I have sought in the bent and the bushes that one magnificent ball; It may be Antartic crystals were broken by its fall; It may be that Death as Caddy may light on the spot it fell; I may have holed out in Heaven or find myself trapped in Hell.
Tears will betray all pride, but when ye mourn him, Be it in soldier wise; As for a captain who hath gently borne him, And in the midnight dies.
Fewness of words is best; he was too great For ours or any phrase. Love could not guess, nor the slipped hound of hate Track that soul's secret ways.
Signed with a sign, unbroken, unrevealed, His Calvary he trod; So let him keep, where all world-wounds are healed The silences of God.
Yet is he Ireland's too: a flaming coal Lit at the stars, and sent To burn the sin of patience from her soul, The scandal of content.
A name to be a trumpet of attack; And, in the evil stress, For England's iron No! to fling her back A grim granatic Yes.
He taught us more, this best as it was last: When comrades go apart They shall go greatly, cancelling the past, Slaying the kindlier heart.
Friendship and love, all clean things and unclean, Shall be as drifted leaves, Spurned by our Ireland's feet, that queenliest Queen Who gives not but receives.
So freedom comes, and comes no other wise; He gave--"The Chief"--gave well; Limned in his blood across your clearing skies Look up and read; Parnell!
So you proscribe, and you forbid Peace, and the trooping ghosts of hate Enfranchise of the coffin-lid-- Your lordships' lordship speaks too late.
That word had held when yours, for you, Thieving and reaving smote us first: If souls were crooked, swords were true; They took and kept because they durst.
Still, though the pride of naked swords Passed to a meaner, stouter hand, You said, and it was done, my lords, Yours was the law, and yours the land.
You clove the priest, you robbed the shrine, With spoil of Paul and Peter fat, Brimmed altar-cups with altar-wine To toast your new Magnificat.
The poor, who are the lords of death, To you were mud in foundered ways; Your sun was red Elizabeth, Your noon, the Dutchman's Penal days.
Hunger and halters, grey despair, Marah of exile, coastless seas, Baal for master-minister-- You gave, my lords, and took your ease.