Part 6

My hands were stained with blood, my heart was proud and cold, My soul is black with shame . . . but I gave Shakespeare gold. So after aeons of flame, I may, by grace of God, Rise up to kiss the dust that Shakespeare's feet have trod.

Mid-ocean in War-time

(For My Mother)

The fragile splendour of the level sea, The moon's serene and silver-veiled face, Make of this vessel an enchanted place Full of white mirth and golden sorcery. Now, for a time, shall careless laughter be Blended with song, to lend song sweeter grace, And the old stars, in their unending race, Shall heed and envy young humanity.

And yet to-night, a hundred leagues away, These waters blush a strange and awful red. Before the moon, a cloud obscenely grey Rises from decks that crash with flying lead. And these stars smile their immemorial way On waves that shroud a thousand newly dead!

In Memory of Rupert Brooke

In alien earth, across a troubled sea, His body lies that was so fair and young. His mouth is stopped, with half his songs unsung; His arm is still, that struck to make men free. But let no cloud of lamentation be Where, on a warrior's grave, a lyre is hung. We keep the echoes of his golden tongue, We keep the vision of his chivalry.

So Israel's joy, the loveliest of kings, Smote now his harp, and now the hostile horde. To-day the starry roof of Heaven rings With psalms a soldier made to praise his Lord; And David rests beneath Eternal wings, Song on his lips, and in his hand a sword.

The New School

(For My Mother)

The halls that were loud with the merry tread of young and careless feet Are still with a stillness that is too drear to seem like holiday, And never a gust of laughter breaks the calm of the dreaming street Or rises to shake the ivied walls and frighten the doves away.

The dust is on book and on empty desk, and the tennis-racquet and balls Lie still in their lonely locker and wait for a game that is never played, And over the study and lecture-room and the river and meadow falls A stern peace, a strange peace, a peace that War has made.

For many a youthful shoulder now is gay with an epaulet, And the hand that was deft with a cricket-bat is defter with a sword, And some of the lads will laugh to-day where the trench is red and wet, And some will win on the bloody field the accolade of the Lord.

They have taken their youth and mirth away from the study and playing-ground To a new school in an alien land beneath an alien sky; Out in the smoke and roar of the fight their lessons and games are found, And they who were learning how to live are learning how to die.

And after the golden day has come and the war is at an end, A slab of bronze on the chapel wall will tell of the noble dead. And every name on that radiant list will be the name of a friend, A name that shall through the centuries in grateful prayers be said.

And there will be ghosts in the old school, brave ghosts with laughing eyes, On the field with a ghostly cricket-bat, by the stream with a ghostly rod; They will touch the hearts of the living with a flame that sanctifies, A flame that they took with strong young hands from the altar-fires of God.

Easter Week

(In memory of Joseph Mary Plunkett)

("Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave.") William Butler Yeats.

"Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave." Then, Yeats, what gave that Easter dawn A hue so radiantly brave?

There was a rain of blood that day, Red rain in gay blue April weather. It blessed the earth till it gave birth To valour thick as blooms of heather.

Romantic Ireland never dies! O'Leary lies in fertile ground, And songs and spears throughout the years Rise up where patriot graves are found.

Immortal patriots newly dead And ye that bled in bygone years, What banners rise before your eyes? What is the tune that greets your ears?

The young Republic's banners smile For many a mile where troops convene. O'Connell Street is loudly sweet With strains of Wearing of the Green.

The soil of Ireland throbs and glows With life that knows the hour is here To strike again like Irishmen For that which Irishmen hold dear.

Lord Edward leaves his resting place And Sarsfield's face is glad and fierce. See Emmet leap from troubled sleep To grasp the hand of Padraic Pearse!

There is no rope can strangle song And not for long death takes his toll. No prison bars can dim the stars Nor quicklime eat the living soul.

Romantic Ireland is not old. For years untold her youth will shine. Her heart is fed on Heavenly bread, The blood of martyrs is her wine.