James and Mary Ford, eds. Every Day in the Year. 1902.
January 5Released
By John Boyle OReilly (18441890)
T
Their hearts now throb with the world’s pulsation;
Their prisons are open—their night is done;
’Tis England’s mercy and reparation!
Their limbs are withered—their ties are riven;
Their children are scattered, their friends are dead—
But the prisons are open—the “crime” forgiven.
The world has passed on while they were buried;
In the glare of the sun they walk alone
On the grass-grown track where the crowd has hurried.
They seek the remembered friends and places;
Men shuddering turn, and gaze again
At the deep-drawn lines on their altered faces.
What is the tale of these woeful letters?
A lesson as old as their country’s age,
Of a love that is stronger than stripes and fetters.
And swear by the stain the foe to follow;
But a deadlier oath might here be made,
On the wasted bodies and faces hollow.
Look on these forms diseased and broken:
Believe, if you can, that their late release,
When their lives are sapped, is a good-will token.
For this are they dragged from her hopeless prison;
She reads her doom in the Nation’s book—
She fears the day that has darkly risen;
Ireland, scourged, contemned, derided;
She begs from the beggar her hate has made;
She seeks for the strength her guile divided.
Behold the price of the desecration:
The hearts she has tortured for Irish love
She brings as a bribe to the Irish nation!
With conquest and pride, till its red wine splashes:
But shrieks at the draught as she drinks it up—
Her wine has been turned to blood and ashes.
God send it soon and sudden upon her:
The race she has shattered and sought to deform
Shall laugh as she drinks the black dishonor.