 | Poetical Works of Lionel Johnson |  |
PARNELL
To John McGrath.
The wail of Irish winds,
The cry of Irish seas:
Eternal sorrow finds
Eternal voice in these.
The cry of Irish seas:
Eternal sorrow finds
Eternal voice in these.
I cannot praise our dead,
Whom Ireland weeps so well:
Her morning light, that fled;
Her morning star, that fell.
Whom Ireland weeps so well:
Her morning light, that fled;
Her morning star, that fell.
She of the mournful eyes
Waits, and no dark clouds break:
Waits, and her strong son lies
Dead, for her holy sake.
Waits, and no dark clouds break:
Waits, and her strong son lies
Dead, for her holy sake.
37
Her heart is sorrow's home,
And hath been from of old:
An host of griefs hath come,
To make that heart their fold.
And hath been from of old:
An host of griefs hath come,
To make that heart their fold.
Ah, the sad autumn day,
When the last sad troop came
Swift down the ancient way,
Keening a chieftain's name!
When the last sad troop came
Swift down the ancient way,
Keening a chieftain's name!
Gray hope was there, and dread;
Anger, and love in tears:
They mourned the dear and dead,
Dirge of the ruined years.
Anger, and love in tears:
They mourned the dear and dead,
Dirge of the ruined years.
Home to her heart she drew
The mourning company:
Old sorrows met the new,
In sad fraternity.
The mourning company:
Old sorrows met the new,
In sad fraternity.
A mother, and forget?
Nay! all her children's fate
Ireland remembers yet,
With love insatiate.
Nay! all her children's fate
Ireland remembers yet,
With love insatiate.
She hears the heavy bells:
Hears, and with passionate breath
Eternally she tells
A rosary of death.
Hears, and with passionate breath
Eternally she tells
A rosary of death.
Faithful and true is she,
The mother of us all:
Faithful and true! may we
Fail her not, though we fall.
The mother of us all:
Faithful and true! may we
Fail her not, though we fall.
38
Her son, our brother, lies
Dead, for her holy sake:
But from the dead arise
Voices, that bid us wake.
Dead, for her holy sake:
But from the dead arise
Voices, that bid us wake.
Not his, to hail the dawn:
His but the herald's part.
Be ours to see withdrawn
Night from our Mother's heart.
His but the herald's part.
Be ours to see withdrawn
Night from our Mother's heart.
1893.
| Poetical Works of Lionel Johnson | |