Thomas Kettle

Parnell

Tears will betray all pride, but when ye mourn him, Be it in soldier wise; As for a captain who hath greatly borne him, And in the midnight dies. Fewness of words is best; he was too great For ours or any phrase. Love could not guess, nor the slipped hound of hate Track his soul’s secret ways. Signed with a sign, unbroken, unrevealed, His Calvary he trod; So let him keep, where all world-wounds are healed The silences of God. Yet is he Ireland’s, too: a flaming coal Lit at the stars, and sent To burn the sin of patience from her soul The scandal of content. A name to be a trumpet of attack; And, in the evil stress, For England’s iron No! to fling her back A grim, granatic Yes. He taught us more, this best as it was last: When comrades go apart They shall go greatly, cancelling the past, Slaying the kindlier heart. Friendship and love, all clean things and unclean, Shall be as drifted leaves, Spurned by our Ireland’s feet, that queenliest Queen Who gives not, but receives. So freedom comes, and comes no other wise; He gave—”The Chief” gave well; Limned in his blood across your clearing skies Look up and read: Parnell!