English poem
To John McGrath
by Lionel Johnson (1867–1902)
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 Be ours to see withdrawn Night from our mother's heart.