Collected Works (Vol. II)

THE EARL’S QUEST 49 Arise, O God, and stand, and smite For Ireland’s wrong, for Ireland’s right! Our Lady, stay the pitying tear ! There is no room for pity here ! What pity knew the Saxon e’er? Arise, O God, and slay nor spare, Until full vengeance rightly wrought Bring all their house of wrong to nought ! Scorn, the catastrophe of crime, These be their monuments through time ! And Ireland, green once more and fresh, Draw life from their dissolving flesh! By Saxon carcases renewed, Spring up, O Shamrock virgin-hued ! And in the glory of thy leaf Let all forget the ancient grief! Now is the hour! The drink is poured! Wake! fatal and avenging sword ! Brave men of Erin, hand in hand, Arise and free the lovely land ! Death to the Saxon! Slay nor spare ! O God ofJustice, hear us swear ! THE EARL’S QUEST. Written at Camp Despair, 20,000 ft., Chogo ki Lungma, Baltistan. So now the Earl was well a-weary of The grievous folly of this wandering. Had he been able to have counted Love Or Power, or Knowledge as the sole strong thing Fit to suffice his quest, his eyes had gleamed With the success already grasped. The sting Of all he suffered, was that he esteemed His quest partook of all and yet of none. So as he rode the woodlands out there beamed VOL, II. The dull large spectre of a grim flat sun, Red and obscure upon the leaden haze That lapped and wrapped and rode the horizon. The Earl rode steadily on. rays Of that abominable sunset, sharp With needles of young pines, their tips ablaze, A crest caught Their feet dead black; the wind’s dark fingers warp To its own time their strings, a sombre mode Found by a ghost on a forgotten harp Or (still more terrible !) the lost dread ode That used to call the dead knights to their chief To the lone waters from the shadowy road. So deemed the weary Earl of the wind’s grief, And seemed to see about him form by form Like mighty wrecks, wave-shattered on a reef, Moulded and mastered by the shapeless storm A thousand figures of himself the mist Enlarged, distorted : yet without a qualm (So sad was he) he mounted the last twist Of the path’s hate, and faced the wind, and saw The lead gleam to a surly amethyst As the sun dipped, and Night put forth a paw Like a black panther’s, and efface the East. Then, with a sudden inward catch of awe As if behind him sprang some silent beast, So shuddered he, and spurred his horse, and found A black path towards the water ; he released The bridle ; so the way went steep, ill bound On an accursed task, so dark it loomed Amid its yews and cypresses, each mound D