 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
THE IRISH INTERDICT.
What is this that we see in the cottage,
What is this that we hear in the hall?
Not a faggot of sticks for the pottage,
Not a handful of oats for the stall.
Though the tiles from the chamber are tumbling,
Where the girl lies deserted and sick;
Though the dog that was pampered, is mumbling
The white bone which has nothing to pick;
Not a hand is upraised for repairing,
Not a doctor to stand by the bed,
Not a sound but the sob of despairing,
When all creatures but vermin are fled;
Not a heart with the hope of assistance,
Not a step on the mud-littered mats,
Not a sign of the meanest existence,
Save the sinister gnawing of rats.
Ah, the corpse waits unburied, untended
With the rites, that no savage could grudge
To the vilest, most lowly descended,
To the poorest most pitiful drudge.
Who are these that no mercy are giving,
While the orphan is crying for bread?
They are men that will war with the living,
They are devils that war with the dead.
What is this that we hear in the hall?
Not a faggot of sticks for the pottage,
Not a handful of oats for the stall.
Though the tiles from the chamber are tumbling,
Where the girl lies deserted and sick;
Though the dog that was pampered, is mumbling
The white bone which has nothing to pick;
Not a hand is upraised for repairing,
Not a doctor to stand by the bed,
Not a sound but the sob of despairing,
When all creatures but vermin are fled;
Not a heart with the hope of assistance,
Not a step on the mud-littered mats,
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Save the sinister gnawing of rats.
Ah, the corpse waits unburied, untended
With the rites, that no savage could grudge
To the vilest, most lowly descended,
To the poorest most pitiful drudge.
Who are these that no mercy are giving,
While the orphan is crying for bread?
They are men that will war with the living,
They are devils that war with the dead.
And the house that was splendid and spacious,
With the glory of silver and gold,
With the beauty of women so gracious,
With romances so awful and old,
Now is shut in the shadow of mourning,
Now is shorn of the jubilant feast,
While a shroud is the robe of adorning,
And the darkness is shared by the beast;
Not a scrap for the pets that are crying
After food, at which once they would spurn,
Not a chance for the dearest if dying,
That the tide of their ruin will turn.
For the mistress who is to be mother,
Not the commonest help of a nurse,
And one evening may follow another,
But each only makes deeper the curse.
And the friend must not brmg of her labour,
Which would lighten the troubles that lour,
Nor the breast of the tenderest neighbour
May relent and be human an hour.
Who are these that refuse even shriving,
And the burial block in its tread?
They are men that will war with the living,
They are devils that war with the dead.
With the glory of silver and gold,
With the beauty of women so gracious,
With romances so awful and old,
Now is shut in the shadow of mourning,
Now is shorn of the jubilant feast,
While a shroud is the robe of adorning,
And the darkness is shared by the beast;
Not a scrap for the pets that are crying
After food, at which once they would spurn,
Not a chance for the dearest if dying,
That the tide of their ruin will turn.
For the mistress who is to be mother,
Not the commonest help of a nurse,
And one evening may follow another,
But each only makes deeper the curse.
And the friend must not brmg of her labour,
Which would lighten the troubles that lour,
Nor the breast of the tenderest neighbour
May relent and be human an hour.
Who are these that refuse even shriving,
And the burial block in its tread?
They are men that will war with the living,
They are devils that war with the dead.
What is this that we see in the city,
What is this that we find in the field?
Are there bosoms all emptied of pity,
That but hate to be harvested yield?
Against brother the brother is plotting,
As his fingers catch hold of the knife;
And the husband the furnace is hotting
For his Moloch, to offer a wife.
And the servant so true to his master,
Now has hardened his breast as a stone;
And the saviour who drew from disaster,
Now is left in his anguish alone.
Yea, the landlord is struggling with tenant,
And the tenant is struggling with lord;
While the pirate has hoisted his pennant,
And the murderer sharpened his sword.
For the bonds of assurance are broken
By grim doubts, that devour as the rust,
And the word is not meant that is spoken,
And no man in his fellow can trust.
Who are these that old links have been riving,
To the grave pay no honour or dread?
They are men that will war with the living,
They are devils that war with the dead.
What is this that we find in the field?
Are there bosoms all emptied of pity,
That but hate to be harvested yield?
Against brother the brother is plotting,
As his fingers catch hold of the knife;
And the husband the furnace is hotting
For his Moloch, to offer a wife.
And the servant so true to his master,
Now has hardened his breast as a stone;
And the saviour who drew from disaster,
Now is left in his anguish alone.
Yea, the landlord is struggling with tenant,
And the tenant is struggling with lord;
While the pirate has hoisted his pennant,
And the murderer sharpened his sword.
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By grim doubts, that devour as the rust,
And the word is not meant that is spoken,
And no man in his fellow can trust.
Who are these that old links have been riving,
To the grave pay no honour or dread?
They are men that will war with the living,
They are devils that war with the dead.
O the creatures that batten and burrow,
In the gloom on the terrors of man!
O the ploughshare that halts in mid furrow,
And the sowing that brightly began!
For the horses are ruthlessly stricken
By the hands of the cowards, who fight
With the weak, or when sufferers sicken,
Gather courage to stab in the night;
Who are heroes behind their safe hedges,
And dare look at an enemy's back,
But who blanch at the ball and cold edges,
If avengers are hard on their track;
Who can mutilate old men and cattle,
And disfigure the maidens they shame,
Who with childhood and helplessness battle,
And do this in dear Liberty's name!
Aye, they carry a passion more cruel
Beyond time and the limits of all,
And for eternity glean a black fuel,
In the horror and woe of the pall.
Who are these so inhumanly striving,
With the veil in sweet charity spread?
They are men that will war with the living,
They are devils that war with the dead.
In the gloom on the terrors of man!
O the ploughshare that halts in mid furrow,
And the sowing that brightly began!
For the horses are ruthlessly stricken
By the hands of the cowards, who fight
With the weak, or when sufferers sicken,
Gather courage to stab in the night;
Who are heroes behind their safe hedges,
And dare look at an enemy's back,
But who blanch at the ball and cold edges,
If avengers are hard on their track;
Who can mutilate old men and cattle,
And disfigure the maidens they shame,
Who with childhood and helplessness battle,
And do this in dear Liberty's name!
Aye, they carry a passion more cruel
Beyond time and the limits of all,
And for eternity glean a black fuel,
In the horror and woe of the pall.
Who are these so inhumanly striving,
With the veil in sweet charity spread?
They are men that will war with the living,
They are devils that war with the dead.
What is this, that is writ in the blazing
Of fair ricks and the homesteads of friends,
That would spare not the flocks in their grazing
If destruction but furthered their ends?
That respects not the high and the holy,
And in temples of God leaves a smutch,
That makes havoc of blind things and lowly,
And the cripple despoils of his crutch?
That regards not the surest possessions,
Nor the person of wealthy or poor,
Forms its samts out of bloody transgressions,
And assassins who grope at the door?
Is it fear of the despot and stranger,
Who heap fetters on souls that are free?
Is it chafing at taxes, or danger
Of the evils that patriots see?
Is it love of the captive and lonely,
Which has reddened the hands of the brave,
Who would dance to the gallows, if only
A new country might spring from their grave?
Who are these on base butchery thriving,
That yet outrage the corpse's pale head?
They are men that will war with the living,
They are devils that war with the dead.
Of fair ricks and the homesteads of friends,
That would spare not the flocks in their grazing
If destruction but furthered their ends?
That respects not the high and the holy,
And in temples of God leaves a smutch,
That makes havoc of blind things and lowly,
And the cripple despoils of his crutch?
That regards not the surest possessions,
Nor the person of wealthy or poor,
Forms its samts out of bloody transgressions,
And assassins who grope at the door?
Is it fear of the despot and stranger,
Who heap fetters on souls that are free?
Is it chafing at taxes, or danger
Of the evils that patriots see?
Is it love of the captive and lonely,
Which has reddened the hands of the brave,
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A new country might spring from their grave?
Who are these on base butchery thriving,
That yet outrage the corpse's pale head?
They are men that will war with the living,
They are devils that war with the dead.
Ha the ban has been uttered by treason,
And the interdict now may not rest,
For each crime has some hallowing reason,
And sedition by priestcraft is blest.
Not the rogue is accursed, but the loyal
Who desires to be faithful and true—
Not the tyrant, but Woman if Royal,
And the debtor who renders his due;
Not oppression for grinding is branded,
Nor the burden that hampers and blights,
But the courtesy never demanded,
And the simple confession of rights.
For now vice is the maxim of morals,
It is sinful for man to do well;
While mere mercies for babies are corals,
And religion comes hissing from hell.
And the snakes, on which banishment utter
Was imposed by St. Patrick so long,
Have returned—as the swine to its gutter—
With their venom more dreadful and strong.
For they poison the well springs of grieving,
When at last life has broken its thread;
They are men who will war with the living,
They are devils that war with the dead.
And the interdict now may not rest,
For each crime has some hallowing reason,
And sedition by priestcraft is blest.
Not the rogue is accursed, but the loyal
Who desires to be faithful and true—
Not the tyrant, but Woman if Royal,
And the debtor who renders his due;
Not oppression for grinding is branded,
Nor the burden that hampers and blights,
But the courtesy never demanded,
And the simple confession of rights.
For now vice is the maxim of morals,
It is sinful for man to do well;
While mere mercies for babies are corals,
And religion comes hissing from hell.
And the snakes, on which banishment utter
Was imposed by St. Patrick so long,
Have returned—as the swine to its gutter—
With their venom more dreadful and strong.
For they poison the well springs of grieving,
When at last life has broken its thread;
They are men who will war with the living,
They are devils that war with the dead.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |