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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
39
THE IRISH NORMAN;
OR, ‘LAMENT FOR THE BARON OF LOUGHMOE.’
I
Who shall sing the Baron's dirge?Not the corded brethren hooded
With the earth-hued cloak and cowl:—
'Mid the black church mourner-crowded
While the night winds round it howl
Let them, in the chancel kneeling,
Lift the hymns to God appealing:
Let them scare the Powers of Evil,
Striking dumb the accusing devil:
Let them angel-fence the Soul
That flies forward to its goal:
Prayer can quicken: fire can purge:
Yet they shall not sing his dirge!
II
Who shall sing the Baron's dirge?Not the ceremonial weepers
Blackening o'er the place of tombs:
Though their cry might wake the sleepers
In the dark that wait their dooms;
Though their dreadful ululation
Sounds the death-note of a nation;
Though the far-off listeners shiver
Wave-tossed seamen, weary reapers
Shiver like to funeral plumes,
While the long wail like a river
Rolls beyond the horizon's verge;
Yet they shall not sing his dirge!
40
III
Who shall sing the Baron's dirge?Not the minstrels of his presence,
Harpers of his halls and towers:
Let them, 'mid the bowery pleasance,
Sing that flower among the flowers,
Female beauty:—swift its race is
As the smiles on infant faces!
O, ye conquering years and hours!
Children that together played
Love and wed, and then are laid
Grey-haired beneath the yew-tree bowers,
Passing gleams in glooms that merge;
Yet they shall not sing his dirge!
IV
Who shall sing the Baron's dirge?Sing it castles that he wasted
Like those old oaks thunder-blasted,
Wasted with the sword or fire!
Sternness God with sweetness mateth;
Next to him that well createth
Is the just and brave Destroyer!
The man that sinned, the same must fall,
Though Peter by him stood and Paul!
They his clansmen, they his gleemen,
They that wear the garb of freemen
Wore the sackcloth, wore the serge:—
Let them sing the Baron's dirge.
V
Who shall sing the Baron's dirge?Whoso fain would sing it faileth,
41
Double-fountained was his blood,
A Gaelic spring, a Norman flood!
To his bosom truth he folded
With a youthful lover's zeal:
God's great Justice seemed he, moulded
In a statued shape of steel!
Men were liars; kerne and noble;
He consumed them like to stubble!
The orphan's shield, the traitor's scourge—
Sing, fierce winds, the Baron's dirge!
VI
Who shall sing the Baron's dirge?O thou dread Almighty Will!
Man exulteth; woman plaineth;
But the Will Supreme ordaineth,
And the years its fate fulfil.
All our reason is unreason;
All our glory ends in woe:
Thou didst raise him for a season,
Thou once more hast laid him low!
But his strong life sought Thee ever;
Sought Thee like a mountain river
Lost at last in the sea surge—
No! we will not sing his dirge!
VII
Who shall sing the Baron's dirge?'Twas no time of sobs or sighing:
Grave, yet glad, he lay a dying.
Heralds through the vales were sent
Bidding all men pray for grace
42
Sins of his and all his race:
Well he worked: three days his spirit
Throve in prayer and waxed in merit.
The blessed lights aloft were raised:
On the Cross his dim eyes gazed
To the last breath's ebb and gurge—
No! for him we chant no dirge!
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |