_To John McGrath._
The wail of Irish winds,
The cry of Irish seas:
Eternal sorrow finds
Eternal voice in these.
I cannot praise our dead,
Whom Ireland weeps so well:
Her morning light, that fled;
Her morning star, that fell.
She of the mournful eyes
Waits, and no dark clouds break:
Waits, and her strong son lies
Dead, for her holy sake.
Her heart is sorrow's home.
And hath been from of old:
An host of griefs hath come,
To make that heart their fold.
Ah, the sad autumn day,
When the last sad troop came
Swift down the ancient way,
Keening a chieftain's name!
Gray hope was there, and dread;
Anger, and love in tears:
They mourned the dear and dead,
Dirge of the ruined years.
Home to her heart she drew
The mourning company:
Old sorrows met the new,
In sad fraternity.
A mother, and forget?
Nay! all her children's fate
Ireland remembers yet,
With love insatiate.
She hears the heavy bells:
Hears, and with passionate breath
Eternally she tells
A rosary of death.
Faithful and true is she,
The mother of us all:
Faithful and true! may we
Fail her not, though we fall.
Her son, our brother, lies
Dead, for her holy sake:
But from the dead arise
Voices, that bid us wake.
Not his, to hail the dawn:
His but the herald's part.
Be ours to see withdrawn
Night from our mother's heart.
1893.