Selected Poetry

New Zealand Tablet, Volume L, Issue 21, 31 May 1923, Page 28

Selected Poetry

Through Travail TRIBUTE TO TWO DEAD IRISH LEADERS. [The Observer publishes the following poem by Mr. Stephen Gwynn, entitled “A Song of Victory,” dedicated to the memory of William Redmond, killed in action June 7, 1917, and of John Redmond, died March 6, 1918.] Ditches of mud Where the boot clung till it tore, Snowcold water thigh-deep, Holes in the ground for shelter It was not well to be there. Something glimpsed in the dark: What did you fire at ? Seldom a form clear-seen, Never the face of a foemau, Strange, impersonal war, No heat in it, no hate. But in the heart of night Sudden crash of the guns: All the horizon Pulsed with leaping flashes, Wide-shooting flashes of anger, A terrible jiatiou striking. Then in the grey dark dawn, Search for one missing. There, in a tangle of wire, Posts fallen, ruin of sandbags, What is that darkness? Wedged in, frostbound: Lift him, you, by the head; There is no head, sir. After a week of that, Two weeks or three weeks, * Down the trench slowly filing Mud-clogged, encumbered creatures Stumble along, Till at last a road, Open space, deliverance: And -the war-beaten, trench-weary men Form in a column, And tramping back to their billets Whistle a tune to march to. Would not your heart be proud of them? Yonder, behind the line, We met . while we rested, Other men of our country Who had not counted us friends. There at ease for a moment, t - With the common danger behind '.us, We drank and were pleasant together, We ■ made ’ comrades: And from the ditches of mud, ; From the pit of destruction, Word • went back to Ireland : We have met, we have spoken, Who at home would never have spoken, Strange to think of it. And Ireland sitting at home, Far away from the danger, Began to think of it; Even began to feel A stir in her stiffness. v Suddenly flashed to us there ' Word from Ireland; Ditches of blood in Ireland; Widening chasms. We trod our way to the end 1 We were part of victory: And in the face of the world Ireland disowned us.

Ditches of blood ,in Ireland: 1 Hate speeding the bullet ' Where man stalked man like a beast. Aimed, brought down his quarry, Saw him writhing: Ditches of blood in Ireland, , So in the end they won — v Won for Ireland. Grey head of my comrade, Gallant and comely, Who in the wider battle g Marched with the young, , ' With the young men of Ireland, Ay, and of Ulster, To a day of high achievement, And in a moment of victory Fell: ' You, not unforeknowing, Not without wrench at heartstrings, • Yet in a jubilant sacrifice Offered your life. * . Was it for nothing, my comrade? 's' Is there atonement of healing? Is there reward? Not yet. Not for you, who loved Ireland « In a lifetime of service without self-seeking, • Not for you the moro.se, Sour-visaged enjoyment, . Seeing the men who . spurned you spurned in their turn. Rather, 0 loyal heart, It may be your time of purgation, Idle, powerless, apart, To look upon Ireland. From the valley of humiliation Struggles at last; When cool air of the mountains, / Sunlight, v fresh-running waters, % Wide-sweeping cloud-shadow on meadow', • With birdsong at dawn Bring back her natural kindness, Nurse her into serenity, i ' Renew her peace, It may be, 0 comrade, that Ireland Casting a backward glance on the road he has travelled, Beyond the descent into victory, Past the ditches of blood, Will turn and yearn in her heart for the valor she once rejected, For the wisdom she cast aside: i. » _* Will cry in the face of the world; My faithful, my lovers, Will cry to her own sick heart: My faithful, my children, My lovers who never hurt me, You also are Ireland. . ' / And it may be that Ireland, Crying it so, will take courage To tread on the forward track. ' This 0 comrade of mine, This were your recompense. , W On Shakspere’s Sonnets ; Whether his loves were many or but two? Whether his heart grew strong or bled t'o waste? — Whether he toyed with thought as idlers do Or some unseasoned lines betray his haste? We enter here as to an empty house; As pale folk, from a far-off clime and date, Peep into pictured halls where the carouse .Of mummied kings once mocked their certain fate. , We gaze at signs he saw, but only guess How he read what we read,: not bloom to fruit, , , Meal to moth’s wing, sight to blind eye is less H t; t Recoverable! Time treads life underfoot: These dead black words can warm us but as coal; Once, forest leaves, they murmured round his soul. ' —T. Stukgb Moore, in the London Athenaeum. : < V-