With the Wild Geese By Emily Lawless: With An Introduction by Stopford A. Brooke |
 |
 |
|
DIRGE FOR ALL IRELAND. 1581 |
|
|
 | With the Wild Geese |  |
38
DIRGE FOR ALL IRELAND. 1581
Fall gently, pitying rains! Come slowly, Spring!
Ah, slower, slower yet! No notes of glee,
No minstrelsy! Nay, not one bird must sing
His challenge to the season. See, oh see!
Lo, where she lies,
Dead with wide-open eyes,
Unsheltered from the skies,
Alone, unmarked, she lies!
Then, sorrow, flow;
And ye, dull hearts, that brook to see her so.
Depart! go! go!
Depart, dull hearts, and leave us to our woe.
Ah, slower, slower yet! No notes of glee,
No minstrelsy! Nay, not one bird must sing
His challenge to the season. See, oh see!
Lo, where she lies,
Dead with wide-open eyes,
Unsheltered from the skies,
Alone, unmarked, she lies!
Then, sorrow, flow;
39
Depart! go! go!
Depart, dull hearts, and leave us to our woe.
Drop, forest, drop your sad accusing tears,
Send your soft rills adown the silent glades,
Where yet the pensive yew its branches rears,
Where yet no axe affronts the decent shades.
Pronounce her bitter woe,
Denounce her furious foe,
Her piteous story show,
That all may know.
Then quickly call
Your young leaves. Bid them from their stations tall
Fall! fall! fall! fall!
Till of their green they weave her funeral pall.
Send your soft rills adown the silent glades,
Where yet the pensive yew its branches rears,
Where yet no axe affronts the decent shades.
Pronounce her bitter woe,
Denounce her furious foe,
Her piteous story show,
That all may know.
Then quickly call
Your young leaves. Bid them from their stations tall
Fall! fall! fall! fall!
Till of their green they weave her funeral pall.
40
And ye, cold waves, who guard that western slope,
Show no white crowns. This is no time to wear
The livery of Hope. We have no hope.
Blackness and leaden greys befit despair
Roll past that open grave,
And let thy billows lave
Her whom they could not save.
Then open wide
Your western arms, to where the rain-clouds bide,
And hide! hide! hide!
Let none discern the spot where she hath died.
Show no white crowns. This is no time to wear
The livery of Hope. We have no hope.
Blackness and leaden greys befit despair
Roll past that open grave,
And let thy billows lave
Her whom they could not save.
Then open wide
Your western arms, to where the rain-clouds bide,
And hide! hide! hide!
Let none discern the spot where she hath died.
| With the Wild Geese | |