The Poems of Thomas Davis | ||
162
TONE'S GRAVE.
I
In Bodenstown Churchyard there is a green grave,And wildly along it the winter winds rave;
Small shelter, I ween, are the ruined walls there,
When the storm sweeps down on the plains of Kildare.
II
Once I lay on that sod—it lies over Wolfe Tone—And thought how he perished in prison alone,
His friends unavenged, and his country unfreed—
“Oh, bitter,” I said, “is the patriot's meed;
III
For in him the heart of a woman combinedWith a heroic life, and a governing mind—
A martyr for Ireland—his grave has no stone—
His name seldom named, and his virtues unknown.
IV
I was woke from my dream by the voices and treadOf a band, who came into the home of the dead;
They carried no corpse, and they carried no stone,
And they stopped when they came to the grave of Wolfe Tone.
163
V
There were students and peasants, the wise and the brave,And an old man who knew him from cradle to grave,
And children who thought me hard-hearted; for they,
On that sanctified sod, were forbidden to play.
VI
But the old man, who saw I was mourning there, said,“We come, sir, to weep where young Wolfe Tone is laid,
And we're going to raise him a monument, too—
A plain one, yet fit for the simple and true.”
VII
My heart overflowed, and I clasped his old hand,And I blessed him, and blessed every one of his band;
“Sweet! sweet! 'tis to find that such faith can remain
To the cause, and the man so long vanquished and slain.”
VIII
In Bodenstown Churchyard there is a green grave,And freely around it let winter winds rave—
Far better they suit him—the ruin and gloom,—
Till Ireland, a Nation, can build him a tomb.
The Poems of Thomas Davis | ||