What grief might now our spirits balk Fades out before that high reproof; And thro' the hushed and wavering talk That fills the streets from roof to roof,
A fire from your high altar shines, And kindles thro' our dusk of strife A faith whose inner eye divines That Death is minister to Life,
And all our years a moment's dream In one great Mind that grasps the whole, And Life and Death but waves that gleam Along the ocean of the Soul.
'Way there! for one who hastens forth To guard the Marches of the North, Where Connacht's hosts with flame and brand Hurl menace toward his native land, And Macha's Curse on arm and will Hangs dreadfully from hill to hill.
'Way there! Four valorous feet of height, Twelve long, long years of age and fight, He fronts without a thought of fear Ten thousand with his wooden spear. Soon shall he fling the charging field Back on his puissant pasteboard shield, And soon shall haughty Maeve bend down A vassal to his tinsel crown.
'Way there! Who laughs has hardly heard A hidden trumpet's secret word, Or glimpsed through those poor arms he bears The weapons that the spirit wears. In that wild breast a thousand years Rise up from ineffectual tears, And kindle once again the flame Of Freedom at a burning name.
What if for him no flag unfurled Should shake red battle on the world; On other fields, in other mood, The ancient conflict is renewed, And Michael and his warring clan Tramp onward through the heart of man. At Life's loud fires he shall anneal A subtler blade than transient steel, When Love, invincible in Faith, Shall smile upon the face of Death, And Will and Heart, as one, conspire To dare the utmost of desire. Then shall be, with his spirit's lance, Unhorse cold Pride and Circumstance, Shake Wrong's old strongholds to the ground, And Right's victorious trumpet sound, And light Earth's ramparts with the gleam Of Ireland's unextinguished Dream That burned in him who hastened forth To guard the Marches of the North, When Macha's Curse on arm and will Hung dreadfully from hill to hill.
A bird once came and said to me, "Hear how the mountains came to be. An angel from his crystal sphere Fell to the earth. A chilly fear Shot thro' his wings from tip to tip, For there was neither boat nor ship, Mountain nor stream, nor maid nor man, Far as the angel's eye could scan; Dead flatness far as he could see Before the mountains came to be. He stretched his wings to fly away, But round his feet the oozy clay Gripped fast, and held him to the ground. He stretched and strove until a sound Went thro' him from he knew not where And said, 'The only way is prayer.' He dropped his wings and raised his eyes, And sent his soul into the skies. He prayed and prayed, and as he prayed A wind among his plumage played And bore him upward toward his sphere. Around his feet from far and near There came a sound that seemed to say, 'Pray on! pray on! we too would pray. Thy prayer has touched the sleeping Powers: Pray on, thy prayer shall yet be ours; We too have wings that pine for flight, We too have eyes that long for light.' Upward he moved, and still his eyes Were fastened on the distant skies, And as he rose toward heaven dim He drew the earth up after him. About his feet the oozy clay Gripped fast, but could not stop or stay His course, till on his skyey stair He paused beyond the need for prayer, While from the air beneath, around, There rose a tumult of glad sound. The angel turned the sound to seek, And lo! his foot was on a peak That fell away to where the world Lay like a painted flag unfurled And shaken out from sea to sea,-- And thus the mountains came to be." So said the bird, and what the masque Of meaning hid, I meant to ask; But off he flew before I knew-- And yet I think the tale is true If one could only hear aright, And see with something more than sight.