[THE POET LOOSED A WINGÈD SONG]
The poet loosed a wingèd song
Against the hulk of England’s wrong.
Were poisoned words at his command,
’Twould not avail for Ireland.
The soldier lifted up a sword,
And on the hills in battle poured
His life-blood like an ebbing sea—
And still we pine for liberty.
The friar spoke his bitter hope,