 | Between Doubting and Daring |  |
3
The Irish Archangel
(Michaelmas, 1915)
Ah Michael, Michael, listen Angel asthore!
[So in her heart Theresa Nolan said,
Kneeling at Mass on the wide chapel-floor,
Eyes lifted where, above her grey-shawled head,
The great bright window stained the morning rays
That pierced it, rose-red clear and amber turned.
Across the hills she had fared by handsbreadth ways,
Seaming long slopes, where fronded fire yet burned,
And heather-bells had climbed up shoulder-high
On writhen stems in smouldering wrecks of flame.
With lonesome thoughts by lonesome paths she came,
Since feet trod far that once had followed nigh.]
[So in her heart Theresa Nolan said,
Kneeling at Mass on the wide chapel-floor,
Eyes lifted where, above her grey-shawled head,
The great bright window stained the morning rays
That pierced it, rose-red clear and amber turned.
Across the hills she had fared by handsbreadth ways,
Seaming long slopes, where fronded fire yet burned,
And heather-bells had climbed up shoulder-high
On writhen stems in smouldering wrecks of flame.
With lonesome thoughts by lonesome paths she came,
Since feet trod far that once had followed nigh.]
Ah Michael, Michael, many's the time before
I have seen you shining there athwart the light,
With those grand wings on you, all glistering white
Like sailing clouds, when in at yonder door
From beneath the sun we'd step half blind—'twas ere
The Big War took our lads—and then the sight
Did my heart good, so strong you stand to scare
The Devil's own self, and drive him down his lair.
But now this trouble's on us, let him be:
There's worse folk loose about the world than he.
For doing harm belike was all his share
Of ever doing aught; but Lords and Kings
Might easy put a hand to better things
Than raising up a war, that ere 'tis done
Strikes thousands dead, and each a mother's son;
That's bitter desolation bound to bring,
With ruin and sorrow. Piled up heap on heap,
Like fluttered leaves you see the cold blasts sweep
Below the trees, the Dead are lying flung
Where Mick is fighting now. Ah Michael, keep
An eye on him, and sort him out among
The rest, for many a Mick is soldiering there,
And every one of them a decent lad,
But Micky's all the sons that ever I had—
You'd get none kinder if you searched Kildare.
And he a gossoon yet; a while ago
Scarce any size on him, the creature, or sense,
Just playing around, or maybe coaxing pence
For sweets—my grief that ever I said him no.
So mind him, Michael, that's a Michael too,
And make a shift to bring him safely through,
And home to me before they've laid him low.
I have seen you shining there athwart the light,
With those grand wings on you, all glistering white
Like sailing clouds, when in at yonder door
From beneath the sun we'd step half blind—'twas ere
The Big War took our lads—and then the sight
Did my heart good, so strong you stand to scare
The Devil's own self, and drive him down his lair.
But now this trouble's on us, let him be:
There's worse folk loose about the world than he.
For doing harm belike was all his share
4
Might easy put a hand to better things
Than raising up a war, that ere 'tis done
Strikes thousands dead, and each a mother's son;
That's bitter desolation bound to bring,
With ruin and sorrow. Piled up heap on heap,
Like fluttered leaves you see the cold blasts sweep
Below the trees, the Dead are lying flung
Where Mick is fighting now. Ah Michael, keep
An eye on him, and sort him out among
The rest, for many a Mick is soldiering there,
And every one of them a decent lad,
But Micky's all the sons that ever I had—
You'd get none kinder if you searched Kildare.
And he a gossoon yet; a while ago
Scarce any size on him, the creature, or sense,
Just playing around, or maybe coaxing pence
For sweets—my grief that ever I said him no.
So mind him, Michael, that's a Michael too,
And make a shift to bring him safely through,
And home to me before they've laid him low.
Who stirred it up, God knows, had little to do:
This Big War beats the wildest wind e'er blew
For breaking hearts and driving people mad.
Sure, after a storm you might be thinking bad
To see the fine trees fallen there, overthrown,
Not fret for them, nor feel the house so lone
You doubt the sun has lost his way, he'll creep
So low to set; and when at last 'tis night,
Heart-scalded, scarce at all a body'll sleep,
Or every minute's waking in a fright,
And making sure I heard the rifle click
That's cocked to kill him. Keep, and you'll do right,
One flourish of your blazing sword to blind
The ugly villain aiming at my Mick.
And dreaming I do be of the guns they wind
The bullets out of with a handle quick,
To riddle hundreds while a clock would tick;
And poison-clouds the poltroons send to choke
Our lads' lives out, far off, with stifling smoke—
'Tis at the thought of them my heart grows sick.
For if 'twas fighting fair with sword or lance,
Or, say, shillélaghs, or a blackthorn stick,
One with another gets an even chance;
But where that hail of Hell is pelting thick,
The best man counts for nought and strongest arm,
Unless some queer good-luck he has indeed,
Or a Great One like yourself 'twixt him and harm.
This Big War beats the wildest wind e'er blew
For breaking hearts and driving people mad.
Sure, after a storm you might be thinking bad
To see the fine trees fallen there, overthrown,
Not fret for them, nor feel the house so lone
5
So low to set; and when at last 'tis night,
Heart-scalded, scarce at all a body'll sleep,
Or every minute's waking in a fright,
And making sure I heard the rifle click
That's cocked to kill him. Keep, and you'll do right,
One flourish of your blazing sword to blind
The ugly villain aiming at my Mick.
And dreaming I do be of the guns they wind
The bullets out of with a handle quick,
To riddle hundreds while a clock would tick;
And poison-clouds the poltroons send to choke
Our lads' lives out, far off, with stifling smoke—
'Tis at the thought of them my heart grows sick.
For if 'twas fighting fair with sword or lance,
Or, say, shillélaghs, or a blackthorn stick,
One with another gets an even chance;
But where that hail of Hell is pelting thick,
The best man counts for nought and strongest arm,
Unless some queer good-luck he has indeed,
Or a Great One like yourself 'twixt him and harm.
But half afeard I am lest scarce more heed
You give to us, and you in grandeur set,
An Angel over Angels, than we take
Of beasts that stray about the fields to feed
As best they may out under dry and wet,
And chance their shelter when the black storms break.
Aye, Michael, I misdoubt yourself that see
From high above thinks little of Mick and me
As if some old grey hen that lost her chick
Went clucking after it: Micky, Mick avic!
You give to us, and you in grandeur set,
An Angel over Angels, than we take
Of beasts that stray about the fields to feed
As best they may out under dry and wet,
And chance their shelter when the black storms break.
6
From high above thinks little of Mick and me
As if some old grey hen that lost her chick
Went clucking after it: Micky, Mick avic!
Yet, Michael, listen now—I'm hoping still
In all your glory you'll contrive a plan
To help us on a sudden, ere they fill
Wide earth with graves. For, Michael, if you've got
The wings itself, at heart you're just a man:
You won't delay till all the lads are shot.
Troth, I'd ne'er grudge the worst you'd blast and ban
Those miscreants-of-the-world that first began
The killing; but save poor Mick, whate'er befall,
And every Mick among them, if you can—
Aye, bring the lads home, Michael, bring them all.
In all your glory you'll contrive a plan
To help us on a sudden, ere they fill
Wide earth with graves. For, Michael, if you've got
The wings itself, at heart you're just a man:
You won't delay till all the lads are shot.
Troth, I'd ne'er grudge the worst you'd blast and ban
Those miscreants-of-the-world that first began
The killing; but save poor Mick, whate'er befall,
And every Mick among them, if you can—
Aye, bring the lads home, Michael, bring them all.
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