Chapter IV

From the blood of the true, the unselfish, the brave,
From the women and children they perished to save,
Goes a cry that no sound of rejoicing can still:
“Judge between us and those who have sanctioned this ill.”

_Humanum est errare, Divinum condonare._

’Tis easy to cry “Raca”[B] from within
Cold, passionless morality’s strong tower,
To those who struggle fiercely, hour by hour,
’Gainst grim Goliaths of unconquered sin.

’Tis easy, safely far from battle’s din,
To wave a sword or raise a banner high
To those who have to fight each inch, or--die;
Who must be wounded, even if they win.

’Tis easy to point clean, weak hands of scorn
When some much-tempted brother falls or flies;
Or some sweet Eve has strayed from Paradise
Into the outer world of briar and thorn.

But in the great, high council of the skies
There’s One who reads men’s hearts with milder eyes.

[B] St. Matthew’s Gospel v. 22.

SING ME THE SONGS I LOVE.

Sing me the songs I love once more,
The songs your lips have made so dear,
For many a day must pass before
Again your music fills my ear.
And when you are no longer near,
I’ll in my loneliness rejoice,
Deep in my inmost heart, to hear
The gentle music of your voice.

’Tis not in words that friendship lies,
E’en when those words in music move,
But words have power that never dies,
When said or sung by those we love.
So when in weariness I rove
Through the world’s desert, seeking rest,
The memory of your songs shall prove
A solace to my lonely breast.

And when you sing those songs again,
For gayer hearts and brighter eyes,
And thinking upon “now” as “_then_,”
Memories of other days arise,
Believe that none more dearly prize
The strains your lips so sweetly pour,
Than he who asked ’neath other skies,
“Sing me the songs I love once more.”

IN MEMORIAM.

He is dead! and what words can we say that will tell half the sorrow
we know;
He is murdered! and mutters for vengeance are mingled with wailings
of woe;
He is gone! and the voice that thrilled thousands, like music, forever
is hushed;
He lies bleeding! and with him the heart of the nation lies bleeding
and crushed!

Ah! yes, he is gone! The pure stars that lighted him home to his rest,
Saw his blood as he lay there, a martyr, his hand to a motionless breast;
And the wings of the angels that quivered a moment before with his words,
Flashed again--“He is dead,” and the souls of the waking were pierced
as with swords.

Hardly strange doth it seem that the Springtime refuseth this morn to
be gay,
And covers her eyes with a veil, and putteth her garlands away,
For she feels that the heart of a prophet of man and of nature is still,
And she hideth her flowers in her bosom and cannot be gay, if she will!

O Canada, weep, ’twas for thee that he spoke the last words of his
life!
Weep, Erin, his blood has been shed in the healing of wounds of thy
strife!
Weep, Scotia, no son of thy soil held thy mountains and valleys more
dear!
Weep, England, thy brave, honest eyes never glistened with worthier tear!

He was true to himself, to his faith, to the lands of his birth and
his choice;
He was true, when, a boy, he obeyed, as he deemed it, a patriot voice;
He was true, as a man, to the light gained by years, spite of slanderous
breath;
He was true, as the champion of peace, amid foes, under ban, _unto death_!

“Had he faults?” men will ask. Who is faultless? How many there are who
redeem
Not the faults that they have by one virtue to make them a shield of
esteem,
But lie evermore all content in their grave of misdoing; but he
Sent a light through his life that makes glorious for ever the
name of MCGEE.

APRIL 7th, 1868.

KILLYNOOGAN.

I.

Killynoogan,--hallowed name,--
Though thou’rt little known to fame,
My heart’s homage thou dost claim.

II.

Though to stranger ears thou be
But a word of mystery,
Meaning deep thou hast for me.

III.

All thy quaint old masonry
Now before my eyes I see,
As, of old, it used to be.

IV.

Ah! too well I can recall
Every stone in every wall,--
In my heart I count them all.

V.

And the lawn before the door,
I can see it as of yore,
Bright with daisies spangled o’er.

VI.

And the hedge, along whose side,
Oft, in childhood, I have tried
To escape, when playing “Hide.”

VII.

And the miniature wood,
Where in boyhood I have sued
Coyish maiden, Solitude.

VIII.

And the garden full of flowers,
Where I’ve past romantic hours,
Dreaming of fair ladies’ bowers.

IX.

In the orchard, stretched at ease,
On the grass, I hear the breeze
Piping ’mong the apple trees.

X.

While from many a leafy nook,
Grave as parson at his book,
Rook replieth unto rook.

XI.

I can hear the river’s flow
As it murmurs, soft and low,
Bringing news from Pettigo.

XII.

I can watch it to the mill,
Where the never-tiring wheel
Dances round and drinks its fill.

XIII.

Past the ever-bubbling “spa,”
Past the castle of Magra,
Razed by Cromwell’s cruel law,

XIV.

On it goes with many a turn,
Playing with its fringe of fern,
Till it touches broad Lough Erne.