TRADITOR ISTE.
A WAIL.
I
Can it be, can it be? Can our Great One be Traitor?
Can the child of her greatest be faithless to Eire?
The clown and the stranger have wronged—let them hate her!
Old Thomond well knows them; they hate her for hire!
Can a brave man be leagued with the rebels and ranters
'Gainst his faith, and his country, his king, and his race,
Can he bear the low moanings, the curses, the banters?—
There's a scourge worse than these—the applause of the base!
II
Was the hand that set fire to the Churches descended
From his hand who upreared them—the strong hand, the true?
When the blood of the People and Priesthood ran blended
Who was it looked on, and cried, ‘Spare them not’? Who?
Some Fury o'erruled thee! Some root thou hadst eaten!
'Twas a Demon that stalked in thy shape. 'Twas not thou!
Not tears of the Angels that blood-stain can sweeten;
That Cain-mark not death can erase from thy brow!
