Padraic Colum (1881–1972). Anthology of Irish Verse. 1922.
By Thomas Kettle117. Parnell
T
Be it in soldier wise;
As for a captain who hath greatly borne him,
And in the midnight dies.
For ours or any phrase.
Love could not guess, nor the slipped hound of hate
Track his soul’s secret ways.
His Calvary he trod;
So let him keep, where all world-wounds are healed
The silences of God.
Lit at the stars, and sent
To burn the sin of patience from her soul
The scandal of content.
And, in the evil stress,
For England’s iron No! to fling her back
A grim, granatic Yes.
When comrades go apart
They shall go greatly, cancelling the past,
Slaying the kindlier heart.
Shall be as drifted leaves,
Spurned by our Ireland’s feet, that queenliest Queen
Who gives not, but receives.
He gave—“The Chief” gave well;
Limned in his blood across your clearing skies
Look up and read: Parnell!