenge-- How rudely do a mob avenge!
What! coronetted Prince or Peer, Will not the base-born slavelings fear Sooth, their cry is somewhat stern: _Aristocrats, à la Lanterne!_ Ghastly fruit their lances bear-- Noble heads with streaming hair; Diadem and kingly crown Strike the famine-stricken down. Now, the People's work is done-- On they stride o'er prostrate throne; Royal blood of King and Queen Streameth from the guillotine; Wildly on the people goeth, Reaping what the noble soweth. Little dreamed he, prince or peer, Of who should be his heritor. Hunger now, at last, is sated In halls where once it wailed and waited; Wild Justice fiercely rives the laws Which failed to right a people's cause. On that human ocean floweth, Whither stops it no one knoweth-- Surge the wild waves in their strength Against all chartered rights at length-- Throne, and King, and Noble fall; But the People--they hold Carnival!
THE FALL OF THE TYRANTS.