T O M ARGARET P EARSE

T O 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!