Oh Lady, sorrowing o’er thy murdered lord,
If Irish voice might break upon thy woe,
Thus would it say—“Tho’ not with hand on sword,
“And clad in scarlet he, when stricken low—
“Yet for these kingdoms was that life out-poured,
“Whose beauty and whose wealth thou best didst know,
“As surely, as though shed in battle line—
“Mid Britain’s hosts, at home or on the brine.”
Not with war’s lightnings in a red, right hand,
Nor with war’s thunders on a brow of gloom
Came he that morning to our Irish strand—
But bearer of the olive branch, whose bloom
Too little flourished in the weary land—
And in such hour he met the stroke of doom
Dealt by the dastard hand—oh dastard crime,
The last, the worst, the basest of our time—
And were it wondrous if with heart-strings torn,
On high for vengeance thou aloud shouldst call?
Remembering the defiance ever borne
Towards thy Saxon race—pens steeped in gall
Preaching a creed of hatred and of scorn—
A creed of demons, if a creed at all—
Remembering this—say could we even blame
If thou shouldst ever hate the Irish name?
But like some melody from holier spheres
Thy gentle voice breaks in upon the strife,
Like rainbow message shining through thy tears:
“I would not have withheld my darling’s life,
“If that my woe bring peace upon the years—
“If that my loss may render rage less rife—”
Sure winter snows and summer suns may shine,
Or e’er we hear a Christlier prayer than thine!
And we who saw him borne to early grave,
And heard at Edensor the church bells chime,
And marked the endless elms of Chatsworth wave
O’er silent thousands, mourning for his prime—
Yea be it also ours to inly crave
That God most high, from foul and savage crime,
By mystic means, should work some purpose fair,
And grant in very deed the widow’s prayer.