Chapter III

Oh, as the earth in discord and in dark,
When struck by Love on high with will for mace,
Keeps rattling till each mote finds its true place,
And mountain, fledged with groves, vies with the lark
To reach the sunrise; so the madness stark
Of gold, dethroning blood as God's best grace,
When struck by Glory's voice drops Nadir-base,
And blood for Freedom spilt, forms heaven's blue arc.

The shouts of millions shake Oblivion's mire
And raise Thrall's Hulks. Look! Justice's stooping sun,
Seeing in agony's each, a Washington,
Breaths life in them, and, over Brooklyn's spire
And New York's Babel Tower, they, one by one,
Hold Liberty's broading Torch of quenchless fire.

HATE THOU NOT ANY MAN

Hate thou not any man, for at the worst,
He still is brother. Will a glance not find
Whole peoples alchemied from heart and mind
To steal projectiles by a craft, accursed
By Human Nature? Aye, for, as they burst
At dusk, or midnight, slamming Heaven behind
And crashing Hell wide open, 'tis mankind
Is shattered and quick-gulping grave slake thirst.

Hate thou no man, but scorn all crafts, that smelt
The heart and mind for huge projectiles, shattered
When bursting grandly that some pride be flattered.
Nature beholds not Saxon, Slav, nor Celt;
She only sees the Human fragments scattered,
And, covering them, her eyes to rivers melt.

THE CELTIC SOUL CRY

I

O Freedom! Have I ever been untrue?
When, to thy moan of hunger anywhere,
Have I been deaf? Was I not quick to share
My little, nay, give all! for oh! I knew
Thy beauty, and my love such passion grew
At thy distresses,--What would I not dare!
So, though the bellow, like a grizzly bear,
Reared up before me, on to thee I flew.

O Freedom! Is thy beauty without heart,
Or sense of justice? Unto whom art thou
Indebted for thine arm, encircling now
The world, sun-like, more than to me? My part
I glory in, for I have kept my vow.
I hold thee now to thine, if true thou art.

II

Speak Freedom! When a haggard fugitive,
Thy dwelling was a swamp, who first to trace
Thy crimson footprints to thy hiding place?
With signs thou hadst not many days to live,
I found thee. Had the sun more heart to give
To warm thee, than I gave? Ah, then and there
Thy heart said to my heart; "Ill would I fare
Without thee. I give love for love, believe".

Thy silence, when in glory, troubles me.
Oh! warm blood dashed back cold, chills to the bone!
What do I ask for? Only Erin's own,
That which God gave her, and, if true it be,
Thou art the minister of justice grown,
Thy gratitude should thunder God's decree.

III

What! Why bemoan one island in the sea,
When I can range like mountains, or, the sun,
Above all clouds, and, rosy from my run
To God, like morn, chant praise, since flesh of thee?
Oh, yea, my pride and transport, verily,
Is, thou and I eternally are one;
And this god-passion which no power can stun,
I owe to her, who gave her soul to me.

Oh, when I see her golden hair, adrift
On sorrow's sea, like weeds rent from their reef,
And know she breathes with her sublime belief,
It crazes me that thou, when thou mightst lift
Her saintly features, and dry them of grief,
Wads't not, but waitest for the tide to shift.