And when that al in ordre had been set,
She stretchéd out his nekkë tenderly,
“This day your soulës bridegroom shal be met.
Hark! how He calleth, sweet and winsomely.”
And Nicholas spak to hir ful of glee—
“Jhesu” and “Catharine” the wordes he seid;
Then fel the ax and severed off his hed.
And even as his bloody hed did fall,
She caught hit in her lap and handës faire,
Nor reckéd that the blood was over al
Hir robës, but she kissed hit sitting there,
And smoothéd doun the rough and ragged hair.
God wot that gretë peace was in hir herte
That Nicholas in hevin had found his part.
O holy Catharine, pray for us then,
Be to our soules a modir and a frend;
We are poor wandering and sinful men,
And al unstable through the world we wend.
Pray for us, Catharine, unto the end,
That filléd with thy gretë charity
In Goddës love we schuldë live and die.
IN MEMORIAM F. H. M.
Killed in Action, April 9th, 1917
THOUGH now we see, as through the battle smoke,
The image of your young uplifted face
Surprised by death, and broken as it broke
The hearts of those who loved your eager grace,
Your noble air and magnanimity—
A summer perfect in its flowers and leaves,
Brave promises of fruitfulness to be,
Which now no hand may bind in goodly sheaves—
No hand but God’s.... Yet your remembered ways,
Your eyes alight with gentleness and mirth,
The lovely honour of your shortened days,
A new grave gladness on the furrowed earth
Shall sow for us, a new pride wide and deep—
And we shall see the corn—and reap, and reap.
TO THE IRISH DEAD
YOU who have died as royally as kings,
Have seen with eyes ablaze with beauty, eyes
Nor gold nor ease nor comfort could make wise,
The glory of imperishable things.
Despite your shame and loneliness and loss—
Your broken hopes, the hopes that shall not cease,
Endure in dreams as terrible as peace;
Your naked folly nailed upon the cross