Etain the Beloved and Other Poems Part 6

HOSPITALITY

_From the Irish, Seventh to Tenth Century_

O king of stars that watch the night!

Whether my house be dark or bright, Its door to none shall barred be, Lest Christ should close his house to me.

And if thy house shall hold a guest, And aught from him thou hast suppressed, Not all to him the wrong is done: Thou hast concealed from Mary's Son.

THE STUDENT

_From the Irish, Seventh to Tenth Century_

High on my hedge of bush and tree A blackbird sings his song to me, And far above my lined book I hear the voice of wren and rook.

From the bush-top, in garb of grey, The cuckoo calls the hours of day.

Right well do I--G.o.d send me good!-- Set down my thoughts within the wood.

AT A HOLY WELL

He dragged his knees from flag to flag, And prayed for health with awe-struck brow, Then hung his ill's discarded rag On the o'erhanging hawthorn bough.

And in the adoring hush that fell, I, from the form set inly free, Knelt at my heart's most holy well And worshipped mine own mystery.

_Templemanaghan, Kerry._

THE PRIEST'S LAKE

Beneath the bridge, with noisy rout, The Atlantic fills the quiet lake ...

A pause ... a turn ... then with a shout Seaward the br.i.m.m.i.n.g waters break.

"Open thy gates," the Spirit saith, "O Soul! My wave thy sh.o.r.e shall sweep, Then back across the pause of death Draw thee with shoutings to the deep!"

_Ardbear, Connemara._

SONNETS

A PAPER-SELLER

Clearly, and iterant as a swinging bell, I heard across the surges of the Strand A woman's voice, and saw a woman's hand With "Votes for Women." A sudden vision fell Across my path, and made my pulses swell With agony of joy: I seemed to stand At some far hill, from whence was faintly fanned A whisper, "He descended into h.e.l.l."

Sister! with foot in gutter, foot on kerb, Tasting humiliations's bitter herb In thy great calm of self laid wholly down!

Thine are the thorns of Christly souls who bend To lift the world; and thou too shalt ascend To thine own Heaven and everlasting crown!

_Strand, London._

TO ONE IN PRISON

Dear! on Love's altar thou hast laid thee down, Priestess and Victim of such Sacrifice As might melt praise from very hearts of ice, But wins the scoff of sycophant and clown.

Yet in that band, whose glory is the frown Of sceptred tyranny and stained device, Thou hast a place; and thee it shall suffice To tread with them the path to high renown.

And I--even I, unworthy though I be-- For these my wounds of utter loneliness, Tired head and sleepless eyes, some part would claim In the deep rubric of thy mystery; So may I, in proud years that rise to bless, Stand in the shadow of thine honoured name.

_Nov. 23--Dec. 23, 1910._

A HOME-COMING

What flags are these?... what trumpets?... Oh! what drums?

What pride august?... what solemn minstrelsy?

Hush! drums, ecstatic drums: say who is she That in the midst majestically comes.

Is she some queen whose haughty eye benumbs Proud potentates; whose word can lift the sea Of shattering war, and fling red misery Across the world?... Speak, drums! Oh! aching drums!

Hush! hush! wild drums, drums in my happy heart!

Not thus she comes, my life's exalted queen, But in sweet silence far outlauding praise.

Her's not the flaming sword that puts apart, But Right's resistless blade, whose stroke unseen Wounds but to heal, and crown with Freedom's bays!

LOVE, THE DESTROYER