Patrick Henry Pearse
Executed May 3rd, 1916
R.I.P.
IN this grey morning wrapped in mist and rain
You stood erect beneath the sullen sky,
A heart which held its peace and noble pain,
A brave and gentle eye!
The last of all your silver songs are sung;
Your fledgling dreams on broken wings are dashed—
For suddenly a tragic sword was swung
And ten true rifles crashed.
By one who walks aloof in English ways
Be this high word of praise and sorrow said:
He lived with honour all his lovely days,
And is immortal, dead!
MATER DESOLATA
To Margaret Pearse
TO you the dreary night’s long agony,
The anguish, and the laden heart that broke
Its vase of burning tears, the voiceless cry,—
And then the horror of that blinding stroke!
To you all this—and yet to you much more.
God pressed into the chalice of your pain
A starry triumph, when the sons you bore
Were written on the roll of Ireland’s slain.
Let no man touch your glorious heritage,
Or pluck one pang of sorrow from your heart,
Or stain with any pity the bright page
Emblazoning the holy martyrs’ part.
Ride as a queen your splendid destiny,
Since death is swallowed up in victory!