THE SUPPRESSION OF THE FAITH IN ULSTER.
A BARDIC ODE.
A.D. 1623.
[_]
Throughout Ulster, and in most parts of Ireland, it had
been found impossible to carry the Penal Laws against
the Catholic faith fully into effect until the reign of
James I. The accession of that prince was hailed as the
beginning of an era of liberty and peace. James had ever
boasted himself a descendant of the ancient Milesian princes,
had had frequent dealings with the Irish chiefs in their
wars against Elizabeth, and was believed by them to be, at
least in heart, devoted to the religion of his Mother. In
the earlier part of his reign, though he refused to grant a
legal toleration, he engaged that the Penal Laws should not
be executed. In the year 1605 a proclamation was issued,
commanding all Catholic priests to quit Ireland under the
penalty of death. Next came the compulsory flight of
Tirconnell and Tyrone, the Plantation of Ulster, and
the swamping of the Irish Parliament by the creation of
fictitious boroughs. In 1622 Archbishop Ussher preached
before the new Deputy, Lord Faulkland, his celebrated sermon
on the text, ‘He beareth not the sword in vain.’ The next
year a new proclamation was published, commanding the
departure of all the Catholic clergy, regular and secular, within
forty days.
I.
Now we know that they are dead!
They, the Chiefs that kept from scaith
The northern land—the sentenced Faith—
Now we know that they are dead!
II.
Wrong, with Rapine in her leash,
Walk'd her ancient rounds afresh!
Law—late come—with leaden mace
Smites Religion in the face;—
But the spoiler first had place!
III.
Axes and hammers, hot work and hard!
From niche and from turret the Saints they cast;
The church stands naked as the churchyard;
The craftsman-army toils fiercely and fast:
They pluck from the altars the precious stones
As vultures pluck at a dead man's eyes;
Like wolves down-dragging the flesh from the bones
They strip the gold from the canopies.
They rifle the tombs; they melt the bells:
The foundry furnace bubbles and swells!—
Spoiler, for once thou hast err'd; what ho!
Thou hast loos'd this shaft from an ill-strung bow!
In that Faith thou wouldst strangle, thy Mother died!
Who slew her? The Usurper our chiefs defied!
Thy heart was with Rome in the days of old;
Thy counsel was ours; thy counsel and gold!
IV.
A ban went forth from the regal chambers,
From the Prince that courted us once with lies,
From the secular synods where he who clambers,
Not he that walks upright, receives the prize:
‘Go back to thy Judah, sad Prophet, go;
There wail thy wrong, and denounce thy woe;
But no longer in Bethel thy prophecy sing,
'Tis the chapel and court of Samaria's King!’
—Let England renounce her church at will,
The children of Erin are faithful still.
For a thousand years has that church been theirs:—
They are God's, not Cæsar's, the Creeds and Prayers!
V.
Thou that are haughty and full of bread,
The crown falls soon from the unwise head!
Who rear strange altars shall find anon
The lion thereby and sea-sand thereon!
In the deserts of penance they peak and pine
Till fulfilled are the days of the wrath divine.
Thy covenant make with the cave and the brier
For shelter by day and by night for fire;
When the bolt is launch'd at the craggy crest,
And the cedars flame round the eagle's nest!
VI.
A voice from the ocean waves,
And a voice from the forest glooms,
And a voice from old temples and kingly graves,
And a voice from the Catacombs!
It cries, the king that warreth
On religion and freedom entwined in one
Down drags in his blindness the fane, nor spareth
The noble's hall, nor the throne!
I saw in my visions the walls give way
Of the mystic Babylon;
I saw the gold Idol whose feet are clay
On his forehead lying prone;
I saw a sea-eagle defaced with gore
Flag wearily over the main;
But her nest on the cliff she reached no more
For the shaft was in her brain.
As when some strong man a stone uplifteth
And flingeth into floods far down,
So God, when the balance of Justice shifteth,
Down dasheth the despot's crown,
Down dasheth the realm that abused its trust,
And the nation that knew not pity,
And maketh the image of Power unjust
To vanish from out the city!
VII.
Wait, my country, and be wise;—
Thou art gall'd in head and breast,
Rest thou needest, sleep and rest;
Rest and sleep, and thou shalt rise
And tread down thine enemies.
That which God ordains is best;
That which God permits is good,
Though by man least understood.
Now His sword He gives to those
Who have wisdom won from woes;
In them fighting ends the strife:
At other times the impious priest
Slipping on his victim's blood
Falls in death on his own knife!
God is hard to 'scape! His ire!
Strikes the son if not the sire!
In a time, to God not long,
Thou shalt reckon with this wrong!
